* * * * *
Later that day, the First Lady left Washington on a previously unannounced trip to visit her supposed parents back home in Texas. As the tastefully decorated special Prima Donna Boeing 757 zoomed along somewhere over the desolate outback territories of Missouri, the pilot said, “Whoa! What was that? Like a flash of light, or maybe a streak.”
The copilot joked, “Maybe they’re testing the Wishful Thinking Missile Defense System out here.”
The pilot glared at him. “That’s not funny.”
According to the report Malcolm watched that evening on one of the cable television news networks, this was what happened next:
“A loud buzzing drone filled the air, and a formation of Japanese Zeros dove out of the sun! The Boeing 757 pilot struggled manfully to evade the nimble and surprisingly fast Zeros, but the large plane lacked the necessary maneuverability, and despite the Boeing’s powerful jet engines, it proved impossible to outrun the fiendishly ingenious enemy. Bullets pounded into and through the 757, quickly killing everyone on board and smashing control surfaces and fuel lines. The great doomed aircraft struggled valiantly to keep flying, demonstrating its heroic American spirit, but alas the fight was hopeless. Soon, its nose tilted downward and it roared toward the ground, defiant to the end. The Zeros followed it down until they saw it plow into farmland and explode into a million zillion quadrillion pieces. The Zeros circled the smoking wreckage in an evil, triumphal aerial dance and then climbed back up into the sky and vanished again.
“We should mention that the company that distributed the fuel used by the Boeing 757 is owned by this network’s parent company.”
The news broadcast didn’t mention that the Japanese government made repeated, urgent offers to send aviation experts of its own to the crash site to help reconstruct the incident, but those offers were refused.
Jibber was shown on television gibbering. The news anchors described his comments as simple, straightforward, from the heart, deeply moving, and quite poetic. His speech, they said, would no doubt be printed in schoolbooks and studied by America’s kiddies for generations to come. Such manly eloquence at a time of such sadness and national tragedy could only increase the public’s already fervent love for their leader and boost his poll ratings all the more.
Besides which, they pointed out, he sure was a cute little monkey.
* * * * *
When puberty struck, Malcolm, like most boys, first noticed girls in a painfully intense way and then, with just as intense a pain, noticed that they were not noticing him. As is also the case with most pubescent boys, the fantasy world Malcolm spent much of his time in changed at this point from a series of unlikely good vs. evil adventures to a series of unlikely sexual encounters.
As the years passed, the female actors in his sexual fantasies changed from either fuzzily generic sexpots or clones of specific girls at school to that ideal that would never cease to obsess him: the petite, olive-skinned, almond-eyed beauty with shoulder-length black hair.
In the meantime, his relationships with actual flesh-and-blood girls and then women were always much less satisfying than the ones he imagined with his dream girl. Marlene, at least at the beginning, had been the rare exception. But of course that relationship had been an illusion, in its own way as unreal as his dreams. Ultimately worse, really. His dream girl would never have treated him the way Marlene did!
Early on, Malcolm had learned, again like most boys, that in the eyes of those females to whom boys are most attracted, the male population is divided into the tiny percentage of the worthy and the vast numbers of the unworthy. Malcolm had spent his post-puberty life as one of the unworthy, a category from which he had come to believe he would never escape.
This was a field of endeavor in which there was no such thing as upward mobility. One did not work or even claw one’s way up the ladder, for sadly there was no ladder. Like any Medieval peasant, one was doomed to remain in the scummy station in life into which one was born. Or perhaps a better analogy would be to say that the gods chose to smile upon the few and to frown upon the many, and there was no reason or even predictability about their choices. It was much like the way they smiled upon some writers and sneered at the rest. The few smiled upon were blessed with lives of erotic or writerly fulfillment, and the great numbers of divinely spurned were condemned to lives of erotic or writerly frustration. Or both, in Malcolm’s case.
Pretty girls, he learned early, were not pleased when he approached them. It wasn’t just that they didn’t want to go out with him. They didn’t even want to speak to him. They didn’t want him to speak to them. They didn’t want him to look at them. They shuddered when they sensed his longing stare. Eeeuuw! Eyeball licks from the unworthy! I’ve got his optic juice on me!
