Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms

by Jason Wuchenich

  “I don’t know. You take that one to a radio station and I’ll take Nietzsche to Channel 36. Why am I the one that has to be on television anyway?”

  “What, you embarrassed to read to Skanks? Shouldn’t you be too ‘grim’ to care?” Raster said as he grimaced and flashed the devil horns. “I think your um, socially questionable appearance will kind of add the exclamation point to all those conformed Skanks out there.”

  “You may have a point there,” Tuggy said, “but I’m gonna need more vodka. And I’m hungry. I want some Skanks Clusters.”

  “Are you fucking with me?” Raster puffed up his chest and stepped closer to Tuggy. “You have to be fucking with me.”

  “Relax, Raster. Yes, I’m fucking with you, kind of. They sound so good though. But I am hungry, lets stop and grab some pickles or something.”

  “Tug, we have work to do! Here, go to the liquor store and get some more vodka because I know you’ll be a shaky mess if you’re not wasted on TV. Hurry right back though. I’m gonna practice so I don’t sound like a goon on the radio. “What radio station? It better not be KWAD – stupid hip-hop.”

  “Damn, bro! It doesn’t matter, they’re all on the same frequency now anyhow, remember? I’m going to the closest one, which I do think is KWAD. Just make with the vodka.”

  “Fine.” Tuggy clutched Nietzsche’s On the Genealogy of Morals and headed to Yudbedda’s Liquor, half a block from the bookstore.

  He sluggishly ambled down the street, fairly drunk already, feeling mildly content in the carnage. Across the street, Tuggy noticed two naked people. One appeared to be dead. The other cradled herself in her arms and rocked back and forth. She looked up at him and knelt on the gritty sidewalk. Tuggy crossed the street, slightly intrigued, and outstretched his almost-empty bottle of vodka.

  “Sucks about your guy. Here.” He surprised himself with his half-assed concern. The girl walked on her knees over to him, grinding the skin away on the concrete. Instead of taking the bottle, she clasped his bullet-belt and fumbled with his black jeans, trying to coax his cock out from behind the fly.

  “Oh, shit.” He wavered on intoxicated feet. “You know, under any other circumstance, I would totally go with this, but I have some shit to do.” He tried to put Nietzsche between her face and his crotch as he gulped down the last of the booze. Tuggy tossed the bottle over his head and heard it bounce off an abandoned car then pop and shatter in the street. He tried to push the naked girl away but she resisted, making odd cooing noises.

  “You gotta be all Skanked out. Do you like Skank Clusters?” Tuggy got no response. “SKANK CLUSTERS?” He used his fingers to replicate a small person walking and then stuck his fingers in his mouth and began to chew an apparition. This apparently got through to her and she quickly, violently, nodded her head. Tuggy had an idea. He opened the book and began to read. Skipping Nietzsche’s preface, he made his way through Section One of the First Essay with no real reaction from the girl. But upon starting part two, the girl began to cock her head in an almost astute intrigue. By Section Five, specifically the part about ‘the truthful’ and mentioning the bit about Theognis, the girl was in convulsions, flapping like a wingless bird trying to fly. She began coughing and spitting. Eventually she was hissing and soon after, she was screaming. Over 35 minutes later, the First Essay was completely read. He got through it quickly after noticing that all it took was the words to be spoken and heard, not necessarily understood or retained.

  Tuggy stood with raised eyebrows as the girl posed frozen in a most awkward crabwalk with her gaze stuck on him. He took a few steps to the side but her eyes didn’t follow him. She was paralyzed. Raster exited the bookstore and ran over to Tuggy.

  “Dude, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Shut up, man! This chick was Skanky so I started reading to her. I think it worked.”

  “No shit? Why is she like that then?”

  “I only got to the end of the First Essay. I think if I finished this book she would be cured. She was doing all sorts of wacky shit. I think your hypothesis is accurate my good man – these fucking people really are possessed by Skanks!”

  “Told you.” Raster said, impressed with himself.

  “Let’s get going – we need to save these people!” Tuggy said. His persona had completely changed. He no longer seemed ‘grim’, he seemed pleasantly positive.

  “Look at you, Mr. Let’s-Save-Humanity. I think that after seeing you have the power to help humanity, you have a new-found confidence in yourself. You actually care now!”

