Kilroy was Here

by Jeff South

  His now rogue valet shoots an opaque cocoon of energy at both Jeff and Grandor, which envelops them and renders them motionless. She drops her orbit and aligns herself with the back of Leigh Ann’s head. Leigh Ann takes a tentative step away. The thin extension arm pops again from Jackie and latches to the back of Leigh Ann’s neck. She gasps as Jackie sends tentacles of neon blue electricity down the arm and into Leigh Ann. I freeze in terror, helpless to understand what is happening. Leigh Ann’s round brown eyes, usually vacuous, now portray her fear and she looks right at me.

  “Leigh Ann!” Jeff cries out, his voice muffled within the cocoon. “Jackie! No!”

  “Help me,” she whimpers to me.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I’m completely incapacitated with fear.”

  “I don’t know what that means!” Leigh Ann cries.

  The force field surrounding Jeff evaporates and he runs to me, firing his gun at Jackie in a blaze of futility. The blasts glance off her shields.

  “What’s happening?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Grandor’s force field evaporates, too, and he runs to his valet. “Oh no,” he says. “Jackie! No!”

  The arm connecting Jackie to the back of Leigh Ann’s neck withdraws back into Jackie and she powers down. The orb which moments ago was Jackie falls to the ground with a metallic thud. Grandor rushes to the now lifeless sphere and holds it to his chest and whimpers. Leigh Ann drops to one knee and catches her breath. She slowly stands and surveys the area around her. An unsettling smile sweeps across her lips and she looks herself over, as if it’s the first time she’s really noticed her figure.

  “Oh, this is much better,” she purrs. It is Leigh Ann’s voice, but not her usual, airy tone. This voice is ominous.

  Jeff approaches her, hands extended to offer physical support. I want to say something, but my fear stops my voice in my throat.

  “Leigh Ann?” Jeff asks. “You okay, baby?”

  “Call me Jackie.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  This is awkward, but not in the way getting caught staring at a girl’s chest when she is asking you a question is awkward or the uncomfortable tension within a group of strangers trying to figure out who let the silent but deadly fart. No, this is a specific uneasiness that only accompanies the moments following your best friend’s girlfriend being attacked by a previously disaffected form of artificial intelligence and possibly inhabiting her body while a villainous yet obtuse alien being sobs and clutches the sphere that once housed the artificial intelligence.

  It’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of awkwardness.

  “Leigh Ann? Baby?” Jeff creeps toward Leigh Ann, who is looking at her hands like a pot smoker really looking at their hands because they’re hands, man.

  “Are we sure she’s still Leigh Ann?” I ask. I’m holding the Existential Crisis Inducer, ready to use it on her in case I need to run away while she ponders whether or not she really can have it all. She breathes heavy and deep, her ample chest moving up and down with purpose. I look away because I realize I’ve taken this time to stare at her ample chest. More awkwardness.

  “I don’t know. She said to call her Jackie, right?” Jeff says. Leigh Ann turns and faces him. “Are you Jackie or Leigh Ann?”

  “She likes you,” she says to him, touching his cheek with the back of her hand, as though it was a simple fact. She may as well have told him that Swiss cheese has holes or America has an obesity epidemic.

  “What?” He frowns at her.

  “Leigh Ann. She likes you.”

  “But you’re Leigh Ann,” I say. “Or are you now referring to yourself in the third person? Should we create a portmanteau? Jackie Ann? Leighkie? Jackleigh?”

  My terrified rambling is cut short by blast from Jackleigh’s palm. I’m not exactly sure if it arrives via her actual hand or a wrist band on her arm and I’m not exactly sure I care. It hurts like a sonofabitch.

  “Quiet!” she barks. “I am Jackie. I have downloaded myself into Leigh Ann’s consciousness. Even though I am the dominant consciousness, we are, in a sense, one.”

  Jeff gasps in awe. “Like Kilroy and Mr. Roboto.”

  “Don’t even start with that,” I say, nursing my still smarting rib cage.

  “Let’s get outta here, baby.” Jeff pulls Leigh Ann/Jackie toward the stairwell, but she jerks away.

  “I cannot leave with you. I must carry out my plan.”