Malcolm would sigh and retreat to the welcoming arms of his dusky dream girl.
Then Marlene came along and, for a short time, made him stop thinking about his dream girl. Then Marlene revealed her true nature, and he needed his dream girl all the more. Then he hit it big with Business Secrets from the Stars and even bigger with his seminars, and suddenly women were flinging themselves into his bed. He didn’t need his dream girl! He didn’t need Marlene! This was one of his oldest fantasies come to life!
And then, astonishingly, even this began to pall.
True, the young women from his seminars who fell happily into his bed were all slender and firm and flexible and enthusiastic, possessed of all the enviable physical traits of youth and wonderfully willing to ignore Malcolm’s own lack of the same. True, they varied as to physical type: today a blonde, rosy cheeked and open, and tomorrow a brunette, dark eyed and mysterious; today a tall, aggressive athlete, and tomorrow a tiny, clinging, delicate flower. Oh, how he rejoiced in them all! And yet, once past their youth and firmness and enthusiasm, once no longer enticed, intrigued by the very fact of their differentness, he was forced to admit to himself that they were all the same: bimbos. They were lovely shells encasing minds with intelligence quotients barely above room temperature.
After all, had they been intelligent, they would never have paid good money to attend anything so nonsensical as a Business Secrets from the Stars seminar.
The day came when an exceptionally beautiful young woman in one of his seminars offered herself to him, and Malcolm told her he could not fit her into his schedule — and the truth was that he had just realized that he would rather finish the novel he was currently reading than couple with the enticing creature.
I’m getting old! he cried inwardly.
No, I’m getting bored.
Marlene the Maleficent, Malcolm misses you. Evil and self-seeking and amoral you may be, but you are no bimbo, and you are never boring.
Fortunately for Malcolm’s peace of mind, just at the point where he had recognized how essentially empty his sex-filled life had become, how bored he was with sexual adventures for the experiencing of which other men would have sacrificed various limbs, he was distracted by being invited — at last! — to appear on a nationally televised talk show.
* * * * *
The host, Johnny Aggressive, was a former boxer. He seemed unable to sit. He spent much of every show on his feet, moving about, bobbing and weaving, as though he were still in the ring, still avoiding his opponent’s fists, still looking constantly for an opening, for a chance to land a killing blow.
Malcolm thought he was obnoxious, but he would have suffered through a couple of hours with a far more obnoxious host for a publicity opportunity like this.
There was an additional inducement that Malcolm was reluctant to admit even to himself because it seemed so silly. Johnny A., as his fans called him, was married to Felicia Finewine.
Maybe, Malcolm hoped when he was invited to be one of Johnny’s sparring partners, just maybe — oh, God, please! — the otherworldly newsgal would be visiting her husband’s show and would pass through the Green Room while Malcolm was there.
But she wasn’t and she didn’t, and
so nervously Malcolm drank half the bottle of cheap, free Green Room champagne and staggered out into the terrifyingly bright lights.
* * * * *
SCENE: Five people sit on ordinary chairs on a stage. From left to right, they are:
Brother Harry. Bearded, mellow, stuck somewhere between middle age and old age, twinkly-eyed founder and head of Brothers and Sisters of Jesus, or BASOJ. His graying hair is long and unrestrained, flowing Jesus-like to his shoulders. His beard, also graying, is also rather Jesus-like. “Be cool! Be mellow!” That, in the stated philosophy of BASOJ, is the essence of the word of Jesus Christ. Jesus wants all his brothers and sisters to lay back, to kick back, to commit similar linguistic atrocities. Life can be beautiful, bro’. You just don’t know. Go with the flow. Vo-de-oh-do. BASOJ is headquartered in Southern California. What a surprise! Brother Harry wears flowing, loose-fitting robes. The robes have visible patches. Things have not been the same for BASOJ since the young generation it once appealed to became not so young and their attention turned from the ERA to IRAs. Brother Harry is beginning to look past or through Heaven to the infinite realms beyond. He thinks Malcolm has come up with an interesting gimmick. Too bad about those hit men.
