At Gr. Auchboom’s command, executioner androids sprung out of trap doors. Naked except for loose-fitting black felt masks with eye holes cut into them, they marched over to Mr. Whackbottom in fasttime and strung him up in his noose. One of the androids commenced hurling obscenities at him. Two others grabbed his forearms and squeezed and twisted them until they bled. The last one ripped off his shirt and gutted the congressman-thing with a discombobulator rod. The snakes and eels of his innards splashed onto the obsidian floor of the theater before he knew they had exited his body.
The Fourth Movement of Grieg’s symphony reached its climax as Mr. Whackbottom screamed and struggled and kicked and screamed harder and louder…
He slumped over dead.
Trap doors engulfed the executioners where they stood. Two more trap doors spit out two more androids wearing florescent orange jumpsuits and carrying an array of janitorial equipment. They cleaned up the mess, disposed of Mr. Whackbottom’s body, and likewise disappeared.
“Fine, fine,” muttered Gr. Auchboom. “Note to self. Put an ad in the local tabloids for a new congressman-thing. Ad shall read: CONGRESSMAN-THING WANTED. NO EXPERIENCE NEEDED. COMPETITIVE SALARY. DOUBLE-CHIN REQUIRED, TRIPLE CHIN PREFERABLE. COMMUNICATION SKILLS PREFERABLE, BUT NOT REQUIRED. NO JOKE-TELLERS.” The ’gänger dealt an admonitory glare to certain members of the audience. “15-25 HOURS PER WEEK. RESPONSIBILITES INCLUDE A TOLERABLE SENSE OF FASHION AND BEING ON TIME FOR CONGRESSIONAL MEETINGS. APPLICANTS SHOULD SUBMIT A WORD OF INTEREST NO LATER THAN IMMEDIATELY. End ad.” It took a deep, pensive breath. “All right then. Where was I? Ah yes. My feelings. You see, I am a delicate and sensitive flower…”
Gr. Auchboom explained just what kind of delicate and sensitive flower for twenty minutes before moving on to the next item, a concern for the lack of decent kitchenware on sale in Bliptown’s ADWs. The android opened the floor for a formal discussion. There were a number of responses and calls to order. It was decided that three new brand names would be introduced into the market. Next were discussions on issues that included the poor selection of other household commodities, questionable trends in various subcommunal fashion statements, the overt introduction of two new professional sports (Tickleball and Beebopalulaball) into the city’s socioeconomic curriculum by next year, and the covert introduction of two new belief systems (Sindieswitchism and Dentistology) into the city’s religioeconomic curriculum by next month.
Then came the laws.
“I don’t like Section 1,233 of Statute 46 of Law 20,035,” blurted Congressman-thing Superspecificity when Gr. Auchboom opened up the floor. “I can’t explain why, exactly. Lately I’ve just had a bad feeling about it. I had a dream about it the other night. I can’t remember what happened in the dream, but it wasn’t good. I move that we strike Section 1,233 of Statute 46 of Law 20,035 from the map.”
Congressman-thing Midevolution’s ’gänger perked up and its long feet began to wag. “I agree,” it squawked. “I further Congressman-thing Superspecificity’s proposal by suggesting that we pretend said section never existed in the first place.”
Gr. Auchboom waited patiently for other interested congressman-things to chime in. Nobody did. It called for a vote. “Those in favor of Congressman-thing Superspecificity’s proposal, say, ‘Bring It On.’”
“Bring it on,” droned a handful of congressmen-things.
“Those opposed, say, ‘Horseshit.’”
“Horseshit,” droned an equal number of congressmen-things in the same tone. The silent majority either didn’t care, didn’t like Congressmen-things Superspecificity and Midevolution, or were daydreaming.
“It’s a tie!” Gr. Auchboom said excitedly. But why was it excited? It didn’t even know what Section 1,233 of Statute 46 of Law 20,035 stipulated. And it disliked ties. Ties temporarily clogged the flow of congressional progress. If anything, the android should have been downtrodden. Perhaps there was a glitch in its negatronic brain, one that was beginning to pathologize its system-response mechanism. Perhaps it would soon be responding to everything put to it in precisely the opposite way in which everything put to it was supposed to be responded to. Perhaps it was already irrevocably schized. The thought worried Gr. Auchboom. For a moment, it experienced a profound sense of dread. But it quickly found its wits and, in a controlled voice, said, “Pardon me. The proposal shall therefore be deferred to a later, as-of-yet indeterminable date when Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive is both present and sees fit to address it. Moving on, if you please.”
