by David Beem
“Corgi,” corrects Ed.
“Whatever. Point is, get in the goddamn car right now, or I’m gonna shoot you and you can die in the back while Ed does the needle and disposal because it’ll help him find closure and whatnot.”
“Now I’m doing needles and disposal?” asks Ed.
“All I’m saying is, I’ve been doing all the driving. And now I’m feeling parched because I’m doing all the talking.”
Two muffled pops ring out from the backyard. Ed and Ted fall backward to land with a whump in my driveway. Nigel surrenders control of my body, and I lower my hands.
“God. They bicker like an old married couple,” says Mary, rushing past me with her dress hiked up as she shoves her piece into her thigh holster. “Come on. I’m not doing disposal by myself. These guys look heavy.”
CHAPTER Five
I don’t get it, I say, palms pressed into my ears, blocking out Mary’s grunts and the scuffing of heavy weight dragged across concrete. Why are you here, but Bruce Lee, Killmaster, and Hanzo aren’t? I can’t reach them. Or anyone else.
I can’t explain it, Nigel replies. I got trapped in here with you.
In here?
Yes. We’ve been separated from the rest of the Collective Unconscious. I suppose that makes this place rather the Edger and Nigel Unconscious now. His psychic sense frowns. That doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. I wonder if this is permanent.
Permanent?!
Mary grabs my elbow and shakes. My arms come down, and the pivot from the psychic realm into the physical world is dislocating. Birds are singing. A neighbor’s radio is playing. Somewhere, a dog is barking. A breeze rustles through the woods behind our home. Mary and I are standing in our driveway. Her hair is tousled. She’s winded and flushed.
“Edger?” Her eyes search mine. “I don’t want you to tell Alex and Caleb about losing your powers. Promise you won’t tell them.”
My jaw drops open.
Her grip on my elbow tightens. “Promise. They can’t know about your powers. We’re not a team yet. I know you think we are”—she snaps her fingers—“just like that. But we aren’t. Not without trust. If they know you’ve lost your powers, they’ll kick me off the team. And they can’t protect you the way I can.”
“Mary. ‘Without trust’? If we’re lying to them, there is no trust.”
“You won’t be lying. You’ll be withholding. Key difference.” A quirky, lopsided smile brightens her features. She releases my elbow and strides off for the garage. Our backyard seems to constrict around me. My head feels like a helium balloon with a stupid face Sharpied on it. Oh man, I’m teetering. First my powers, then the agents, then her blowing these guys’ heads off—and now this? How does she think I can keep something this big from Alex and Caleb? My Bruce Lee impersonation sucks without superpowers. Hong Kong Nigel’s proved that case in point.
Thanks for that, says Nigel.
“Edger,” calls Mary. I wander over to find her in the garage. Ed’s and Ted’s surprised expressions stare up at me from the plastic she’s got down, the red dots in the centers of their foreheads symmetrical to their eyebrows.
“Where’d all the plastic come from?” I ask.
She points with a rubber-gloved hand over her shoulder in the direction of an open cupboard, where there are several more packets of unopened plastic sheets, rubber gloves, large bottles of bleach, and a variety of scrub brushes still with their tags.
“What the heck is that?” I ask. “Is that the dead-body disposal cupboard? We have a dead-body disposal cupboard?”
“Quit fooling around,” she replies, squatting near one end of the laid-out plastic rectangles. She uses it to roll Ed so he’s facedown and on top of Ted. Ed’s arm drops down to Ted’s butt. Mary doesn’t bother fixing it. She pushes again, and her gloves squeak on the crinkling plastic. “Un. I could use some…un…help.”
“Mary. Why do we have a dead-body disposal cupboard in our garage?”
Her gaze snaps up. Her eyes widen meaningfully, lower to take in the two bodies, and then rise to meet mine.
I scratch my neck. “Because no home is complete without a dead-body disposal cupboard. I wonder if that’s got a page in the Better Homes and Gardens catalogue.”
“Are you going to help or not?”
“Are you kidding?”
“No. Why would I be kidding?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because that would make me an accessory to murder?”
Her shoulders slump. “Edger. We’ve been over this. I have a license to kill. Remember? That makes it not murder.”
