Planet Fever (11 page)

Art: “So technically, this very interview could have already happened, and may happen again?”

Agent W: “No, it hasn’t happened before. Prior to going AWOL from the agency, I ascertained a hard copy of the original draft of
this
piece of history (as well as some others, which I have given to other ‘loose cannons’, but again, a side note), so I made it onto the show via a kind of ‘loophole.’ It won’t happen again, since after this is over they’ll go through and alter your own history, as well as those who happen to be listening. It is a pain in the ass for them—but in the end, this interview will have most likely never happened, or will just seem like some goofy joke that virtually no one will take seriously.”

Art: “Well then—what is the purpose of this interview?”

Agent W: “You ask the good questions, Art—that’s one purpose. Another one is that this is entertainment, and don’t get me wrong, I love entertainment. Most importantly, there are those who are listening, possibly even
taping
the show, who may listen to the tape again even though their minds have been washed from the memory of this event, and it may help them. Remember, the N(aI)IS is limited in scope. They may be able to reprogram and alter or clean up a vast amount of things, but it would be impossible for them to track and destroy every possible record of information, particularly hard
analog
copies such as printed and taped copies. As another aside, that’s why they moved us away from stone engravings a while back and now they’re attempting to veer away from tape and even CD and print and make everything
digital,
so it’ll be easier to manage, revise, erase and control … but
we
have plans to use their own plans against them—to forestall their endeavors … and to help the Cause.”

Art: “That’s too bad I’m going to forget this, I find it compelling. You mentioned a cause.”

Agent W: “Yes—the cause for free thought and will.”

I ejected the tape and locked the brakes on the truck to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Free thought and will!” My mind raced.

A deluge of thoughts poured from my combusted psyche. Was it coincidental that I just happened to play this tape right after meeting Woods at the diner? I had the gut feeling that Agent W was on the level. Just like Woods. They spoke the same truth and had the same cadence and vernacular. Agent W was the trucker, Woods. Had to be.

And somehow I fit into this grand scheme.

I felt a clicking into place, like when you know a larger work is at play, and you almost know what it is but you could be way off—like seeing a UFO in the night sky or is it just a satellite or a plane?

I sensed a frenzied awareness of “everything” coming together and simultaneously slipping away. My identity. My sanity. Where did I get that cassette tape? I examined the handwriting on the label. It wasn’t my handwriting. As a matter of fact, whoever had written on the label had used a green highlighter. Wasn’t Woods using a green highlighter at the diner?

I needed a drink.

TRAFFIC CRAWLED
back into the city because a Corvette had capsized and ended up on the other side of the freeway, tying up both sides. It was late afternoon when I finally entered my apartment and the place smelled like chemicals. Mona had died her hair red, which I thought was odd, and I’d have to change her nickname, but it looked nice.

She had set up an easel in the corner of the dining room, where she was brushing paint onto a canvas. She had taken up painting and was getting quite good at it.

“Hey, you like it?” she asked from behind the canvass. “The hair, I mean.”

“You bet,” I said.

“And the painting? I don’t really know what it means yet, but I saw it in a dream last night.”

On the canvas was what looked to be a giant satellite dish on top of a mountain pointing up at a daytime full moon. Wild.

I walked into my bedroom, grabbed my pile of worn-out notebooks, walked to the kitchen, found a “Universal Studios” shot glass tucked up behind some other pointless dish ware, then sat down at the table.

I lifted my new purchase as gently as a newborn babe out from its brown paper sack and placed the 1.5 liter bottle of Smirnoff vodka on the table; the warning label on the back caught my eye.

“Where’s the warning label on the bottle of life we get at birth?”

I wondered if that thought warranted me writing it down.

Twisting off the cap, I poured a shot and put it back.

I decided against jotting down the thought.

It had been two-and-a-half months since I had any booze, so the shot felt like a hatchet chopping up my throat. My hack thwarted Mona, the Blonde—now the Red—out from her artistic concentration.

I anticipated an onslaught of cussing and scolding on her part.

Instead, she placed her brush down, got up and approached me. She sat down across from me at the table.

Neither of us spoke.

I poured another shot and took it down; this time I didn’t wince.

“What happened?” she asked.

“My life. Maybe a few times. Maybe a few times too many. Maybe free thought and will….”

I had expected her to say,
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Instead, she nodded. “I figured this would happen. Perhaps you should give Götzefalsch a call.”

Götzefalsch—the quack that
she
found for me. How convenient.

“Yeah, that might be a
terrific
idea … then
perhaps
you should give the Thought Police a little jingle—let ‘em know you got a drunk on your hands spilling out illegal thoughts … they might need to lock it down.”

She was taken aback, or at least gave the impression of being so.

“The Thought Police? Eddie….”

I cut her off with a guffaw-like chuckle. At this particular point, my life had boiled down to a B-grade movie, and I was merely playing the role. But I was on to her. Maybe I had
always
known the truth. My problem, or recurring problem was that I didn’t know
if
I knew.

Staring at the redheaded beauty with her fantastically false pretense of sympathy creasing across her big blue eyes, I knew that I knew something: she couldn’t be trusted.