For the next two hours, numerous laws and would-be laws were discussed in a similar fashion. Most of the discussions ended in ties with indefinitely deferred outcomes. Occasionally a vote resulted in a clear majority, at least in Gr. Auchboom’s eyes, and a law was liquidated, revised, or conjured into existence.
The last thing under discussion concerned the holocausts being committed in Bliptown by the city’s foremost mass murderers.
Gr. Auchboom hesitated to bring the matter up. The ’gänger cleared its throat uncomfortably. It fidgeted with its tie. “Lastly, I have been asked by Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive, I repeat, by Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive, to ask this committee its opinion on a rather controversial subject. Before I mention what this rather controversial subject is, I want to assure you all that I am under orders here. I have no desire to discuss it. I would prefer to not even think about it. I would prefer, in fact, to be alone right now, minding my own business and perhaps eating thinly cut slices of a ripe pear. I just want to make this perfectly clear before I proceed any further. Have I made this perfectly clear?”
A general rustle spread throughout congress.
Gr. Auchboom giggled nervously. “That’s fine then. The subject I refer to is the recent string of holocausts that have been taking place within the perimeters of Bliptown’s cityscape this morning. Specifically, the subject I refer to is that of a wayward plaquedemic and his psychotic ’gänger. As you know…”
It wasn’t able to continue. The congressmen-things glanced at one another in horror and began to shout uncontrollably. Gr. Auchboom resisted the urge to break down and cry. It tried to appeal to its colleagues’ good senses, but its voice was lost in the commotion, even when it maxed out its surroundsound volume control. The android quickly realized it would have to wait for congress to tire out. Standing tall and silent with chins upraised, it chewed on the inside of its cheeks and waited…
A minute and a half later, the Theater of the Perturbed was a spectacle of panting and wheezing as the congressmen-things, dangling there like winded cows, fought to catch their breaths. Those who had the means slipped their nooses onto a spare chin. A few almost cut themselves free of their nooses, but they refrained: to do so during a congressional session was heresy punishable by “soul removal,” which entailed having one’s heart skillfully ripped out by a Shaolin monk.
“Now that I have your attention again,” Gr. Auchboom said, “I hope we can discuss this issue like gentlemen.”
“Gentlemen?” carped Congressman-thing Yodelayheehoo, as if he had never heard the term before. “Isn’t it illegal to even speak of such an issue? That’s the Pigs’ business! That’s the Papanazis’ business! That’s the vigilantes’ and the bounty hunters’ business! That’s everybody’s business but ours!”
Gr. Auchboom’s face puckered in consternation. “Grow up, Congressman-thing Yodelayheehoo.”
“You grow up!” the man bleated, pointing his finger at the simulacrum-in-charge.
Other congressmen-things and ’gängers interjected. “I’m afraid to talk about the Dystopian Duo!” one of them exclaimed.
“Me too!” exclaimed another. “Punishment may result!”
Another exclaimed, “I don’t like to be punished!”
Another exclaimed, “Punishment h
urts me!”
Another exclaimed, “There’s no place like home! There’s no place like home!”
Another exclaimed, “This is illegal!”
Gr. Auchboom exclaimed, “It’s not illegal if Expletive says it’s not illegal!”
That quieted everybody down. Such an eminent congressman-thing’s name wasn’t often uttered without all of his titles, not to mention his first name. Gr. Auchboom motioned at the theater door. “If you gentlemen don’t settle down, I’ll be forced to seek out my superior. Is that what you want? He’s busy right now, very busy indeed, but I’ll interrupt him if I have to. I’ll do it! Do you want me to do it?”
