Thomas M. Disch (48 page)

“Well, I’d like to think so. I’m not going to have any more opportunities anytime soon to reach the attention of the media. And neither will you, right? Life without parole is one of the things we got in common.”

It hit him like a sledgehammer. “Life without parole?”

“So I guess we’ll have to learn to be friends. But I figure we can.” Another long silence. Then Crispo said, “I’ll tell you something funny, Father.” “What’s that?”

“I got psychic powers. No—really. Like, when I was going after the next one? I could tell. I could tell if he really wanted it. ‘Cause some of them do, you know. Even the kids. Some of them have such shitty lives they really deep-down would rather be dead. And those ones I just left alone. ‘Cause what would be the satisfaction? It’s like eating an animal that died of natural causes. But with you, the minute I saw you, I knew: This guy is ready. This guy needs me. You know how I knew?” “No. I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know my own fucking name.” “I knew,” Crispo went on, ” ‘cause I could see the tattoo.” “The tattoo?”

“On your chest. The mark of Satan. I can see it.”

Only now did it dawn on Clay what had happened. He’d been switched.

Boscage had set him up! All the training he’d undergone in the transmentation process had been a scam. Boscage had taken over Clay’s younger, abler body and shunted Clay’s psyche into the sinking, stinking vessel that he’d intended to receive it all along.

Clay didn’t have to look into a mirror now. He knew now who he was. Who the guards and Crispo and all the rest of the world would think he was.

“I could see it,” Crispo went on, “right through your fucking T-shirt.

It said in the papers how you thought you had this tattoo that wasn’t there.

But it is there. It’s Satan’s face, escaped from hell. And I can see it. And you know why I can do that, Father? ‘Cause it’s on me, too.,’

Crispo fell silent for a spell, and a sad look came over his face. “You never read about me? Or seen anything on T\T?” Clay shook his head.

Crispo sighed. “Well, that’s fame for you. Fifteen fucking minutes.” “What did you do?” Clay asked.

“You honestly never heard?”

Clay shook his head.

“I was Crispo, the Mad Dentist.”

Clay made no response.

Crispo smiled. “But I also tattoo.”

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