Deshler is fairly certain he’s never met Sonja and Keith, though he recognizes them from the Cosmonaut Watch file Winters gave him. Wiping ashy goo from his chin, Deshler squints a few moments into the dark van. They look skinnier on television, he first thinks. Followed closely by: Wait, does this mean I’m being neutered?
Dean quickly scans the rest of the van—two slabs of beef who look like the dead cosmonauts, Yuri and Pavel, ride in the back and wave. Another guy, who strongly resembles Dean himself, sits shotgun with a gap tooth and scarred chin.
Dead bodies sprout up like random burning weeds across the street. Concrete, tables, chairs and greedy valets dissolve and crackle into charcoal eighteen stories up. Emergency sirens blast in the distance.
“Hop in, comrade,” the man America knows as Cosmonaut Keith says in a perfect Midwestern accent. Keith’s dialogue is so effortless, he and Dean could have grown up down the street from one another.
Sonja waves a friendly arm and pats the empty seat next to her with an inviting smile. Teeth still yucky.
“What are my options here?” Dean squeezes out, assuming any one of these people will shoot or stab or uniball him. His rib cage rattles at each heartbeat.
“Relax,” Malinta purrs and swats his ass. “I said you’d die if you played that show. Trust us. Your blood’s still pumping, isn’t it?”
His chest says she’s right, but his eyes dart all over. The van is clean, probably rented. “Are you going to,” his throat stiffens like swallowing a handful of sand. “Hurt me…somewhere special?”
“No.”
“Are you going to kill me?”
“The exact opposite, actually,” Sonja says with no Russian accent, smiling even bigger. “We’d like to offer you a job.”
“What would Gibby do?” he mutters, sensing a trap.
“He’d get in this stupid car before a body lands on him,” Keith says. “That’s what he’d do.”
Deshler burns like he was a bass amp full of plastic charges. Malinta pushes, Keith pulls, and Dean stumbles into the van just before another spine-rumbling explosion detonates upstairs.
Dean catches a breath long enough to see Malinta behind the wheel. They are already pulling away from the bombing. She swerves to avoid the mess.
“You okay?” Keith asks. “Need any ice water or some Fat-Free Ahi Tuna Poppers?”
“Easy,” Sonja says with English so perfect she could easily anchor a show like Nightbeat. “I’m sure our friend has some questions.”
“Yes,” our hero’s voice trickles. “Questions.”
The town is rolling past the windows, all of it unfamiliar to Dean. Streetlamps showcasing another mysterious chunk of the town he thought he knew so well.
“So, like I was saying, we at Healthy Wally’s have a great offer for you. A real leap up the ladder,” Sonja says. “But I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“Way ahead,” Keith chimes.
“Wait,” Dean’s mouth hangs open, confused. “Healthy Wally’s?”
“I hope you’re comfortable with the explosions and all that jazz.”
Dean’s fear liquefies and leaks out his pores, disappearing into the van’s air. “I heard you don’t speak English. Aren’t you guys Russian?”
“Well, it’s time someone told you the truth…again. Malinta, darling, didn’t you already have this chat with Deshler?” Sonja sighs. “Anyhow, the Russians, they’re all dead.”
“So you’re a ghost?”
“Let me clarify. All five original cosmonauts starved to death up in that floating garbage can because you had them send their food out in a ridiculous space suit.”
“Wait, whoa. Me?” His muscles tighten in defense, his brain cycles through odd scraps of memory. Burning hot adrenaline splashes through him. His fingertips dig into the seat—a rush like playing a great show with Lothario Speedwagon.
He feels like someone completely different. Not himself. He disagrees with his rant to Hamler: you aren’t really living until you are someone else.
It all sounds like such bullshit now.
“I’m trying to kiss up to you, here. Relax. Healthy Wally’s got word of the new Space Burger Campaign, so our moles at Winters pulled some strings and next thing you know our team is at a casting call for the new Moscow Five. I’m pretty proud of myself. I think it’s rare for a company’s president to be so hands-on, don’t you?”
