Planet Fever

by Stier Jr. , Peter

  THE NEXT day I woke up at 9:30 A.M. and it was already hot. I didn’t feel like waking up, but I couldn’t fall back asleep. Memory from the night prior was hazy, at best. The deficit was reinforced by the fact that next to me lightly snored a blonde female, clad only in her underwear.

  Damn. Another one of those “day after the blackout” moments.

  I rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen to get some water to help remove the coat of fur that had grown on my tongue from the drunken night before. My memory wasn’t even a blur—it was an utter lack of anything resembling memory.

  On the table by the kitchen stood a 1.5 liter bottle of Mescal.

  That explained a lot.

  Only a film of fluid—the equivalent of one decent-sized shot glass full—was left at the bottom. I turned on the water, put my mouth under the nozzle, then splashed cold all over my face. I cupped some in my hands and splashed it over my hair, slicking it back.

  An incessant radio buzzing permeated my head, followed by a static-ridden signal frequency. A newscaster-type voice intermittently crackled through the static. My own “thoughts” accompanied, or superimposed themselves with the static-garble. Then another voice, this one calm and assertive, crackled in: “I’ll meet you at the mountain,” it said.

  What the hell? I wondered.

  I walked to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, splashed some more cold water on my face, took a piss, and walked back out to the bottle of Mescal.

  “Eh, screw it.” I grabbed the bottle and polished off what was left.

  The shot went down really hard, like the clog in a toilet on the verge of needing a plunger rescue. The burn writhed its way down my pipes. My thoughts scattered like dust mites and I attempted to collect them one spec at a time, trying to string together whatever pieces of memory I could before my unfamiliar houseguest woke up.

  I closed my eyes.

  “AND WHAT did she say to you after she woke up?” An unseen voice with a hollow cadence interrogates me. He sounds like the calm-voiced computer “HAL” from the film 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  The room is absent of any source of light, yet I can see my own body. I can’t decipher whether or not any walls or ceiling exist here, but I do sense an overwhelming vastness of space in this strange venue. I’m in a Lay-Z-Boy recliner. Not restrained, but somehow unable to move. Contentment and utter comfort pour over my being: I could spend an eternity in this recliner….

  A complete awareness of my own past, present and future swarms within my head. My tenure as a human being is before me—in my mind—like a slide show that entails every physical and mental instance of my life. Time seems non-existent, or at least irrelevant.

  I ponder my interrogator’s question, “…what did she say to you after she woke up?”

  “HEY … ARE you okay?”

  I opened my eyes to find the girl waving her hand in my face.

  Blond hair, blue eyes, no makeup and completely beautiful.

  I blinked, scanning the room of my place. She had put on one of my button-up long-sleeved shirts, which almost covered up half her body.

  “Are you sick?” she asked.

  “Uh … no. I don’t think so.”

  The Blonde grinned. “You look out of it. Do you even remember anything from last night?”

  Anything relative to last night was a complete blackout. I still couldn’t place the girl, how I had met her, what we—or anyone else—had talked about “last night” and moreover, what the hell was going on inside my noggin.

  “I believe I got boozed up. To be honest with you, I can’t remember a damn thing— none the less who you are.”

  “Wow, they did do a number on you. It’s all right, that’s why I’m here. And you’re right. You were really drunk last night. Couldn’t even read your stuff. You almost spilled beer all over your work-in-progress.”

  Ah yes. My “work-in-progress.” It had been a while since I had contributed a single word to my pile of shit attempt at that “post-modern” novel I had been chipping away at for way too many moons. Wasn’t I supposed to work on that thing last night?

  …AND I am completely burned-out. The words “fuck you” seem to have replaced “thank you” and “how are you?” in social pleasantries etiquette. It’s a lot easier to flip someone off or blast the car horn than it is to display simple courtesy and respect these days.

  Crude arrogance, low-rent machismo and mean cynicism are chic.

  Declarations of war are more exciting than allowing someone to merge into traffic.