  “Go fuck yourself.” Tuggy frowned again, but this time, a grin seeped out of his feigned hostility. “Actually, get my vodka. Here’s some cash. I want to read a bit more and see if this really works.”

  “That’s gonna take forev…”

  “Go!”

  Raster turned and walked towards Yudbedda’s Liquor. “Alright, alright.” His voice trailed off.

  Tuggy, as quickly as his slurring speech could take him, rushed through the first five sections of the Second Essay. When he began Section 6, speaking of ‘guilt’ and ‘sacredness of duty’, Jonxie collapsed. She was on the ground when her brain had a spark of its former luster. The haze of Skank momentarily cleared and she motioned to Tuggy. She shakily put her finger to her neck and ran it across. He understood. She knew her love was dead and she wanted to join him – the Skank influence had began to fade and she now realized her situation. Tuggy couldn’t decide what emotion he felt – empathy or sadism – as he removed his wallet. He gave her the razor and watched as she opened the skin on her wrists and inner thighs. She crawled back over to Junk and snuggled up to his corpse, closing her eyes and letting her life vanish. Her blood pooled up underneath them and from above, Tuggy thought the puddle looked like wings on a malformed butterfly.

  Tuggy got in the car and screeched off to Yudbedda’s, slamming on the brakes as Raster came walking out. In his arms he clutched The Republic, a plastic bottle of vodka, and some beef jerky that he was already gnawing on.

  “You took too long,” Tuggy said through the car window, trying to hide the reality of what just happened.

  “I was hungry too and didn’t know what to eat. Here’s your money back. No one was there.” He dumped his contents in the back seat and pulled a handful of crumpled bills out, giving them to Tuggy. “How did the reading go?”

  “It was working,” Tuggy said. “Now let’s go. Here, you drive.”

  * * * * *

  In the car, Raster practiced his vocal bravado with a string of random sentences.

  “The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain,” Raster said, making sure he used his diaphragm to help annunciate clearly. “How now, brown cow?” was his next attempt.

  “Shut up already,” Tuggy said after swallowing a mouthful of Popov.

  “Hey, I want to make sure I sound good.”

  “Those Skanks out there aren’t gonna give a damn. I sounded like shit and it was obviously working.”

  “Here, have some jerky,” offered Raster.

  “Thanks.”

  The rest of the ride was silent except for sloppy chewing sounds and glugs.

  * * * * *

  “Alright Tug, here we are. Good ol’ Channel 36. Get your game face on.” Tuggy gripped the bottle of Popov and readjusted his grip on Nietzsche. Beads and streaks of moisture gleamed on the glossy cover. It appeared as if Tuggy was afraid to let go of the book.

  “Stupid phrase, it’s the only face I have.”

  “You know what I mean. Now just get in front of the camera and start reading – just like you did to that naked chick.”

  That naked chick, he thought, you mean the one who asked me to participate in her demise? That naked chick? “What if this doesn’t work, Raster? What if this just gives Skanks the ability to rationalize their actions as opposed to condemn them?”

  “Look, man, it was working! We just need to finish the damn books! Now get going!” Tuggy began to walk towards the station, ducki
ng under the toppled neon Channel 36 sign. All the lights were broken except for the ‘6’ that kept blinking over and over again. I see sixes all the way, Tuggy thought, remembering Iron Maiden’s song ‘Back in the Village’.

  “Hey,” Raster said. Tuggy turned and glanced back. “Remember to tell everybody what to do after they snap out of the Skank trance. Make sure you let them know to read these books to anyone they see still acting like Skanks.”

  “Yeah, I will,” Tuggy said, turning back and making his way through the outside wreckage.

  Raster watched as his best friend made it inside and drove off to his own destination. He held The Republic in his lap underneath the seatbelt, protecting it as if it were an endangered species. He floored the gas pedal and screeched out of the parking lot; narrowly missing a man in a flannel shirt with only the top buttoned. He was raping a motionless and silent brunette whose face was hidden by her tangled hair as it lurched and wavered with each of his thrusts. Her jeans were pulled down just far enough to expose her plump buttocks and Raster realized this woman was being sodomized. Her blouse rested a few feet to their left and her breasts were grinding into the pavement as the man humped away, resting his body weight on her like a walrus. He was holding on to a knife that was buried in the back of her neck that could have severed her spinal cord, resulting in paralysis and possibly explaining her resignation. How could we have missed that on the way in, he thought.