“Those pills must be working. Eddie, don’t drink—you’ll relapse. I don’t want to lose you again!”

“It ain’t those pills—I don’t know what those things are doing … probably re-mapping my existence. Maybe they are the source … maybe the only
loophole
for me is booze. Shit, I don’t know.”

“Eddie, we’ve been through this before.”

I flipped through one of my notebooks. Lots of handwritten half-baked ideas and nonsense. “We probably have been through this before, and we may go through it again…. M.T.—M.T….” A business card fell from one of the notebooks. “Mind Technician! That’s it! Götzefalsch’s working for those son-of-a-bitches! He’s one of them! Maybe
you’re
one of them!”

“Settle down, Eddie, settle down.” She assumed a no-nonsense, professional posture, and stroked my cheek. “He’s working for
us.
”

“You and me? That’s comical.” I poured a shot and lifted the glass. “I should jot that down.”

“The Free Thought-and-Will Chapter,” she said, moving the bottle of vodka away.

I placed my full shot glass back down.

“WHAT THE
hell are you trying to do to me? I don’t want any more of the pills. I’m done!” I yelled as Götzefalsch paced behind his desk.

After Mona mentioned the Free Thought-and-Will Chapter, I let her convince me to go see the Doc, but now I was having a rush of doubt.

The Doc shushed me, looked around and whispered, “Eddie, I am geeving you fake peels—vons vich act seemular to theirs, but vill actually free your mind up, eenstead of manipulate it.” He winked.

Mona stood next to the doctor and leaned closer to me. “We know that the Head Covert Manipulator of the Syndicate in this area is a man called Froward Moroni. He acts as an eccentric vagabond who goes around and collects other ‘disenfranchised’ people and enlists them into a roving artistic troupe. Seems harmless on the surface, but covertly the ‘artists’ act as unknowing conduits for the spread of mass-mind-washing. He slips everyone the drugs and we don’t know how, but he implements some sort of transistor-neural frequency via a device—perhaps installed in his own brain—which has laser-like precision and can completely act on a personality individually. The person then carries this frequency and spreads it broadband, all on a neuro-telepathical and hyper-subliminal series of bandwidths that piggyback along
all electronic transmissions and frequencies.
Very technical and dastardly. These poor bastards don’t realize they are agents for one part of the plan for Subliminal Imperialism.”

Was she serious? Or had she just memorized that spiel like a good actress?

Telepathic ventriloquist
. That thought scurried from the recesses of my mind to my awareness. Where had I encountered that?

Mona continued. “You were to act as a spy, gathering intelligence on the man. We apologize, because in order to infiltrate, your mind had to be altered so Moroni couldn’t scan you for your true objectives. He had to be convinced that you were a burned-out writer on the skids. Therefore,
you
had to be convinced as well, or at least confused about your place in life. That’s why you’re presently confused as to your identity; most of your identity is either cloaked or forged from the pills and neural programming. We’re trying to retrieve your actual identity, but it’s been tough going.”

It started to come into focus, the way a movie projector does before the opening previews. Slowly, the pieces began to line up in a semblance of logical order.

I wasn’t insane.

I was being made insane.

For a higher purpose.

“Makes sense. So when I drink, some of my
true
thoughts could spill out, prompting an A.P.B. to be put out for me?”

With his thick Austrian, or German, or possibly Swiss accent, the Doc spoke: “Preecisely. Vee also need to keep track of you to unclog dee fake identitee und get you back to your true self. But vee must bee very careful, or else they veel find you out, und us too!”

Mona reached down and squeezed my hand. “Moroni did a thorough job on you. We think he’s attempting to use you as
his own spy
to gather intel
on us
. Not knowing we were already working with Götzefalsch,
he
sent you here to have you re-integrated as an agent, after his big speech at Griffith Park, the one where he ‘declared war’ on the N(aI)IS. And if you don’t pan out for him, you’ll be written off as a burned-out writer who drifts through life in a drunken, confused and brainwashed stupor. They want everyone pretty much that way anyhow … to keep people enslaved. Either way, he’s got nothing to lose.”

I thought (what I hoped to only myself) that everything was too perfectly cliché. If this were a novel, I would’ve wanted to donkey-punch the writer. The dialogue was schlocky, the storyline all over the damn place, and the plot dangled like pieces of loose thread as the writer desperately tried to make connections as he went along. Somehow I had ended up his victim, with him testing to see how much of his disheveled madness I could—or would—endure.

“You people are full of shit. This is some kind of fucked-up psychological test in the form of a game to see whether I can distinguish fact from fiction. If I buy into this crap, you guys will string me along and allow me to go through this ‘test’ confused, mentally disjointed and unfocused. If I don’t buy into it, you will let me know I am ‘progressing very well’ and I am re-integrating into society as planned. Either way, I am brainwashed. And for God knows what purpose. Do you two get off on fucking with people’s heads?”

They exchanged glances and the Doc shrugged.

Mona straightened her jacket and stepped back. “We’re looking out for your best interest, Eddie. We’re here to help you regardless of what you
choose
to believe. At least give us that: we’re allowing you to choose. So what will it be? What do
you
want to do?”