  Bullets outweigh love letters. They travel at a greater velocity and are much more poignant, also. (What else can I say?)

  “Hey barkeep, gimme another then another and at least seventeen more after that … I’m gonna be here for awhile.”

  Then she struts in. Legs. Body. Face. Brain. Eyes. Lips. You know the rest.

  She performs an all-inclusive scan of the place. Her gaze hones in on me, she approaches, and sits down and tells me my life story.

  THE STORY CUTS TO:

  A field on the outskirts of town.

  A podium sits in the field. Lights are amassed. THE REPORTER scribbles frantically into his notebook. THE RINGLEADER (clad in an outfit of a decorated World War II four-star General) approaches the podium and begins his spiel, which is heard in the background.

  “This time he has gone too far….” THE REPORTER scribbles into his notebook.

  NEXT, THE STORY CUTS TO:

  The interior of a dive bar. It is night.

  In a booth at the back of the bar, THE REPORTER is seated, along with THE BRUNETTE and THE BOYFRIEND. They are all loaded.

  THE REPORTER rants: “Filing a declaration of war against the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate at this point in time is like attempting to go into battle armed with only a fork and a mule against a Roman legion. I mean, the N(aI)IS is at least as big as history. Shit.”

  THE BRUNETTE is intrigued. She leans in closer to THE REPORTER. “I’ve never heard of them … the—what did you call it?”

  THE REPORTER is oblivious to the fact that this young woman seems to be flirting with him. He gives them the lowdown: “The New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate—or N(aI)IS—is a treasonous, secret group that controls the planet Earth, as well as a small section of the Andromeda Galaxy. These nameless, faceless yet rich and powerful interstellar business barons are attempting to expand their market to entail the entire Milky Way. Planet Earth is to be their founding base of investment in this Galaxy because of its fantastic location. This syndicate has acquired all of the rights to all of the airwaves, brainwaves, thoughts, subliminal space/time, dream-making studios, fantasy rights, impromptu daydream clubs, the blueprints for the “American Dream,” a gated resort community in Los Cabos, and a plush getaway retreat in Barrow, Alaska.

  THE BOYFRIEND (who happens to be clad in a classy black three-piece suit, far too overdressed for the dive bar, if you ask me) says, “Hey, man—are you hitting on my lady?”

  “What?! Piss off!” says THE REPORTER

  THE BOYFRIEND clubs THE REPORTER over the head with his beer mug, knocking him out.

  AND NOW THE NARRATIVE DISSOLVES TO:

  THIS VERY NOVEL! (work with me, dear reader –- fingers crossed that it’ll make sense when all is said and done)

  CHAPTER CALLED (Undercover Repart*: General of Inane to Make Bold Move) *fix spelling

  Back in the camp on the outskirts of town, FROWARD MORONI (aka. THE RINGLEADER) is in his camper, going over his speech. He was one of the few who had gained access into the dealings of the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate, because he had once been an esteemed member of their organization. For some time, he was trying to disguise his own plot to “bring down” the Big Shots. He had all his thoughts cloaked and forged, his subliminal mind counterfeited, and his dreams purchased via the black market.

  One night, however, a telepathic sweep (of which he was unaware) was conducted over the entire globe. Too bad the sweep oc
curred while he was in the vulnerable state between sleep and consciousness, and some of his “real” thoughts were picked up on mind-radar. Aware now of his treasonous nature, the trackers for the Really Big Brothers—the hired muscle of the N(aI)IS—mandated a subliminal APB on him. Luckily, he escaped via the “slurred tunnel” (a state of mind in which the subject must find a park bench, ally, or “out of the way” space in any large metropolis and proceed to get blind-stinking drunk. While in this state it is impossible for Mind Scanners to get any clear and accurate description, or reading, of the drunkard’s psyche. They are passed over as inconspicuous inebriates aware of nothing in particular or as nebulous blips on the mind screens…).

