Codename Prague

by D. Harlan Wilson

  The Total Rekall dust had no effekt on The Sans Merci.

  —Artichokes, mumbled Dr Teufelsdröchk. Why would that stump think I wanted artichokes? Artichokes are for plebes and antisophisticants. Artichokes are the scum of the vegetable world. Artichokes are assholes that have been yanked inside-out.

  —You said artichoke five times in a row.

  —People repeat things. People let you down, too. Nothing more.

  They sat on a T-Bar that lifted and ferried them across the skyscape of Araby to its neurorganic produce section. Dr Teufelsdröchk expounded on the benefits of neurorganic produce along the way. How it filled the gap between body and psyche. How it filtered the stream of consciousness. How it massaged the soft interstices of the brain…The Sans Merci ignored him. It stroked its mustache and stared at the commerce below. Hawkers in colorful cloaks whispered back and forth, up and down the aisles. Thin, brown, empty-handed women disappeared into red curtains and reappeared carrying buckets of wet celluloid. Piles of merchandise everywhere. And looming grandfather clocks. And long wooden platforms. And crackling torches. And, for added effekt, hundreds of drunken James Joyce androids whose mustaches, the monster surmised, were identical to its own…

  —I hate this place, said Dr Teufelsdröchk. Joyce was nothing but a spud-eater. But they have the best fruits and vegetables in Prague. In the entire European landfill, I’d argue.

  A shopper three T-Bars ahead slipped and fell. Two strongmen caught him in a bed sheet and cheerfully threw him in the air, twice, before letting him go.

  The Sans Merci said:

  —My buttocks ail me. Where are the gondolas?

  —They fetishize Lo-Tech here. As everywhere. It’s the nature of the postreal world.

  —Why?

  —Less glitz. More gusto.

  The T-Bar descended to the floor and they got off. Dr Teufelsdröchk smoothed the wrinkles from his corduroy slacks and had another epiphany.

  —I remember when I was in the fourth grade, he said dreamily. The haters fed me goulash. I gagged and smelled the breath of God. It was at this moment that I realized, for the first time, that I was not God.

  He twitched.

  —This way.

  As they wandered down the aisles, The Sans Merci had to fight the urge to goosestep. It wasn’t easy. His boots seemed to be alive, angry. Possessed. They leapt out in front of him like cats whose tails had been stepped on.

  Dr Teufelsdröchk commended the monster’s efforts and lectured it:

  —One can think and look like a Nazi, but one must not act like a Nazi. Not in public life. This is a Brave New World, remember. Better to traipse from here to there like a lovelorn poet, as if the floor beneath your feet is a bed of roses and you are a virgin chasing after the summer breeze. Consider the opening words of Keats’ “To Autumn”: “Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness!” Convert that sentence into your gait. Become one with Keats—but keep the Führer close at hand…

  The monster began to skip, clumsily at first, as if kneeless, then with a certain legerdemain. Then it tripped over its feet and collapsed.

  Nearby a James Joyce had been sniffing keelings. It hurried over and assisted the monster to its feet with a cane. Clad in beret, cravat and rubber fishing trousers, the Joyce said:

  —Are you all right? I like your uniform. Is that rayon? I like your shiny pegs, too. I have medals. I was a boy scout once. I almost made it to eagle scout. But I flew too close to the ceiling lights…Can I help you find something, sir?

  —I’m blind, croaked the monster, groping…

  The Joyce cocked its head. Blind? It removed a flask from its jacket and took a swig.

  —Blind, like, literally? Or metaphorically? Or both? It hiccupped. Oedipus manifested dual states of blindness. King Lear as well. Actually that’s not true. In each case, one state led to the other. Only after the patriarchs had gouged out their eyes could they adequately perceive history, social relations, the price of eggs, and so on. I can see that your eyes are in your head. Perhaps they don’t work? Perhaps things are precisely as they appear.

  The Joyce offered the monster a sip from the flask. It declined.

  —You look familiar, the Joyce continued. Have we met? Have you ever seen the film Time Cop? Despite that mustache, you’re the spitting image of JCVD. Jean-Claude Van Damme, I mean.

  —Thank you, interjected Dr Teufelsdröchk. Thank you, no. We don’t need any help. Thank you. Good day, etc.

  He led the monster away.