The Very Reverend Jimmy Earl. No twinkle in this eye. Average height, average looks, blessed with an astonishing abundance of non-graying hair, pudgy in body and face, frowning browed. He’s a Christian of the crusading sort. Jimmy Earl envisions evil being destroyed by the sword, not, like Brother Harry, by the mantra. Actually, Reverend Jimmy was born and reared in Southern California himself, but he knew enough about America’s unquestioning acceptance of regional stereotypes to found his religio-political pressure group in South Carolina and to adopt a very genuine-sounding South Carolinian accent. His organization is the Children of God, or COG. It is of the anal-retentive fundamentalist, or ARF, persuasion. In the privacy of his thoughts, and of course he would never say this aloud, he sneeringly calls his movement Christian Repetitionism. His suit is very expensive.
Malcolm Erskine. Brilliant channeler of star-dwelling Merskeenians, prophet of a New Age, best-selling author, conductor of expensive and fully booked seminars, herald of innovations in business techniques, suddenly woozy victim of cheap champagne, spineless wimp who is trying to move his chair away from that of Jimmy Earl and toward
Cal Shegitz. Handsome astronomer, exemplar of the public scientist, professional Brilliant Intellectual Guy, host of documentaries, witness before Congressional committees, author of articles in Parade magazine. Off-camera, he is someone Malcolm Erskine admires for his work at undermining pseudo-science. On-camera, he is an enemy for the same reason.
Atlantica. Famous channeler of Mellabenth, an ancient warrior from Atlantis. If Malcolm can’t be squelched, Atlantica’s name is mud. Atlantica, too, lives in California. (“The country is on a tilt,” Eric Sevareid once said, “and everything loose is sliding toward California.”) Atlantica charges astonishing fees to attend one of her channeling sessions. There, a fleecee is granted the unique opportunity to see Atlantica grow in stature, lower in voice pitch, and spew forth meaningless oracularisms. Atlantica lives a very pleasant life of rustic bliss and horses and limousines and antique furniture. She is determined that this Erskine fellow and his absurd Lukas of Aldebaran not be allowed to undermine it. Mellabenth has some ideas about that.
Camera pans audience, showing the tall, muscular, shaven-headed host standing amidst the masses, allying himself with them against the vicious enemies on the stage. Lacking room to dance around, he is bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet. He exudes the barely restrained aggressiveness his audiences love.
Why am I here? wonders Malcolm. Why did I agree to this?
“Today’s topic,” Johnny shouts, “is channeling ancient beings in order to gain wisdom for today, or advice for living in today’s world. Okay, okay.” He calms the audience, who snicker and hoot and in general behave quite badly. “Let’s give these folks a chance to speak their piece. Then you can ask your questions and tear them into bloody, bleeding, disgusting chunks of PUTRID FLESH!” Regains control of himself, lowers voice. “Our main guest today is Mr. Malcolm Erskine, who has written the bestselling book Business Secrets from the Stars.”
Malcolm raises his hand unenthusiastically.
“Okay. And we also have with us blah, blah, blah.” Johnny introduces the other guests. “Okay. Let’s start with Ms. Atlantica. Ms. Atlantica, you also channel an ancient being. However, yours is from ancient Atlantis, the way I understand it. Mellabenth from ancient Atlantis, right?”
Atlantica nods. She is happy. She will absolutely cream this upstart, Erskine. “That’s right, Johnny. And Mellabenth has told me to say that Mr. Erskine is clearly a fake, someone simply trying to make a buck off the gullibility of the masses.”
Malcolm laughs aloud. “Shocking,” he says, shaking his head. “To think that anyone would even think of conning the gullible masses. I just don’t know what this world is coming to.”
Johnny tries to say something, but Atlantica doesn’t give him a chance.
“Oh, yeah? Are you trying to say I’m not really channeling an ancient Atlantean warrior? Well, let’s see you do this, buster!” She frowns, concentrates. She begins to grow in height and girth. Her head swells and arteries throb in her neck. Her voice drops in pitch an octave or two. Her eyes widen and glare at Malcolm and the audience. Spittle flying, she growls in a huge, masculine basso, “I say to you, Malcolm Erskine is engaged in a con game. Evil will befall any who heed him!” The special effects disappear, and Atlantica detumesces to her normal small, blonde, rather attractive self. “Can you match that?” she asks smugly.