A man muttered. A ’gänger shook its head. A man and a ’gänger hung their heads and kicked out at the air like pouting little boys…
Gr. Auchboom nodded affirmatively, feeling extremely confident and powerful at the moment. It wondered how long the feeling would last. “Good! Now then. I want to reassure you that it pains me to address this subject as much as it pains you. But these two aberrations murdered a movie star in cold blood. I’ve only been asked to address the matter because of this sad fact. We can’t just have private citizens running around killing movie stars. The social fabric would come undone. Killing plaquedemics, civilians, girl scouts, even Pigs is one thing. But a movie star? That’s crossing the line, I’m afraid. Even though ’gängers do most of the acting for movie stars these days, their work is only validated by the public’s knowledge of the existence of their original human figurations. In the absence of these figurations, ’gängers cease to have worth. That goes for ’gängers of all socioeconomic classes. There is no ’gänger more important than that which surrogates a celebrity. Thus Voss Winkenweirder’s Victor Bleep, if it even recovers from the short circuit it experienced upon hearing of its original’s death, will quickly be out of a job. Imagine what the Disunited Cities of Amerika would become if this kind of hoo-hah happened twice in one week! Things are bad enough right now. That’s why an increasing number of celebrities are disappearing underground until the plaquedemic forest fire is put out. This is a trend that will no doubt continue. If these holocausts don’t come to an end, two days from now the surface of the world could be entirely devoid of celebrities. That includes #1 Papanazi Hit Listers down to the most insignificant talk show hosts. The infrastructure of society is not in a position to support such a lack. Without celebrities, I suspect people’s heads will begin to spontaneously combust on a mass scale. You know it’s true, gentlemen. You understand the gravity of this situation, gentlemen. Now I ask you: what is Bliptown’s Theater of the Perturbed prepared to do?”
A restless pause. Then:
“I don’t feel good!” exclaimed a congressman-thing.
“Me either!” exclaimed a congressman-thing’s ’gänger.
“I don’t want to be a congressman-thing anymore!” exclaimed another congressman-thing.
And so on. As before, Gr. Auchboom waited for congress to tire out, threatened to tell Congressman-thing Expletive what was going on, and tried to reengage congress in a productive discussion. This happened four more times. Finally it was decided that the fate of Dr. ——— and Dr. Identity should be left up to everybody in the world save Bliptown’s governing powers, but congress would make the following official statement to be printed in the Papanazi’s foremost publications: “We the things of congress really, really encourage all Bliptownians to rise against and destroy the plaquedemic scourge that has beset our fine metropolis.”
Gr. Auchboom struck a fist against its palm. “I hereby declare this session of the Theater of the Perturbed dismissed,” it proclaimed. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Don’t forget about the party at His Tragedy’s estate this weekend. Mistresses only please. BYOB.”
Grieg’s symphony faded out as the members and surrogates of congress slipped out of their nooses and, massaging their necks and chins, filed out of the theater in an orderly line.
10
SMAUG TURBO GT – 1ST PERSON (IDENTITY)
The Gumbo was inspired by the soup and morphed at my command. Sometimes it morphed of its own volition. One moment I looked like a movie star. The next I was a featureless nobody. Occasionally it actually took on the quality of gumbo soup. If I stuck out my tongue I could taste my head.
The Captain Crunch rendered my head something like a bear trap. It operated as a weapon as much as a fashion statement.
The Burroughs 5000 was a living ass that shat uncontrollably and uttered off-the-cuff hipster maxims in equal amounts. It also operated as a piece of weaponized fashion.
I had more conservative tastes and preferred the visages of historical figures. I tried on masks of Winston Churchill and Billy the Kid and Moses and Philip K. Dick and Siddhartra and Rapunzel and Malcolm X and Barry Manilow…I settled on Napoleon. I had no choice. They picked up the scent of our DNA…
The Law and their mythological hound dogs. The Papanazi. Fleets of vigilantes and bounty hunters…Dr. ——— said it looked as if we were towing a galactic cirque du soleil across town. He described the scene like a passage in a novel: “A glance in the rearview mirror showed the plaquedemics’ carny skycraft and acrobats of all shapes, sizes and Technicolor costumes. It was a swarm of mad hatters, demonic trapeze artists, evil Elvis impersonators and unspeakable clowns. All of the alaristrians were technologized to the hilt. They jetpacked, rocketed, propellered and surfblazed after them alongside smartly insectlike turbogoblins, fangliders, Jackrippers, cloud cars, hangtanks, speedracers, Heinliners, hot air balloons and spitfire windmills, among other vessels. They shadowed the Dystopian Duo through a labyrinth of airways into the neoindustrial bowels of Bliptown with a balletic grace. There was no shaking the rabble off.”