  —No need to thank me, sir. I didn’t do anything.

  The Joyce pocketed the flask and began to roll a cigarette.

  The doktor paused.

  —You know, you don’t sound anything like James Joyce. He looked over his shoulder. Joyce was Irish. You have an Amerikan accent.

  The Joyce made a frog face.

  —Doesn’t everybody have an Amerikan accent?

  Dr Teufelsdröchk’s eyes slurped back into his head. Epiphany:

  —There are plants in the world. They grow out of the sand. Their hands reach for the sky. Beyond the sky, there is blackness. Beyond blackness, there is nothingness. Beyond nothingness, there is the Television Screen of Eternity. That is what becomes of us when we die. To the Screen we shall return.

  —I understand, said The Sans Merci…and tackled the Joyce. They slid across the aisle and crashed into a stack of cantaloupes. The Joyce howled. The Sans Merci picked up a cantaloupe and slammed it into the android’s head once…twice…three four five times…The cantaloupe was ripe and didn’t break until the eleventh blow, but by then the Joyce’s head had been reduced to pulp. A puddle of bright green blood expanded across the floor…

  “Somebody put food coloring in that android’s blood. Is that legal?” Dr Teufelsdröchk’s first instinct was to stop the monster. But he came to his senses.

  The lighting in the aisle turned green and an electromagnasal alarm went off. A team of managers blustered one at a time out of a tall, thin doorway, followed the scent of the alarm across Araby, and confronted the insurgents. The managers looked alike: short, bald, round-shouldered and potbellied in cheap button-down shirts with Barrymore collars and tight brown polyester breeches with white socks. Their noses were iron cones. Their eyes were pulsing lenticular slashes.

  They surrounded The Sans Merci and Dr Teufelsdröchk in an orderly semicircle.

  —We are the managers, said the managers.

  —You will pay for that Joyce, said one manager.

  —You will pay for that cantaloupe, said another manager.

  —You will pay for the expense of a cleaning lady, said another manager.

  —You will pay for the expense of managerial time squandered on invective, said another manager.

  —The Law is the Law, said another manager. The rest of the managers nodded and said, None escape.

  Dr Teufelsdröchk had an epiphany.

  —We are the managers, repeated the managers.

  —Words build bridges into unexplored regions, said The Sans Merci. And I do not see why man should not be just as cruel as nature. But I see nonetheless.

  —Extraction!

  Eyes flashing, the semicircle of managers lumbered forward, zombified, groaning, to collectively secure payment. The Sans Merci, of course, didn’t own a bank account, let alone a dollar to its name. But the doktor’s entire savings account could be accessed via his retinas, which, like all human retinas, had been registered with and wired to the WBAS (World Bank of the Amerikanized Soul) at birth. Who could tell how much the managers would take? Dr Teufelsdröchk cowered behind The Sans Merci.

  …interrupted by a man with a goat head. Standing over seven feet tall, he wore sunglasses and a trench coat. He unbuttoned and opened the trench coat, exposing a liver-spotted torso infested with long, pink nipples and udders. The managers stiffened at the sight of the torso. And when the man said, Feeding time, they assailed him with vampiric fervor and desperation.

  He tipped over onto his back and
moaned as the managers sucked him dry…When they had finished, the man with the goat head stood, buttoned his trench coat, adjusted his sunglasses, snorted, combed his goatee, bowed, and walked away.

  —And no birds sing, whispered The Sans Merci.

  —Po-Tweet? said a manager, wiping secretions from his lips and chin. His colleagues screeched like pterodactyls.

  They moved in…

  Dr Teufelsdröchk told The Sans Merci to stop them.

  —One at a time or all together?

  —Either way. No matter what happens, I’m leaving this henhouse with a fistful of leeks. Remind me if I forget.

  Nodding, The Sans Merci waited for the managers to get closer…and regurgitated on one of them. The manager shrieked as he dissolved, timelapsing into a pile of molten ash. It regurgitated on another manager; instead of melting, he caught fire and choked to death. A third manager exploded into a whimpering tornado of dust when the vomit touched him. Unnerved, yet undeterred, the remaining managers sallied forth…The Sans Merci tapped a Morse code onto the fingers of its left hand with a thumb. The humming red laserblades of a swastika burst from its knuckles. It dissected the managers at the waist in one swipe. Shiny brass tacks spilled from their open groins. A set of legs lurched towards a bed of sweet potatoes…

  Dr Teufelsdröchk’s palmphone rang. He looked at the miniscreen. Truth. He touched the miniscreen.