  While in this condition he maintained a low profile and began conducting sermons to his fellow drunken bums on the underhanded, subversive takeover of their beloved little planet by the Clandestine, interstellar Monopolists. Within the last year he had assembled a small platoon of freshly enlightened, houseless non-materialists, known to most people as “transients” or “bums.”

  Perhaps the booze and his intense rigor had finally clouded his realistic judgment of good tactics and strategy (for his ragtag squad entailed a grand total of eleven members; twelve if Mackie (the Lonesome bulldog) were to count), whilst the N(aI)IS had legions of planets and googolplexes of cash at their disposal.

  Or maybe a certain reality had manifested itself within his entire mind, body and spirit—the reality in which a person senses inevitable defeat, yet musters up the resolve to squeak out a defiant yelp against the universe: “SCREW YOU ALL!”

  THE BLONDE finished reading the excerpt and set the notebook on the table.

  Waiting for her reaction to my work-in-progress, and convincing myself I didn’t give a damn what she thought, I examined the empty Mescal bottle, yearning for more.

  “It’s not bad. Forward, at times disjointed, a touch sophomoric … But it is a viable report.” She tapped a pencil on the notebook as she finished speaking.

  I wasn’t in the mood to listen to a critique of my work. It was garbage, so what difference did it make what anyone else thought?

  “It’s not even a viable form of toilet paper, if you ask me,” I said.

  “Eddie, this is a very important document. The data veiled with-in this thing is crucial to our cause.” She tapped her pencil on her knee then took to a subtler demeanor. “What you went through to … acquire … this information … is greatly appreciated.”

  What the hell was this lady talking about?

  I didn’t care for her mind games. Was this broad on the verge of a punch line or was she out of her flipping mind? To that point, my existence had been a dull and listless one at best; nondescript by humanity’s standards.

  So what the hell did she want with me? I had freelanced hack jobs, writing cheap fiction for different low-key magazines and one unfinished novel. And when I was really desperate for money I’d do clinical trials for pharmaceutical companies. Other than that, lazy, broke and drunk would’ve been an apt description of me.

  I wasn’t a nuisance to anyone and had an implicit agreement with the rest of the world to not bother me.

  And now this strange but beautiful lady ended up in my living room talking nonsensical smack about my bullshit “reports” that I barely remember penning because it’s quite probable I was drunk on the job.

  I needed a drink.

  I WAS sitting on the couch listening to the static-garbled frequencies emanating in my head when the Blonde—who told me her name was Mona—walked back in from the store. She had a brown paper sack in one hand and a huge bottle of Stolichnaya vodka in the other.

  She set the bottle down on the table. “I figured you needed this. Although, I don’t condone it. Or think it’s a good idea.”

  I nodded in appreciation and walked to the kitchen to get a glass. I then went and sat down at the table, unscrewed the bottle then poured myself a shot.

  The Blonde, or Mona, began putting the assortment of groceries into their appropriate places. I sat there and stared at her as she went about her business. How odd that she seemed to possess a complete awareness of my kitchen: a familiarity that only can be achieved by spending a lot of time in or studying a detailed schematic of the place.

  I blinked, raised my shot glass and toasted, “To my hospitable hostess. Cheers.”

  She grinned (a bit nervously, if you ask me) while I put back another shot. It went down clean and smooth.

  After the fourth drink, comfort and looseness settled in again. The static-ridden frequencies in my head had subsided. I was sort of glad this person was at my place; any company—especially attractive company—sometimes beats no company at all. Hell, maybe her presence would jump start the motor to get some more writing done. Plus I was grateful, for she had sponsored my booze-cause for the day.

  I poured another one. “I apologize for having blacked out on you last night. And I’m sorry I have no recollection of you at all. But I do appreciate this.”

  Mona nodded, sat down across from me and looked square into my eyes. “The reason—well—you have no memory whatsoever is—well—you’ve sort of been….” She tried to find the correct way of phrasing whatever she was trying to say, and nervously doodled with the pencil on a blank page of paper while still looking at me. “It is a very precarious matter.”