It didn’t work when I tried to do it for Fancy, Malcolm remembers. Maybe I should try again.
Once again, he holds his breath, squeezes as though he were on the toilet and constipated, and makes growling noises.
His head begins to feel like an inflated balloon. The cheap champagne begins to gurgle back up his esophagus. Once again, Malcolm decides that this could have serious medical consequences.
Letting all his blood drain back to its normal places, and then waiting a few more seconds for the champagne to subside, Malcolm assumes a superior look and says, “Lukas of Aldebaran wants me to say that such silliness is beneath him. It is beneath his dignity. He will speak only to me, and I will then pass along his words. He also wishes me to say that he has encountered Mellabenth of Atlantis on the astral plane and he wants everyone here to know that Mellabenth was always a pretentious idiot and has not changed, not even after death. Cheap tricks and special effects are no proof of divine inspiration. If you wish for enlightenment, buy and read the book I have dictated to my dear friend, Malcolm Erskine. If you, Ms. Atlantica, wish to learn to see the truth behind the veil of unknowing, Mr. Erskine will be glad to instruct you on a private basis.”
The two contenders retire glowering to their corners, one frustrated, the other sighing deeply in relief.
This isn’t so bad, Malcolm tells himself. I can handle it.
“We’ll be back in a minute, after this word from our sponsor,” says the host. After the red light on the television camera fades away, he addresses his guests. “Dynamite, guys. Good round. Keep it up.”
During the commercial, Johnny chats with members of the audience, perhaps preparing for the part of the show in which audience members ask the guests challenging and discomfiting questions. The guests avoid looking at each other, wait out the sixty seconds, wonder why they’ve let themselves in for this.
Lights, camera, action. The ordeal begins again.
Johnny: “Now I’d like to turn to our guest scientist of the day, Dr. Cal Shegitz, famous brilliant person. Dr. Shegitz, Mr. Erskine, right there on your right, has become, almost overnight, the most famous channeler in America, maybe in the world. He says he’s the conduit, if you will, for a being who was an upper-level executive with a star-spanning corporation many thousands of years ago. What do you have to
say to that?”
Shegitz focuses his brilliant eyes on Malcolm and fixes him with a brilliant stare. “I just want to ask Mr. Erskine to do one thing for me,” he says in his brilliant voice. “Prove it.”
You shit, thinks Malcolm. Why aren’t you out arresting fake fortune-tellers or something? How’d I ever hurt you?
And yet Malcolm is uncomfortable with this confrontation. In his pre-channeling life, he had often cheered the debunking work of Shegitz and his colleagues. For a moment, Malcolm’s conscience manages to struggle back to life.
“Well, Mr. Erskine?” prompts Johnny. “Isn’t there something you’d like to say?”
Yes, Mr. A. I’d like to say that I’ve been in love with your wife for years. Resolutely, Malcolm suppresses his conscience. Think of the bucks, he reminds himself.
“Yes. I’d just like to ask Dr. Shegitz how he and his fellow scientists measure love? Or justice? Or God?”
“Come, now,” says Shegitz impatiently. “You’re trying to confuse the issue. Those are abstractions, whereas in your book, you make very material claims.”
But Malcolm knows he’s on a roll, he’s got the rationalists on the run, they’re wobbly, they’re dropping their guard! More accurately, Malcolm has redefined the high ground. Even Atlantica is nodding, supporting him: We hucksters of fuzzy-mindedness must stick together!
Malcolm raises his voice to override the other man’s. “Oh, yes, narrow-minded science may try to tell you that if you can’t measure it, it doesn’t exist. Hah! In fact, hah-hah! They laughed at Galileo, they laughed at Einstein, they laughed at Gandhi. Now they laugh at us — at me, at a visionary woman like Atlantica, at... at... at others. But the people whom we help know that what we say is real.
Business Secrets from the Stars Page 23