  NEWS FLASH:

  The Vice President of the United States was found by his five-year-old daughter in a downstairs bathroom of their 34th Street and Massachusetts Avenue home earlier this afternoon. His body was lying in a bathtub filled with ice and two large gashes were present on the sides of his back. Upon further examination, it was discovered that his kidneys had been removed and his wife has been pronounced missing. The fate of our nation could rest in the words of his daughter, who said, quote:

  “Daddy was signing papers that said the planes would bomb the bad places were those, um…skunks were hiding. He said he felt bad for the people, but umm, those skunks had to die.”

  The search continues for his wife, but interviews with close friends had speculated her as a closet Skankoholic. Here at Channel 36, we will keep you informed with the latest findings.

  * * * * *

  It didn’t take Tuggy long to find his way into the broadcast studio. Once he got past the clutter of toppled fichus trees, unhinged cubicles in the sales department, and misplaced office desks where overdosed Skank addicts (and secret dwellers) took refuge like hiding mice; the red ‘ON AIR’ sign directed him to his destination.

  The pretty news anchor sat behind her desk with an earpiece that was audible enough for Tuggy to hear across the lacquered floor. Three robotic cameras were positioned in a semi-circle around her about 15 feet away. Her brown hair was meticulously pulled back and arranged into a bun. A white wool shirt with porous weaves did a poor job of hiding her voluptuous breasts, holstered by a black push-up bra. There was a perimeter of wooden pallets and barbed wire set up behind the cameras that served as a barrier to anyone that would approach her desk.

  “Are you one of them?” the news anchor inquired.

  “No, not me,” a drunken Tuggy replied. “I need to use your desk, and these cameras. I need to be where you are and I need these cameras to be on every channel there is, all around the world. How do we do that?” It was his best attempt at verbalizing his request.

  “Well, what do you need to do?” was the oblivious counter-question.

  “I just told you that. I think my buddy and I figured out a way to exorcise the Skanks.”

  “‘To exorcise the Skanks.’ Okay,” the anchor jeeringly mocked. She removed her earpiece.

  “Look, lady, I am going to read this book here, and those Skanks out there will return to normal. I need you to help me get on as many televisions as possible. Do you get that?”

  “Um, sure…first we have to uplink to a satellite and then issue a transponder to beam down the audio and video feed to broadcast it out. But there has to be a universal channel that everybody is watching for this to actually work…”

  “Never mind that. I’ll take care of that. We just need to reach the broadest audience we can,” Tuggy adamantly interrupted. “I know it sounds preposterous. Just do it, goddamn it! I’m having a terrible time with being patient here. Lives are at stake, woman!”

  “Well, okay. I’ll set everything up and let you do whatever it is you need to do. Good luck, but this just seems preposterous,” she said while adjusting her breasts.

  Tuggy choked down the last of his Popov and threw the plastic bottle aside. He stammered and put his fist to his mouth. “Just get to it, lady.” A heave followed, but he managed to keep the chunder down. “I’m taking your seat. Let me know when we’re good to go.” Tuggy set the book down on the news desk, covering up the built-in prompter screen. He gave his body a good shake to get his blood flowing and sat down, but not before removing his wallet. He placed it next to the book and took out his razor.

  The anchorwoman slipped through the back of the set and entered the control room where she fumbled to set up the uplink. A few times in the past, she saw something like this done before and tried to remember how to work the controls to configure the transponder downlink signal. Fortunately she guessed correctly. By the time she re-joined Tuggy on the set, she found him with a veil of blood slowly rippling down his face.

  “What on earth happened to you?” she gasped. “Those hoochie-mammas didn’t get through here, did they?”

  “NO, it’s still just us,” he began belligerently. “Just make sure those camera’s are on me and…wait, hook me up to that little microphone thing,” gesturing to the right of him. As she went to hook the microphone on his shirt, she saw where all the blood was coming from. Lying on the ground next to Tuggy was his scalp. He sliced the top of his head off, sawing through the skin and ripping the rest off once he was able to grip a skin flap. It tore nicely, giving him a short but wide Mohawk of bloody skull.

  “Why did you DO that?”