  I put back the drink. She got up, walked into the kitchen and grabbed a shot glass. She rejoined me at the table and took to a more serious posture, once again her gaze intent upon me. I poured her one as well as another for me.

  She placed the shot-glass between her thumb and index finger. “You’re not actually a writer. You’re a double-spy of sorts, employed by the Free-Thought-and-Will-Chapter, to report on certain cells of the N(aI)IS. Your implanted pseudo-ego, however, is in the form of a burned-out writer who is either a genius or sub-talented, depending on his mood, who spends his time scraping for money by being a guinea pig for pharmaceutical companies and drinking booze.”

  “Huh. You don’t say….” I said.

  She didn’t skip a beat. “Your reports to the Chapter are usually received every few months. You write these reports in the form of short-stories, poems, scripts, and the big one, Planet Fever—your so called “work-in-progress”—as an amalgamation of different formats, which create an encrypted code, which we’ve codenamed ‘My Book of Life.’”

  “Fascinating.” I grinned.

  She paid no attention to my attempts at smart-assery but kept unfurling her spiel: “We haven’t been able to locate you for a while; we believe the N(aI)IS has stripped your mind of your identity and re-indoctrinated you as your pseudo-ego … as a precautionary measure on their behalf. It was after one of your short stories surfaced in a porno magazine that we were able to find you. I was hoping that at least some of your memory was intact, but it appears they did do a thorough job on you.” She put back her shot and cringed, coughing once.

  I was ready for a hearty round of bellowing laughter at any moment. She remained unflinching and quite serious.

  “What’s your problem, lady?” I took a deep breath and steadied myself. “All right, I know my writing is garbage. But for you to insult my intelligence and mock me just for your own warped sense of intellectual kicks isn’t worth a bag of groceries and a bottle of booze. Now, you did a damn fine job of parodying something that I would write—and maybe gave me some new ideas—but I think this joke has run its course.”

  I put back the shot for good measure.

  “I don’t know who the hell you are, or I can’t remember…. I know I’m a drunkard but I know what reality is…. Now, you are more than welcome to stay here and drink with me or you could leave. If you go, the bottle stays.”

  She started to say something but bit her lip then smiled, opting to stay. She drank with me, all the while keeping her own booze intake as well as the conversation within the realm of reason: small talk, chitchat, the weather, when I planned to finish the novel…. The entire time she doodl
ed with that damn pencil into one of the blank pages of my notebook, sometimes erasing what she had just doodled.

  Her tone was becoming somewhat bothersome: it seemed to suggest she were patronizing me. I felt like a little kid who believed his own fantasies and describes them to his parents as they play along with the game. I couldn’t pin down her angle. A sense of unease crept over my entire being.

  The last moments are fuzzy, but I believe I took another shot and passed out.

  “YES, MR. BIKAVER, this is all very interesting and amusing, but you’re not getting to the point. You do not seem to believe part of the story—or you are at odds with who your character is, Mr. Bikaver….” The Interrogator’s voice tapers off.

  I’m back in the Lay-Z-Boy recliner—nowhere in particular.

  “This might be a tad intense, but we’ll skip the formalities of the rest of this particular sequence in time and move to a few years prior. You have been drinking with the girl and flirting with her. In response, her boyfriend has just smashed a beer glass over your head. Now, tell me what happens afterwards….”

  My mental projector begins to roll the footage and I travel back to….

  …AWAKE.

  Sticky barroom floor.

  Surrounded by a small group of people and one extraordinarily attractive blonde with big blue eyes.

  Had I seen her before?

  My head throbbed with a pain worse than any imaginable hangover. The Blonde helped me up. I was convinced I had seen this girl before, perhaps in a dream or déjà vu. Just having been knocked out….

  “Sorry, that had to be done.” Her voice reverberated within my head. “We think they might be on to you—never mind now—c’mon.”

  She pushed a bottle of liquor into my hand and led me by the arm up some stairs. A warm stream of sweat—or blood—curved down my face. We scampered into a storage room.

  I looked into a mirror.

  I looked terrible.