Monster Vice

by George P. Saunders

  I shall make the call in five minutes.

  First, I reach for some Kleenex and my trusty jar of Vaseline, then head for my Agapemone, or Abode of Love, or bedroom, if you’d prefer. It’s time to Clean Out The Old Fun Pipes, just in case tonight gets hairy and unpredictable.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The good doctor was indeed “in”, to wit, she had no problems in seeing me as soon as possible. Within half an hour, I was sitting in her office, a recessed cubicle that stood apart from the outer wings of the hustle and bustle of the Situation Room. The world was still spinning, and by polishing off the rest of the Jack, I was now completely and comfortably tanked.

  Dr. Simonhoffer is a woman of around forty-five, not unattractive, on the Boner Meter of 1 to 10, an easy 6. For close to a minute, we say nothing, though she does put her elbows on the desk and brings her hands together in a steeple-like configuration, or pyramidal form, which suggests, in conjunct with her penetrating gaze, a concentrated focus of interest on moi and only moi.

  My mind is already wandering to future events of this evening. Though uneasy about confronting the unknown variable presently referred to as a Grand Master, I somehow feel more at ease in the fact that both Curadal and Sam will be at my side. Their “special training” as they referred to it had impressed me greatly. I hope it will hold us all in good stead tonight.

  “Inspector Pitts,” my counselor says at last. “I want you to know that this is a safe haven for you, here in this office. Everything that is said within this space is sacrosanct, or as they say, in camera, and subject to counselor-client privilege and confidentiality.”

  “I appreciate that, doctor,” I reply magnanimously, hoping that I am not slurring my words too noticeably.

  “We are here to assist you in a kind of emotional, mental and spiritual rehabilitation in the wake of your recent multiple tragedies. We shall attempt to, in a completely nonjudgmental and non-prejudicial approach, construct a series of restorative and cohesive frameworks by which we can journey freely within a matrix of healing paradigms. Are you with me so far?”

  I nod in what I think is a fairly game piece of sincerity, though I don’t have a fucking clue as to what she is talking about.

  My counselor proceeds to then tell me that by accessing deep, vulnerable, child-like, or puerile, emotions, brutalized by my putative Field of Expertise, [as she calls it] or my ‘profession’ or ‘vocation,’ or ‘what I do for a living’ [and] by life in general, that is to say, resultant from the slings and arrows of outrageous and egregious unfairness subject to the human condition, or perhaps to be more sur la tete, or, ‘on the head,’ she revises, to my particular human condition, given what I do to bring home the bacon or ‘pay the bills’, e.g. terminate supernatural xenomorphs (as she characterizes the monsters sweeping over the land) - that by utilizing proven and documented modalities of therapeutic panaceas, i.e., tried and true methodologies of reconstituting brutalized, traumatized or otherwise bludgeoned psyches, that in this way or manner, or even more accurately, through this form of aggressive, yet inherently compassionate therapy, by which we (she and I) will be peeling away the layers of pain and hurt from my wounded Inner Child, that through these superstructures of scientific application and Good Feelings Positive Outlook Indoctrination (GFPOI), I might once again be able to function in a world I most certainly feel, of late, has dealt me a bitter and crippling blow.

  She may very well have translated the basics of Schrodinger’s essays on the analysis of plant phylogeny or [auf Deutsch – gartenbau], inasmuch as I still didn’t understand a single fucking word she had just said. Dr. Simonhoffer, in case you haven’t noticed, has a penchant for run-on sentence psycho babble. Even so, I nod diplomatically and say:

  “Uh, huh.”

  She then proceeds to ask me, with eyes that seem to me filled more with avidity than true interest, what exactly comprises my quotidian, or daily routine, within Monster Vice and how I feel about my profession, my chosen métier, or forte, or my raison d’etre here within the magical walls of Monster Vice, and to think “out of the box” for a moment, how I feel in general when I am in the act of suppressing the xenomorph epidemic currently ravaging the cosmopolitan landscape of Los Angeles and contiguous surroundings under MV jurisdiction.