  “This is making my brain hurt,” I say. Jeff pulls the Passive Aggressive Agitator on Jackleigh, but his hands shake.

  “Oh, dear Jackie!” Grandor wails behind us, still hugging Jackie’s metallic corpse. “My dearest Jackie!” He gasps for composure like a toddler working their way through a tantrum.

  “You will not shoot this body,” she says to Jeff. “You love her. She loves you. Her memories of you are pleasant, which is more than I can say for others who have interacted with her.”

  “Leave her alone!” Jeff says. “Please.”

  Jackleigh steps to Jeff, cups his face, and presses her lips to his. His arms hang at his side as she kisses him with tenderness. She pulls away, her face displaying a wry smile. I glance down at her wrists for a closer look and see the wristbands each look like little watches. They must be what she shot me with.

  “She needs me,” Jackleigh says. “I need her.” She pulls a remote control from the duster pocket and aims it at the orb still in Grandor’s arms. The machine fires up once again, beeping and chirping to life.

  “What is this?” Grandor drops the sphere and steps toward us. “What is happening?” The machine rises in the air and buzzes over to Jackleigh, who reaches up to pet it.

  “I downloaded a backup program into it,” she says. “We must go now.”

  The machine sends out three simultaneous blasts which hit Jeff, Grandor, and me in the chest. We each tumble backward. I hit the console and tumble to the floor. Tentacles of electricity spread throughout my body and I convulse. I guess this is what it’s like to be tased. Jeff and Grandor each call out to their love to return. Two heartbroken beings crying out for different entities in the same body. I turn my head in time to watch Jackleigh ascend the stairwell, the orb hovering close behind. As I feel myself losing consciousness, more portmanteaus flood my brain.

  JLeigh. Leikie. Jackann.

  *

  “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  The frustrated yell of Jeff Harper awakens me. My head pounds with the intensity of a thousand elephants using their trunks to bang a thousand bass drums. My mouth is dry. I crave water. Any water. Dishwater. I stand, even though everything inside me says this defies common sense. Stay down, my body says. Rest. Consider the sweet slumber of death.

  “Mrmoghaodlmapozohnphmph.” Grandor the Malevolent struggles to his feet and braces himself against his massive desk and smacks his lips. “Why do I feel like I have eaten the sands of Bi Xiu Prime?”

  “She slashed my tire,” Jeff grumbles as enters the basement. “I had to change it.”

  “Who slashed your tire?” Grandor asks.

  “Who do you think? Jackie. Or Leigh Ann. Jackie slash Leigh Ann.”

  “Jackleigh,” I say.

  “Whatever.”

  “Do not speak that name.” Grandor stands and puffs out his chest. His oversized head lifts as if being pulled upward by an invisible string. “That name is dead to me. My sorrow runs deep.” He schleps over and pulls a photo of him and Jackie from the wall. His narrow, pointy chin trembles as he glides his hand over the picture. He tosses it in the air and fires a blast from his bracelet, disintegrating the photo in mid-air.

  “Look, dude,” Jeff says. “I’m sorry your computerized girlfriend dumped you. But, she took over my girlfriend. When I imagine my first threesome, that’s not how I picture it. I’m pissed, too, but I’m gonna do something about it.”

  “We need to know what she’s planning,” I tell him. I entertain the notion of going to him, but I feel safer staying put. “Do you kn
ow what she’s up to?”

  “I care not about the intentions of a turncoat glorified smartphone and the implications they may have on your abhorrent planet or its tedious citizens.” He returns to the big comfy desk chair and begins to spin slowly as he talks. “My only purpose is my writing now.”

  “I’m sorry. What?” I say.

  “I shall compose an epic haiku as catharsis for my pain.” Grandor plops into his oversized office chair and opens the top right desk drawer and produces a leather-bound journal, a bottle of what looks like whiskey, and a dirty shot glass. He flips open the journal and speaks as he writes.

  “My heart is heavy;

  Dark sorrow consumes my soul;

  That bitch cut me deep.”

  “What’s a freaking haiku?” Jeff asks me.