“Not bad,” I said.
Dr. ——— clicked his tongue. “The end.”
…I had just finished hotwiring a Smaug Turbo GT when the first group of Papanazis spotted us. The vehicle was an older but not outdated model of Acme’s line of compact dragons. It was a two-seater with a small trunk and a barbed tail. Its long mouth contained spidersteel fangs and an oily tongue. Unfortunately it had been childproofed. Its fangs were corked. Its claws were manicured. And rather than fire it breathed Spaghetti-Os.
The engine of the Smaug was in its lungs. Its wiring was in its rectum. I stuck my fists into its anus and brought the beast to life…
The Papanazi opened fire on us.
The cockpit of the Smaug was in its plexiglass stomach. The flowfoam seats faced down but their backs were magnetically attracted to the spinal fluid of both humans and androids. We would have full movement of our limbs. But our backs would be fused to the machine.
I opened the cockpit. Dr. ——— and I huddled together and bent over. I commanded the Smaug to wake up and straddle us. The vehicle growled to sentience. It flapped its wings. It cracked its neck. Its iron knees crinkled and creaked as it stood up and positioned its open belly over us crooks.
Sparks ran down my lower vertebrae as we flew up into place.
“Ouch!” Dr. ——— shouted. He started to wheeze. “That stung. I think my back is broken.”
I clamped my feet into place. “You’re fine. Lock yourself in.” I surveyed and fiddled with the controls. I tested the central joystick. I closed the hatch and told the Smaug to go. Papanazis circled us in a vicious frenzy.
The vehicle’s barbed tail accidentally beheaded a Papanazi during liftoff. Achtung Whoever-It-Was had been wearing a propeller beanie. The head twirled up and away and disappeared into a cloud of towerfog. The Papanazi’s gesticulating body fell to the street.
I probably should have put the Smaug on autopilot. It could go faster and was more flexible and dynamic on its own. But I wanted to be in charge.
There was a retractable plug on the console. I shoved it into the cortical shunt behind my ear.
The Smaug’s eyes and body and sensorium flooded into mine.
Two Papanazi landed on the underside of my neck during our ascent into the traff
icways. They wore Stickem suits and crawled towards the cockpit to get clean footage.
I wriggled the skin of my neck until they fell off. I nailed them with a mouthful of Spaghetti-Os. A thousand cans of Chef Boyardee struck and stuck to their bodies and they pinwheeled away…
“My back hurts,” Dr. ——— whined. “I’m getting hungry again. Food!”
“You’re such a little girl. Be a man for once.” I could communicate freely with my core body despite being jacked into the dragon.
“Be a man? Are you kidding me?”
“If I was kidding you I’d tell you so.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“That’s true. At any rate, you don’t have to be a man to be a man, ’Blah. You simply can’t be afraid to serve the world a big silver platter of FUCK YOU now and then.”
“FUCK YOU? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means. It means reality. It means truth. It means humanity.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What are you, a student-thing?”
“No. I’m Dr. Identity.”
“What a stupid thing to say. What a lousy, stupid thing to say.”
“You programmed me. You programmed me from A to Z. Hence it is retroactively you who says lousy, stupid things.”
Dr. ———’s lips became a sphincter. “Don’t call me ’Blah, goddamn it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not kidding. I’m hungry.”
“Check your pockets. You have enough food in your pockets to feed yourself until you die of old age. I don’t understand it. You raided countless refrigerators at Littleoldladyville. Have you lost your short-term memory? Tell me what happened ten seconds ago. Do it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“My pleasure. Do whatever you want.”
He reached into a de la Footwa and pulled out a small bottle of milk and a box of Galaxian cereal. He opened the box. Little spaceships flew out in slowtime. He guppied them down. He took a swig of milk. “Ah,” he said. He looked out of a porthole in the Smaug’s underarm and blinked absently at the head-on collision of a cloud car and a flock of goosebikes. Screaming heads and flailing limbs squirted from the flames of the subsequent explosion.
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