  I digest the full extent of her run-on question and then make the decision to dive right in with likewise run-on enthusiasm, and spill everything, [to let forth] to tumble the beans of my discontent (to mix a metaphor), to unleash the origins of my angst, or fury at the horror of it all -- that ‘all’ being, specifically, the rampaging, verminous infestation of Things That Feed On Blood and Rise From The Dead To Torment Mankind.

  I decide to speak her language, focusing on her eyes and glasses as a kind of mnemonic guideline for her particular form of dialectic.

  Thus, I commence by describing my days in homicide not so long ago, my passion for rectifying the wrongdoing of the recidivist elements on the streets, or to be more specific, putting down or laying waste to the multitudinous acts of violence which were surfeit and all prevailing - and in effect thereto, those who would perpetrate such violence - and in so effectively expunging, eradicating, or in the common street vernacular, ‘taking out’ or ‘lighting up’ those individuals prone to heinous, unnatural, inhuman, psychotic and evil wrongdoing, deriving a kind of personal and self-empowering joy, or ecstasy, or even spiritual transcendentalism that is particular only to those who recognize themselves to be Genuine Heroes for everything right, and true, and good, and that by halting, or arresting possible chances for criminality in the making, or by whacking, or in the colloquial, by Kicking Ass, I was able to achieve a kind of internal completeness that was wholly virtuous, in compliance with the nobles oblige, tr. “to do what is right for the sake of right alone, i.e., a Noble’s Obligation”, principles of selflessness and Templar-Knight like self-sacrifice consistent with the manifest destiny of Judeo-Christian love, Doing What A Man Has to Do For The Sake of King and Country, and the American Way, so help me God, and that above and beyond all this [to drive the point fully home] I was just really, really happy whenever I could deliver another lap-dog for Satan back to the Stygian, Cerberus-guarded infernal regions of everlasting damnation.

  My counselor smiles. She seems pleased, and asks me to continue.

  I feel I am now on a roll. Thus, I plow forward.

  I am then compelled to graduate from the real to the surreal (which for me was epiphanic in the extreme) by which I mean to say, to segue from the world of ‘What Was’ or ‘Pre Monster Madness’ or ‘Back Then’ to the new, wacky, fun-filled world of ‘Now’, or if you’d like, ‘Today’, as in ‘The Present Where Unholiness Rules,’ and that by defining this new environment of horror, of the impossible – of an Earth being overrun by monsters of every description – one must necessarily define the transition from the kind of police-work I used to perform to the kind of constabulary duties expected of me presently, and which must be executed in a very different, and even alien venue, by way of a profound shift in my manner of rationally assimilating the gestalt of this New Kind Of War, the sums of which, when combined in toto, defy any kind of previous conceptual framework of reality, or further (and not to Beat A Dead Horse) how necessary it was for me to be cognizant of, or vigilant to, the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the synergy of unspeakable horror of this Next Level Field of Play, or In Theater Warfare, and that moreover, to dismiss my preconceived or pre-established epistemological belief systems, and that to Get Off The Pot and Accept The Shit For What It Was – all this, concurrent with the requirement that I cross-utilize novel and Trial by Fire tactical mechanisms, coupled with, and as an adjunct to, a whole new subset of skills and expectations and weaponry not previously utilized (nor needed) in the Good Old Days of rape, murder and plunder by your basic cold-blooded, psychotic, albeit human, criminal shiteater with an attitude.

  I am then asked by Dr. Simonhoffer (and this is a standard question, she assures me, which she has
asked many vetted officers of MP, so not to worry) if I have yet to experience any guilt in killing, or to take it one step further, Destroying Completely, any of the monsters I have encountered thus far, and that if I have, this is expected, and totally understandable, and in no way should precipitate within myself the need for self-recrimination, self-flagellation, or self-excoriation, that this is a perfectly natural reaction to inflicting damage, (or as I would like to put it, Completely Ass-Fucking The Monsters With Everything I’ve Got), [but], that to hold myself up to any kind of pejorative mental or emotional self-mutilation or harsh self-scrutiny, while wholeheartedly within the acceptable framework of therapeutic comprehension, is unnecessary (for me), and from this point on, Against The Rules.

  “Do you understand?” she asks me in a voice I would usually think is reserved for three year old infant paraplegics.