  “Because I felt like it! I’m a cutter and I’m nervous. Plus I figure it would be a statement for those Skanks out there!” Tuggy was wobbling in the chair, wasted.

  “What kind of statement?” The news anchor took off her top and wrapped it around Tuggy’s head. The thick white fibers quickly turned red. “This isn’t in my contract,” she whispered to herself.

  “Hey, just start rolling those cameras, damn it! Those poor Skank Clusters always getting plucked, having to suffer with a torn head before getting eaten, having to deal with a hole in their head moments before they die – maybe I’m trying to feel sympathetic and show them I can relate to what has been done to all those delicious little fuckers.” He grabbed the soaked shirt and dropped it to the floor. It hit the ground with a ‘splat’ dispelling droplets of crimson.

  “All right,” said the anchorwoman. “We’re all set. Your on in five, four, three,” she held up two finger, one finger and pointed to Tuggy.

  * * * * *

  Raster got to the KWAD building and parked in the parking garage. It was dark in there, all the lights that hung along the metal pipes were turned off and he hoped the building still had power. He made his way to the elevator and pressed the button for floor 23. The elevator worked, so that was a good sign. The building was abandoned, from what he saw, and there was no issue for him to deal with as he exited the elevator and found the office where the radio station resided. Upon entering the studio, Raster noticed that the ‘On Air’ sign was on but found no spectacle for him to assume a dangerous stratagem was at hand. No Skanks, no dwellers, no lurkers. Easy peasy, he thought.

  Raster came across a piece of printer paper scotch-taped to the control panel that was titled, ‘We Want the Air Waves.’ No doubt a radio reference to the Ramones song; but what was such a title doing in a hip-hop station? He skimmed the hand-scrawled document, reading aloud some of its contents:

  …a lower f
requency limit for the radio waves traveling near the earth’s surface near 10000Hz…the success of Marconi in transmitting messages over more than 1,243 miles led to the discovery of the Ionosphere…an approximately 187-mile-thick layer above the Earth’s surface where the atmosphere is partially ionized…due to the Sun’s involvement, the height, width, and degree of ionization of the stratified ionosphere keeps varying…radio waves transmitted by antennas are reflected back to Earth by the ionosphere and may bounce off the Earth and be reflected by the ionosphere repeatedly, making radio transmission around the globe possible.

  “Great fucking information, but how the hell am I supposed to make this happen?” he asked himself. Raster unhinged the plastic clamps that latched his fisherman’s vest and took a deep breath, his semi-muscular chest heaving with fresh oxygen. He scolded himself for forgetting his baseball bat in the car even though there was no one to combat at the moment. There was a wall-mounted television in the studio, which he noticed and impatiently turned on. There was his best friend making his television debut. He noticed Tuggy’s face was red instead of the usual corpse-paint and wondered if his friend tripped and hit his head on something. He pressed the volume button and watched the green bars multiply across the screen.

  “…we may unhesitatingly assert that it was precisely through punishment that the development of the feeling of guilt was most powerfully hindered…” Tuggy was about half way through, in the middle of Essay 14. His vision was blurred by the drying blood clinging to his eyelashes and brows and was obviously hammered. The combination didn’t result in a mellifluous soliloquy.

  “C’mon, Tuggy. I know you can do it,” he said.

  The consol was decorated with sticky, plastic labels making it relatively easy for a layman to operate. After taking several glimpses at the verbiage of the ‘Airwaves’ document, it didn’t take too much brainpower to assimilate the instructions and Raster was able to configure the proper settings for maximum exposure. He arranged the adjustable microphone that jutted out from the console and sat down. Clearing his throat and hawking a clear-yet-pasty loogie onto the wall, he refreshed the braggadocio he envisioned himself expelling. “Plato, let’s get down to business.” He used the flopping sock knots to wipe the beading sweat from his nose and opened the book to Justice as the Interest of the Stronger. Raster breezed through it as well as Ruling as an Art Form but slowed his pace once he reached The Rudiments of Social Organization. After getting through all 15 parts, ending with Democracy and the Democratic Man, he was parched. His throat was raw and scratchy. Just this once he wished for Tuggy to be there with his vodka – a slug or two would have soothed him greatly. Then he instructed the listening world that these books must be read to the others who were unable to hear his words. There was no way for him to be sure of the breadth of his broadcast, he just hoped for the best, being the ever-optimist he was.