  —Speak.

  —Herr Doktor, said Truth. I’ve been looking all over for you. Where are you?

  —Wherever I want to be.

  —There’s a problem. Beauty’s hoarding grapes. How am I supposed to make the chicken salad?

  —Why is it that you always call me? Why doesn’t Beauty ever call me?

  —He doesn’t like to talk on the phone.

  —Wizard of Wor! yelled a James Joyce, pointing at The Sans Merci. Several other Joyces crept onto the scene. So did a number of shoppers, vendors, and people in animal suits. Another electromagnasal alarm went off, summoning another team of managers. This time they brought pulsar swords…

  —Spill your guts, Truth, said the doktor. Things are about to get prickly.

  —Are you at the grocery store?

  —Like I said, I’m wherever I want to be.

  —Why are you at the grocery store? That’s our job. Are you dissatisfied with your assistants’ ability to procure victuals? Have we done something to offend you?

  Following a series of hollow taunts, a manager lunged at The Sans Merci with a flaming pulsar sword. The android stepped aside. Too heavy for the manager to navigate, the sword swung around and fell on his shoulder, cutting halfway down his torso. Smell of fried cheese. A train of intestines chased the brass tacks out of his body.

  …the green gore of a James Joyce sprayed Dr Teufelsdröchk. He wiped his eyes and palm clean and backtracked down the aisle.

  —You two Muschelesser couldn’t read a grocery list to save your lives! he shouted. You can’t use the toilet without coming to blows. And you are not to be trusted. In fact, when I get home, I will rewrite your contract under the name Untruth. And Beauty will be revised to boot. You will be what you are, not what I want you to be. Untruth and Ugly.

  Behind him, a rumbling, a bellowing, an erupting…

  —I really think you’re overreacting, Herr Doktor, said Untruth. Whatever happens, though, I assume we will continue to operate at the same pay grade?

  —The architecture of the human soul defies comprehension, the doktor epiphanized. And yet one can only conceive of this defiance through the medium of comprehension. I use the term medium here interchangeably with the term metaphor. In other words, I am the fireplace within the domicile of the human soul. My logs burn. My flames hiss. My flesh is a memory made of glass.

  —Be careful not to break it. Your mind will spill onto the earth.

  Dr Teufelsdröchk made a fist and hung up on Untruth. Bending over, he scrutinized an urn of onions, selected one, stood and turned around…Gazing up into the darkness, he saw a creature driven by blindness and insight. He took a bite from the onion and his eyes began to burn.

  12

  Statue of Libashout[2]

  Prague noticed it on his descent as the tranzbubble started to disintegrate: a giant bronze statue of Franz Kafka in a bowler hat, dickey and sweater vest standing in the Vltava River. Over its head the statue brandished a great chainsword that hummed like a thousand helicopters and made woodchips out of passengers whose flight attendants had flung them off course…

  [2]    “A simple existential observation that life is full of imperfections” (Urban Dictionary).

  13

  Two Mad Assistants & Two Assistant Monsters

  “We are only that which we are perceived to be,” said Untruth. “At any rate, I would just as soon manifest the entire spectrum of my selfhood before I abide exclusively as one polar extreme. Truth and Untruth in chorus—that’s me.”

  Beauty/Ugly raised the doppelgänger of his manicured eyebrow…

  Dr Teufelsdröchk’s laboratory smelled like burnt wigs and rotten catfish. Truth/Untruth flipped a switch. A loud stentorian voice said, “Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!” The pipes of an unseen organ commenced Andrew Lloyd Weber’s Phantom and the laboratory came to life like a carnival at dusk…

  Beneath the blue glow of an ichthyosaurus aquarium, it took them thirty minutes apiece to create surrogate monsters with their employer’s monster-making kit. Both accomplished the task on the first try. The monsters resembled their makers except for minor phrenological and skeletal variations (e.g. they had scoliosis and walked at funny angles). Truth/Untruth and Beauty/Ugly dressed them in conventional, Nazi-chic Sturmabteilung attire: über-starched light brown shirt, flared dark brown jockey pants, and shiny knee-high moonboots with visor caps, collar and sleeve emblems, party pins, merit badges, and other Deutschland Erwache regalia.