Deshler sucks his tongue in disbelief.
“Not to toot my own horn, but look at the grunt work I’ve been doing the last few weeks. Whew. I’d like to see those two idiots.” She points back at the flaming Beef Club. “Winters and that vegan hypocrite Lepsic, carry out an act like this on their own. Christ, I deserve a daytime Emmy.”
“You said it, Miss Dayton,” Keith pipes in. “The rest is history, Dean. We owe you everything. Heck, I mean, sacrificing your band so you could destroy Winters and Bust-A-Gut, what a plan. You’re like a chess master. You see ten steps ahead.”
“Easy, we’re not hanging his portrait in the Louvre.”
“Sorry, Wally.”
“Look, let’s cut the tofu here. You’re not perfect, pal. Your work in the last six months has plugged more arteries than adding lard to the water supply,” the woman who is not really Sonja says. “Relax, sit still, I’m not mad. But, I mean, a deep-fried hamburger?”
Words barely deserve to be called a mumble: “What would Gibby do?”
“He’d shut the bleep up and listen to the Wally Dayton,” Malinta snaps from up front.
“Not very ladylike, Ms. Redding,” Wally says. “I am not a broken record,” her voice becomes stern and motherly. “If you want to be taken seriously and move up in the company, you need to be a…what?”
“Lady.”
“Pardon?”
“Lady. I need to be more ladylike. I need to watch my language. It’s in the handbook, I know I just—”
“Exactly,” she nods, satisfied. “You are forgiven.” She turns back to Dean, “Now, once Malinta told us about you and what you do, it seemed like a natural pair—like rice cakes and soy cheese. I knew we would work together and change the world.”
Dean’s panicked mind always reverts to the band. He imagines himself onstage with a blasting speaker system to his back. He’s a foot taller than everyone, throwing bags of God-knows-what at the audience. Confidence fills his body and explodes through all muscles. “When were you planning on telling me?”
“Dean,” Malinta says. “We’ve had this conversation about five times. This exact same one. Remember the paperwork you signed? You more or less planned this whole thing.” She pauses a beat. “I mean, this drunk amnesiac routine is just part of your cover, right? An act?”
Dean reminds himself he could easily be at the Beef Club in a dancing pile of firewood right now. He’s alive and he tells himself not to listen to this woman’s stories.
“What about us?” He is near tears, throat some new kind of achy.
“Ughhhhh.” Malinta’s eyes are on the road. Her voice could go either way and it sends Deshler’s heart loose.
“This doesn’t sound ladylike, either,” the guy in the passenger seat says. Dean can’t get over the resemblance to himself.
“Shut up,” Malinta snaps.
“Quit it, both of you,” Sonja says.
“It’s fine, Wally,” she says. “Sweetie, jusqu’à hier. Okay?”
Her eyes are bold and green in the rearview. Speaking French is a rusty nail into his neck. “That means until yesterday,” Dean says.
“Oh, I meant until tomorrow.”
He senses her tone. It’s one that isn’t that far off from so many others—others that used him for no good.
His throat hurts. Something says not to reply, but Dean can’t stop himself. “Jusqu’à demain.” His stomach goes sick.
“Thanks for the lesson. Now, on to bigger and better.” The face known around the world as Sonja Kassabova, the cosmonaut, leans in close—her breath smells wholesome, like a fa
rmer’s market. “Deshler, we are home free. Thanks to your concert and our explosives, all of Bust-A-Gut and Olde-Tyme Hamburgers’ management are now deep-fried. I mean, sure, we have to confirm each casualty. But once that is done, our people—Healthy Wally’s people,” she says with a nudge to Dean’s elbow. “Are embedded in both companies and they’ll take over running these cholesterol factories into the ground.” Her eyes glow shiny and wet. “It’s the dawn of a new day for American calorie counts. Doesn’t it feel terrific?”