“Yeah. But I don’t have a license to accessorize. Sorry.”
Her head tilts as she forms a tight-lipped smile. “No, because you traded it for your license to judge.”
“Okay, that’s fair. I’m being a little judgey right now. Mary, we have a dead-body disposal cupboard in our garage.”
“Convenient, because, in case you haven’t noticed, there are two dead bodies needing disposal.”
“Dead-body disposal isn’t supposed to be in the superhero job description!”
“Neither is karate hands, but you got that part down pat.” Her eyes cross, her tongue sticks out, and her rigid karate hands spring up like a malfunctioning action figure.
“Cute.”
Not cute, offers Nigel. That’s rather offensive, that is.
Shut up.
“What’s your problem?” asks Mary, giving another heave on the two-corpse burrito she’s rolling. “You’re being a total jerk right now. Un…now give me a…un…hand. Jeez. These guys must eat rocks.”
“I’m being a total jerk? Oh, I’m being a total jerk?”
She glares at me through squinting eyes.
Well, she’s the one who killed them, says Nigel. Seems only fair she has to clean it up.
“Thank you,” I reply.
“Thank you for what?” she asks, her rubber-gloved palms squeaking and slipping on the next push, and she topples face-first into the plastic-covered bodies. She props herself up and puffs a wisp of hair out of her eyes.
“I was talking to Nigel. He says since you’re the one who killed them, it’s only fair you should be the one to clean them up.”
“Nigel? Who’s Nigel?”
You tell her I’m the orange belt who saved your life, says Nigel.
“Never mind,” says Mary, dipping her shoulder and getting her whole weight behind it this time as she flips the bodies for the next roll. “You tell Nigel…un…next time, he can…un…save your life. I’m not sure it’s worth it when this is the thanks I get.”
Why, I never! exclaims Nigel.
“Wait a second. What are you gonna do with Dead Dr. Seuss & Co. after this? Dump ’em in the river?”
She stops working and directs another scowl my way. “Maybe,” she replies, her tone cupcake sweet. “And after that, how about I tie an anchor on you? That way, you can make sure they get to the bottom without any trouble.”
“Not funny.”
“No?” She leans on one hand and puffs another crop of messed-up hair out of her eyes. She swipes her arm across her forehead, leaving a dirty smudge. I squeeze the bridge of my nose. My arms fall to my sides. She’s right. I have been a jerk.
“Sorry,” I say.
She peers up at me, her head tilting to the side.
“You saved my life,” I say. “Again.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“Thank you, Mary.”
She inventories my features, her chest swelling and relaxing in a deep breath. She breaks eye contact, strips off her gloves, and tosses them to the side. Her hand thrusts out. I take it and draw her easily to her feet.
“We have to tell the team about my powers.”
“Explain. You say you’ve lost your powers, but you’ve still got this”—she waves her hand airily—“Nigel person.”
“Yeah, but we’re cut off. It’s just him and me now.”
She frowns.
“One
hundred and eight billion lives, and now it’s just him and me.”
You don’t have to sound quite so disappointed, says Nigel. Cyrano de Bergerac. Gonzo.
“Mary. We’ve got to tell Alex and Caleb. You’ve seen my karate hands.”
“But they haven’t.” Her head tilts as she seems to consider the obvious. We have to tell them. She’s got to see that. “No,” she says. “At least…not yet. Besides, maybe we can fix it. Maybe this isn’t permanent.”
She looks down at the dead bodies rolled in plastic and gives them a good kick with her bare feet.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“For being so heavy.” She puffs more hair out of her eyes. “And for the crappy day this is shaping up to be.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re finally at the block party. A neighbor introduces himself as Jay, cracks open a beer, and puts it in my hand. I smile and nod. He tries to return the smile, but it comes out all weird. No, it’s me who’s coming off all weird. I bet I’m one drop away from a good flop sweat at this point. Jay looks over his shoulder. He gives me a puzzled once-over, shrugs, and then joins the rest of the guys near the grill. I’m alone, my ears ringing.
You’re not alone, says Nigel. And don’t you fret about irrevocably screwing things up with your new neighbors. So what if you’re acting a complete basket case?