  “Achtung!” said Truth/Untruth.

  The monsters looked at each other, then at Beauty/Ugly. Beauty/Ugly shrugged.

  A sea cow swam into view and a school of ichthyosauri attacked it.

  …soft nebula of blood and bowels…

  14

  The Hotel Prague

  He didn’t miss the pillow, but he hit it awkwardly, briefcase-first. He rolled off, dodging at least six more new arrivals…

  Slingpad Prague Orange-45x was downright somber compared to Slingpad Amerika 7-2521. No music here. No spotlights or fanfare or stiltwalkers. And almost nobody spoke. Veritable silence but for the pft and “Oof!” of bodies hitting pillows and the zzzht and “Aah!” of tranzbubbles being flung into the sky.

  Surrounding the slingpad, a panoramic view of the city…Steel grays and pungent browns distinguished what looked like a giant, pried open set of shark’s jaws. Flames hissed out of countless smokestacks. Thick bolts of electricity danced between the prongs and spikes of antennae. Buried beneath the neoindustrial spectacle, the pulse of oceanic discotheques, circuses, casinos, bazaars…

  Prague walked to the edge of the slingpad and stepped off. He parachuted to the street.

  He hailed a Mach GoGoGo. “To the Hotel Prague on Prague Street,” he told the cartoon behind the wheel. The cartoon said, “Ja,” adjusted its white helmet, tightened its red scarf and squealed into traffic. The faster it drove, the louder the Speed Racer theme song played on the vehicle’s stereo.

  Prague paid the cartoon with a deck of autographed 2x4s, got out of the GoGoGo and entered the hotel. A bellhop wearing a T-shirt with the image of Prague in a boy scout uniform on it greeted him. Beneath the image were four words: Your Name Is Prague.

  The bellhop glanced down at the T-shirt, then at the Anvil-in-Chief. “My name’s Prague, too. Henrí Prague.” He reached for the briefcase. “May I?”

  Prague waved him away. “Where’d you get that shirt? That shit isn’t funny.”

  The bellhop blinked. “Funny? I don’t understand. Humor has been outlawe
d in the Former Czech Republik. At any rate the shirt was a gift from Commodore Rabelais.”

  Frowning, the Anvil-in-Chief looked the bellhop up and down. The bellhop said, “I’ve already taken the liberty of checking you in under the name Codename Vincent Prague a.k.a. Vincent ‘Codename’ Prague. Per Commodore Rabelais’ request, of course. We have booked you in the Galactic Pot-Healer Suite. Here is your key. Follow me, sir.” They weaved through the golden slot machines and green blackjack tables of the lobby to an elevator that shot them to the 800th floor like a pinball. They emerged into an expansive room full of Leave It to Beaver and Last of the Mohicans and Canned Ham slot machines that turned users into brain-eating zombies after just a few hours of play. Henrí Prague gored and killed at least eight users with an ionized cattle prod as he led Vincent Prague across the room to a long hallway. At the end of the hallway loomed the tall mahogany doors of the Galactic Pot-Healer Suite.

  Prague hesitated.

  “Anything wrong, sir?” said the bellhop.

  “I don’t trust doors that don’t iris open. Let alone doors made of wood.”

  “It is my understanding that you are a lover and aficionado of All Things Vintage.”

  “That’s beside the point. Totally.”

  “The elevator doors didn’t iris open. You didn’t seem disturbed by them.”

  “An elevator is a box in motion. A hotel room is a box in limbo. Two different animals altogether.”

  The bellhop nodded.

  Shaking his head, Prague tapped an electronic eye and the doors clicked open.

  Inside the Galactic Pot-Healer Suite were the usual suspects: lamps, chaises, a bed, paintings of albatrosses, a hookah, useless accent furniture, a bronze statue of a dancing Kafkaesque beetle, dubious shadows…Something about the room unnerved Prague. It looked…sordid. Used. And yet luxurious, as if the room’s furnishers had attempted to represent a metaphorically unclean aesthetic with state-of-the-art tools and fixtures. But what, specifically, was unclean? Prague couldn’t figure it out.