  I nod that I do – a member of that most fictile group of policeman who simply wants to please and get this over with as quickly as possible. I note that as the sun is descending over the horizon, Dr. Simonhoffer’s face takes on a kind of marzipan quality, or plastique in appearance, a sort of deliquescent pallor which tells me that, as the light shifts, this is a lady who wears far too much make up, who looks like she just might melt any second if water was thrown on her, and who is perhaps more than forty-five, and whose overall facial contours now appear somewhat anile and withered. Perhaps, I consider in a rambling sort of way, Dr. Simonhoffer has been doing this ‘kind of work’ far too long (not unlike certain police officers in Monster Vice, yours truly included).

  She smiles at me, almost flirtatiously, as if she was still possessed of the gynecic charms of a young girl, unaware of the ‘absence of bloom’ in her cheeks, or more specifically, oblivious to the fact that when she smiles, she resembles something that could be most aptly compared to a kind of subsurface predator, or vole, or grub, (maybe more like a leech or a Lyme-tick) a thing that fed on autopilot, with a mouth locked in a sardonic, unmovable half-grin of famishment.

  “Now,” she continues, leaning back in her chair, “we have finished with the preliminaries. You have told me what your past life was like with the police department, pre Popov Phenomenon, and what your current duties entail, and in fact, how you feel anent about your day to day functions as a Monster Killer. All this is vital information, and I’m appreciative of your candor. We must now go further.”

  “I’m game,” I say, and take a grand breath of preparation.

  My counselor then proceeds to ask me if I would have any objections to closing my eyes, and concentrating on an image of a calm lake with a very large elephant standing near the shore, with a small poodle simultaneously yapping (as small objectionable dogs tend to do) and nipping at the pachyderm’s trunk. I consider the exercise odd, to say the least, but keeping an open mind and feeling that perhaps to close my eyes for a few moments, perhaps to doze through the Jack presently coursing through my bloodstream, was not a bad idea at all.

  And so, with visions of water and elephants and rat-like doggies in my minds-eye, I shut down and enter the world of darkness.

  My counselor continues to speak. She now asks me to concentrate on [or materialize by force of will] both my brother and Hanson, on either side of the elephant, waving at me and smiling. This produces within me a twinge of instantaneous sadness. Still, for the sake of therapeutic advancement, I do as instructed, creating the images of both Bill and Hanson on either side of the Big Boy Pachyderm. Dr. Simonhoffer now asks me (though she does not request an answer) exactly how I feel about sex, and how I satisfy this basic human need (remembering, again, that no retort to her interrogatory is required). She simply wants me to cogitate, or ruminate, perhaps even meditate on the requested mental imagery. She continues to speak, as I continue to mull over sex, elephants, dead comrades and irritating poodles. I am in the preliminary stages of feeling this is exceptionally weird and stupid, but continue to concentrate nevertheless. She then suggests, or ‘puts it to me’ that the elephant’s trunk is not really a trunk but in actuality, my father’s penis. My eyebrows raise at this, and this reaction must be noticeable to her, because she follows up hard upon by saying that while these subliminal images are being manifested by me (through her coaching), I am ostensibly reaching out for, or touching base with, or excising from, the deepest pain within the wellspring of my Inner Child, which if handled with care, or lovingly, avec quelque chose gentile, or kindly, there will be noticeable and provocative core emotions released into the ether, or intangible plasma, of psychological reconstitution.

  Indeed, the elephant’s trunk, a long, swinging crenellated mass of flesh begins to take on the familiar parabolic shape of a penis head, gradually completing transformation to a Full Blown Cock.

  I try not to laugh, and choke on some spit that went down the wrong way, though camouflage this admirably, as if perhaps I was merely clearing my throat … or appearing choked up [emotionally, of course] - (the latter, I thought, would fairly fill my counselor with Inner Joy).