Thanks, I reply. Karate skills and counseling skills. Who needs Bruce Lee or Sigmund Freud when I’ve got you?
My point is, you’re not a liar, or a killer. Not like that Mary.
I sip my beer and gaze over the bottle at her. She’s smiling and laughing it up with the ladies. Look at her. The breezy spring dress. Her gum-commercial smile and glossy-magazine blonde hair. She lifts her paper plate close to her mouth and forks in a bite of broccoli salad. Probably no one has noticed her shriveled fingertips.
She catches me staring, and her smile falters. She covers by forking in another bite of broccoli salad before recovering. One of the women grabs the hem of her dress, and Mary’s face lights up as she reengages. The neighbor rubs the fabric between thumb and forefinger, then drops it and stands back to admire how nice it looks on her. All the ladies are admiring her now. Mary waves it away, but her spell is complete. They want to be her. She makes them feel special. Just like she makes me feel special. They’re all laughing like life is oh so wonderful, and just like that, my fleeting glimpse of her conscience is gone. She won’t look over at me again. Not until it’s time to go. She’s deep in her role. Because she is a spy. Because she has a license to kill. And because she is very, very good at her job. And now, even if I wanted to read her mind and learn her secrets, I can’t.
Historic Observation on Religion by Herodotus (c. 484—c. 425 BCE)
As your Father of History and notable dead weirdo for going on twenty-five hundred years, I can tell you, I’ve seen some crazy shit. No, I’m not talking about the ancient Greek snot lickers[5] we called “doctors.” Nor am I talking about Kirk Cameron and the crocoduck[6]. I’m talking about religion.
To us dead folks in the Collective Unconscious, religion is best understood as a series of extraordinary claims followed by an extraordinary lack of proof. For example, in my day, everyone just “knew” Aphrodite was born of the white foam produced by the severed genitals of Uranus, which had been tossed into the sea by Cronus. True, a guy named Jeff did at first find this idea odd, but when he challenged it, everyone said, “Look! Sea-foam!” And since no one wanted to have their balls cut off by Cronus and/or tossed into the sea to make more love goddesses, even beautiful naked ones surfing scallop shells, that pretty much ended all rational debate.
Modernity hasn’t produced better. George Van Tassel in 1952 claimed to have been telepathically contacted by the Ashtar Galactic Command and was given instructions for building a dome meant to prolong human life. Sadly, George died of a heart attack trying to build it.
These days, people love to laugh at Scientology because of the whole Xenu thing and the Douglas DC-8 Space Uber. But the fact is, the Bible also has Space Ubers and everyone’s fine with it there. It’s true. Xenu himself took Ezekiel for a lift in one, and the pair went out for spicy Ashtarian shrimp tacos. All this is to say, the only difference between the crackpot religions and the normalized ones is money, time, and a charismatic spokesperson. Fortunately for Wang and Shmuel, they’ve found their charismatic spokesperson.
Witness now, the birth of the Church of the Ladder Day Dudes.
CHAPTER Six
The proselytizing geeks’ vintage A-Team replica van fits right in at the San Diego Convention Center garage. Two cars down on one side is another Back to the Future DeLorean. Four cars down the other way is the Dukes of Hazzard General Lee. Ralph had earlier spotted no fewer than four different Batmobiles, three Ghostbusters Ecto-1’s, and two custom-built Flintstones’ cars. Between that and a parking garage crawling with cigarette-smoking aliens, slave girls in golden bikinis, Iron Man cosplayers (and one of those walking an Iron Dog), it’d be easy for even a celebrity to go unnoticed. Many often do. But not Johnny Gemini.
Johnny exudes a charisma that would break a lesser man’s face. His good looks are so good, his smile is outlawed in fifteen different countries. When Tom Cruise met Johnny for the first time, legend has it he wore a bag over his head for three months out of respect. Moths refuse to eat his jackets, mosquitos will not bite him, and hobos beg to give him their spare change. At least, these are the stories his publicists “leak” to the tabloids, and as far as Ralph is concerned, anything to sell a movie.