She sucks in a long breath and whips her hair back and forth with glee.
“We want you on board for the whole thing. I personally chose you as our President of Development. But we need the photo negatives of all your inventions. You know, black replaced by white, hamburger patties replaced by polenta cakes, that’s the gist. Use those same brain muscles, but for good instead of bad. You’re lucky. Not every evil genius gets to pay for his sins. Most times they just get hung in a courtyard.”
“So.” Dean drawls out breath, pretending his lungs are full of cigarette smoke. He pushes thoughts of Malinta from under the light in his heart and out into the cold dark. It’s tougher than you’d think. “You killed all those people? What about my band? What about the record company dude? What about Napoleon?” His chest is a particle smasher. Tiny explosions vaporize inhibitions, his chains.
“Look, pal,” she says lovingly. “In order to make an omelet you have to break some soy-based vegan egg substitute.” She pauses. “Oooh, that’s good. Write that down. We should whip up a breakfast menu.”
“Soy-based, vegan. Got it, Wally,” the man America thinks is Keith Kassabova says.
“Do you see what I’m saying? Those guys, I’m sorry, but they were a necessary sacrifice. They were witnesses to Keith and Sonja. That record company man, well, whoops. And I did you a favor by vaporizing Napoleon—we’ve seen your video. Listen, we’ll compensate you the money you were going to get advanced from Moral Compass, no sweat. And we have the lawyers to make your drunken hit-and-run accident disappear, too.”
A string of sour notes play through Dean’s head, similar to the guilty urges that ripped him apart as a teenager. These burn hotter, though, knowing he is actually to blame this time.
The cosmonaut/terrorist/restaurateur peps up: “Not only did we save your can, but we’re giving you the career of a lifetime. Penance through health food. You’re the best in the biz and we need you.”
He doesn’t have a hangover, but Dean’s head is a nuclear test site. Black gas clogs his mind. “But you can’t offer me a record contract, can you? You can’t offer me a career as an artist. All my work with Lothario Speedwagon is ruined if I take this job.” Dean smashes the seat in front of him. His knuckles are skinned back and bloody.
“It’s still ruined if you don’t. Sorry,” Wally says.
“Soy-based vegan egg substitute, dude,” Keith says.
“Just relax. We’ll talk about that once we’re back at headquarters and you’re in a new, comfy office.”
“Won’t people wonder about me? Why I’m working for you guys now?”
“That won’t be a problem, buddy,” fake-Keith says, putting a gun to the Deshler Dean lookalike in the front seat. “Meet the solution to your hit-and-run issues. Sorry, Rodrigo, but these aren’t the fake Hollywood bullets some people get.”
In the back seat, Yuri and Pavel high-five each other and whisper: “That was awesome, dude.”
Wally Dayton speaks lovingly: “See, we had Rodrigo impersonate you on Nightbeat a while back. Pretty good likeness, huh? I mean, yes, he took some artistic license with the script, but we were happy.”
“Clear your calendars and your colons,” the imitation Dean says, sheepishly.
“Yes, Rodrigo, you’re a wonderful improviser.”
Dean takes in a breath and tries to calm down. “Thank God. I didn’t remember doing that show. I thought I was crazy.” He blows across rapidly bleeding knuckles.
“Not crazy, but if you turn down this offer, you might be. See, we’ll plant somebody’s body back at the Club.” She nods toward Rodrigo. “Make it look like Deshler Dean expired in the flames. And you’re a free man.”
“Goodbye jail time,” Keith says. “Can’t convict a dead man for running over Clifford Findlay.”
The guilt crushes Dean’s temples, but he is interrupted by the fake Deshler. Rodrigo stiffens. “So wait, we’re not going to the tofu factory?”
“The tofu factory in the sky.” Keith wallops the back of his skull with a karate chop and the Deshler Dean imposter dangles limp into his seatbelt.