  My counselor then asks me if I ever loved my father. I reply that my father and I always had a very amicable relationship, even when I decided to abandon my career in womens clothing. Dr. Simonhoffer then asks if he was supportive of my decision to become a police officer. I reply that he was very supportive, inasmuch as the decision to become a police officer was predicated upon an incident that happened one night at my father’s dress warehouse in Santa Monica, wherein three men entered the structure and threatened my father at gunpoint, demanding money, and that, quite beyond the three assailants’ awareness, I was hiding nearby with my father’s .38 Police Special (which my father always kept in a cabinet for possible occurrences such as the one he was presently experiencing), and that when pushed came to shove, I decided it was probably best to simply shoot the three attackers with the gun at my father’s head, and then address the consequences of my actions at a point further down the line. Inasmuch as I successfully killed all three of the intruding fuck-sticks, with my father suffering not a scratch throughout the entire, very brief fray, he was henceforth delighted that I had found something ‘I was truly gifted at’ as he put it. Mind you, I have never enjoyed killing, but sometimes one doesn’t have a choice, if you know what I mean (I tell my counselor) and I think you do [I conclude with a certain amount of emphasis].

  There is a moment of silence (thought I sense, as promised by Dr. Simonhoffer, it is a silence bereft of judgment or prejudice).

  “Well,” she says in a tone of voice which suggests that ‘this explains so much’ or ‘ah, perhaps we are on the brink of some great discovery.’

  She then returns to the subject of sex. The Q and A goes something like this:

  Q. Are you currently involved in a relationship?

  A. Not really.

  (I have not yet decided to speak candidly about my priapic romps with Mirabelle, despite assurances of in camera confidentiality).

  Q. How long has it been since your last significant relationship?

  A. About six months.

  Q. Do you have any other outlet, or release, vis a vis sexual tension?

  A. I don’t think I understand –

  Q. Do you masturbate?

  (I do not immediately answer. Then:

  A. Does this have something to do with my Inner Child?

  Q. Answer the question, Inspector.

  A. Uh, okay. Yes. I … sometimes.

  Q. How often?

  A. Now and then.

  Q. Define now and then.

  A. Once a day.

  Q. Do you enjoy watching pornography?

  (I am again momentarily lost in the moment of self-exploration and promised discovery, wondering how this is going to ameliorate my grief and soul-weary sadness for lost friends and family).

  Q. Please, Dick. Do you enjoy smut?

  A. On occasion.

  Q. Have you been in touch with your latent homosexuality for a long time, or has this been a recent fait accompli?)

  By my
stunned silence, my counselor proceeds to adduce, that is to say pace my resistance to reply, that I have, through hatred of my father, and coupled with my own seemingly insatiable impulses to ‘kill,’ or ‘snuff out life,’ or ‘murder,’ notwithstanding mitigating circumstances in my favor, that by my obsession with self-abuse, or as the saying goes ‘masturbating,’ or Flogging Freddy, or Jacking Off, and my very clear (by all accounts from colleagues and Captain Zelig) closeness with my dead partner Hanson, that these factors, reviewed in the collective, could only point toward the obvious nature of my full-blown, Out Of [or In] The Closet, Dick-Hungry gayness (perhaps not her words, exactly, but mine, translated thus).

  While I contemplate my incipient homosexuality, momentarily baffled as to why I crave pussy yet feel nothing for wanting to ‘suck shank’ in vulgarus, or experience anal-bailiwick, or [in the Latin] – and for the sake of etymology - penetrare, passim (in the ass-buggering sense) -- and perhaps I could, or my counselor certainly would, attribute this to a lack of imagination or in-touch intimacy with my Inner Child Wants -- I concurrently wonder how long this incredibly vapid session of Need To Feel Honestly will continue. The Jack is wearing off, and I am beginning to feel impatient, nay, even intolerant. I glance at my watch, and see that it is close to seven o’clock in the evening. This, I feel, has gone on long enough, yet I do not want to appear rude, and I certainly don’t want Dr. Simonhoffer to convey to Captain Zelig that I am resistant to much-needed, (as fate would have it), counseling and on-going therapeutic rehabilitation.

  “I think it would be a good idea to focus on your incessant need for pleasuring yourself,” Dr. Simonhoffer says in a soft, melodic voice, not even trying to be remotely subtle, but going for the throat, in a kind of Occam Razorblade simplicity that leaves me no wriggle room whatsoever.