Johnny’s prodigious charisma shines like a spotlight—which is also shining—from Ralph’s handheld camera. The shot is framed perfectly. The weirdos are assembled. The side door of the van open, Wang and Shmuel, in their plaid skirts and fake boobs, sit on the ledge, their legs dangling out. And a newcomer, the short, bearded Muppet-faced one called Fabio, leans on the passenger door, his arms folded. Opposite them…the one and only…Johnny Gemini. This, the role of a lifetime. Lost boy. Joiner of cults. Drug-addled washup.
Ralph smiles. Cannes is going to eat this up.
“So, let me get this straight,” says Fabio. Ralph pans his camera leftward to frame Bearded Muppet Face. “You’re coming with us to South Bend?”
“Yeah-ah, doo-ood,” replies Johnny, but Ralph lingers on this “Fabio” character; Muppet face? Perhaps. More accurately, this could be the face of a bearded third-grade girl. Yes. Ralph zooms in and focuses the shot. Now…what makes him tick? Perhaps a tragic backstory. Maybe his parents smuggled him into the country in the belly of an endangered Quagga-Lagga mountain zebra, for example.
“It’s a spiritual pilgrimage, ma-an,” says Johnny. “Like, for all of us.”
Ralph pans the camera to Johnny, and his shoulders relax now his viewfinder is trained on reliable Hollywood gold. Still, that delivery sucked. He tips his camera down.
“Overacting there a bit, Johnny. Less Cheech. More Chong.”
Johnny nods. “Right. More Chong. Um, let’s pick it up from South Bend.”
Ralph gives the thumbs-up and trains the camera on Fabio. But no. The Fabio character is wearing the wrong face for the scene. This is the face of a bearded third-grade girl who flipped the lights on only to find herself in a room teeming with fifty-nine flying keel-billed toucans shitting everywhere like white rain.
Ralph tips the camera again and signals for Fabio’s attention.
“Can you just…? Your face—it’s, ah. That’s better.”
Fabio shakes his head, then addresses the others. “Look—I’ll go by myself. Okay, guys? This is already more than I bargained for. I wasted three days here when I could’ve been—”
“Whoa-whoa-whoa,” says Wang. “Stop talking. I’m trying to interrupt.” Wang slides his arm over Fabio’s shoulders. “Shh… There, there. This must be very painful for you. I know. I know, my friend. And, of course…we all miss Edger. God rest his soul.”
Ralph’s eyebrows rise. What’s this? Could it be?
He narrows the aperture. Intimate scene in three…two…
“Edger was such a…” Wang knuckles a nonexistent tear from his eye, “…giving sort of person. Wouldn’t you say? Always thinking of others.”
Fabio frowns. “Yeah. I would say that. But you wouldn’t.”
“He just did?” says Shmuel, who for some reason finishes all his sentences in a question.
“I’m hurt, good man,” says Wang. “What I’m trying to say is, I think Edger, were he still alive, would’ve wanted us to be travelers together. For old time’s sake. A sort of…Edger pilgrimage…if you will.”
“Oh no,” says Fabio. “Oh no-no-no. No. No, he wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“Doo-ood,” says Johnny. “Who’s Edger?”
Ralph grins. Wow. That voice. It’s like if young Brad Pitt played Chris Farley in Rob Ford: The Movie. “That’s it, Johnny!” he calls, giving a thumbs-up over the camera. Johnny teeters.
“You’re obviously delirious with grief,” says Wang, ignoring the exchange.
“No,” replies Fabio. “What I mean is, he wouldn’t have wanted you to go to the trouble of—”
“Nonsense, good man!” Wang slides off his spot from the floor of the open van to clap Fabio on the shoulder and pull him in close. So close, it’s functionally a headlock. “Shut up and listen,” he whispers. “Do you have any idea how rich Johnny Gemini is?” He pauses to glance at Ralph, who lowers his camera and pretends he isn’t eavesdropping. “Johnny Gemini is hanging out with us. Look at him. That guy is so rich, he’s lost respect for himself. It’s disgusting. That’s how rich I wanna be. Uhn. Can you smell that?”
Fabio shakes his head.
“That’s the smell of me getting so rich, I just fucking hate myself.”
“Being rich smells like patchouli and armpit?”