“It’s a no-brainer, hon,” Malinta says, pulling the van around the block and back in front of the club.
Dean can’t concentrate. Hon. Hon? HON?
“I need some time to think about this.” Bits of Beef Club rain on the metal rooftop, sounding like a drum roll on Pandemic’s Konkers.
“Sorry. Not a luxury I can afford. The Moscow Four and I have some massive cosmetic surgery to be removed. I need to get out of the underground and run a successful restaurant. Good gosh, I will not miss these silly teeth.” She flicks a gross incisor.
The other fake cosmonauts mumble, griping about bad haircuts, awful dentures, uncomfortable contacts. Something wet splatters the van roof.
“So, Dean,” Dayton says, confident and pleased. “You’re either in…or you’re in. I’ll toss in some free plastic surgery if it helps. God knows your nose will thank you.”
Dean leans forward and rubs his eyes. When vision shines back, he glances at the hotel. The front doors burst open in a cloud of soot and three men crawl out. Hamler and his boyfriend lead the pack, while a skeleton-thin Pandemic follows close behind.
Dean realizes for the first time in a long time that he is in control. People are listening. His knees punch together realizing who has been at the wheel all along. “What would Deshler do?”
Several people helped keep this book going for many years. None more so than:
Cameron Pierce.
James Greer.
Thank you.
Patrick Wensink is the author of the novel Black Hole Blues and the story collection Sex Dungeon for Sale!
His humor writing has appeared in Groupon. His music journalism has appeared in Willamette Week, Skyscraper, Smalldoggies, and others.
He is the recipient of the Patrick Wensink Foundation’s 2011 Nobel Prize for Good Looks.
He lives in Louisville, KY with his wife and son.
Discover all things Wentastic: www.patrickwensink.com.
Thank you for purchasing this Lazy Fascist original. Without your continued support, independent publishers like us would cease to exist. I hope you enjoyed Broken Piano for President and have an opportunity to discover some of the other wonderful titles in our ever-growing catalog.
If you’re just now joining us, we want to welcome you aboard and offer a brief explanation of what we do: Lazy Fascist publishes authors who, through careful exploration of unique linguistic landscapes, create monstrous, unclassifiable fictions. We value explosive language over explosive weapons, but we think it’s best when we can have our Bruce Willis with our Borges.
We’ve published everything from minimalist dark comedies to meta-fictional SF, along with historical fiction, fairy tales for adults, and hybrid plays. We seek out books that are emotionally hard-hitting, critically engaging, and exhibit crisp, original prose. These books tend to be difficult to pigeonhole under any one banner, but together they form a complex mosaic of the disenfranchised, the poor, and others who are struggling to survive—and make an impact—in an increasingly bleak world. However, we’re not all about doom and gloom. We like to laugh, demand the absurd, and love great storytelling above all else.
We also love zombies.
If you’ve been following us for a while, then you know how exciting 2012 will be. Several of last year’s releases—The No Hellos Diet by Sam Pink, Of Thimble and Threat: The Life of a Ripper Victim by Alan M. Clark, and
A Plague of Wolves and Women by Riley Michael Parker—appeared on prominent year’s best lists and this year, we’ll be publishing even more of today’s top authors. Here are a few of the Lazy Fascist titles you can look forward to in 2012:
Anatomy Courses by Blake Butler and Sean Kilpatrick
The Obese by Nick Antosca
Zombie Bake-Off by Stephen Graham Jones
The Devil in Kansas: Three Stories for the Screen
by David Ohle
Colony Collapse by J.A. Tyler
A Pretty Mouth by Molly Tanzer
No One Can Do Anything Worse to You Than You Can
by Sam Pink
I Am Going to Clone Myself Then Kill the Clone and Eat It by Sam Pink
The Collected Works of Scott McClanahan Vol. I
by Scott McClanahan
Dodgeball High by Bradley Sands
Broken Piano for President Page 28