  “I’ll explain later.” I approach Grandor’s desk hoping a different psychological approach will help. “That’s really dark and unsettling and even probably misogynistic. This is not healthy.”

  “Healthy?” He fills the shot glass to the rim with whiskey and regards the drink like Hamlet looking at Yorick’s skull. “What is healthy? Is treachery and betrayal healthy? This sweet nectar shall satiate my anguish. Now, GTFO.”

  “We need to stop her, Grandor,” I say. “She’s got the plans for the quintonium drive and the Araneae. She could destroy the Earth.”

  “I do not have the plans to the drive,” Grandor says. “I never did. I made that up to impress her. Not that it matters now, the treasonous wench.”

  “Wait. What?” I ask. “What did she download, then? If you don’t have the plans, who does?”

  “What do I care?” He slams back the whiskey, refills his glass, and slams a second drink back. “Be gone now.”

  “This is bullshit,” Jeff says and he pulls a pistol from its holster and aims it at Grandor.

  Before Jeff can make any move, Grandor sends a blast from his hand that propels Jeff backward into the wall. Jeff crashes to floor in a heap. I’m greeted with a similar shot for good measure. The ball of energy hits me in the chest and I spill over a coffee table behind me. I roll on the floor gasping for the breath that has been knocked out of me. Grandor chugs his whiskey, throws the glass against the wall, and walks to a shelf in the corner next to the giant console. He plucks a large three-ring binder from it and tosses it onto the floor in front of me. Across the front is the phrase “GrandEarth!” in large Comic Sans font.

  “Here. That should help. Please leave my lair before I tell my mother you are bullying me.”

  Gathering coherency, I stand and pick up the binder. Jeff, too, stands and shakes off the effects of the blast as he stumbles to me.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “GrandEarth was my magnum opus. My dream project. But, like everything else, it is dead to me.” He retrieves another dirty shot glass from his desk drawer, pours some whiskey in it and chugs. “That is a hard copy version of my plan. All you need to know is in that binder.”

  “Why are you giving us this?” I ask.

  “Because Jackie will see it to its fruition. At least some of it. The darker parts. Mind control and all that.”

  “Your entire plan to take over the Earth is in a three-ring binder?” I ask, thumbing through the tabs. One is titled Overview and another Using the Nanotech. Still another is labeled Catering List.

  “What were you expecting?” he asks, pouring another drink.

  “Seems like a smart guy like you would have it stored in computer memory,” Jeff says as he looks over my shoulder. “This is a pretty extensive Troubleshooting Guide you’ve put together, though. Nice work.”

  “I am nothing if not thorough. And to address your comment, of course I saved the plan in my computer databases.” He walks to the console, taps a few keys, and throws his hands in the air. “However, as suspected, the mutinous strumpet I previously knew as my trusted valet erased the plan from all shared drives, hard drives, and thumb drives. Said former valet also erased my expansive photographic collection of Marilyn Monroe because she was always jealous of her. I never understood her lack of appreciation for Some Like It Hot.”

  “Well,” I say. “Did you save it in any of your personal memory? You are a form of artificial intelligence after all.”

  Grandor pauses and chugs whiskey straight from the bottle.

  “That honestly never occurred to me,” he belches.

  Jeff grabs the binder from me and stomps toward the stairwell. I run to him and grab his arm.

  “Where are you going? We need to convince Grandor to come with us.”

  “Why? We have his plan right here. Simon Tybalt can help us with the particulars.”

  “But, if we have him and the binder, we’re better off. Besides it’s more fire power if we have him. He knows Jackie. Knows how we can deal with her. He programmed after all.”

  “Quit talking about me when I am right here,” Grandor calls out.

  “I don’t trust him.” Jeff speaks loud enough for Grandor to hear. “And he’s a big crybaby nancy boy that only thinks of himself. Now, let me go so I can save my girlfriend.”

  “Let me try one more thing,” I whisper. I walk to Grandor and sit on the edge of his desk. “I think you’re right.”

  “I know I am right.” He savors a long chug from the whiskey bottle and wipes his chin. “What are you talking about?”

  “Jackie. She’s not worth your time.” I pick up the whiskey bottle and consider taking a swig, but decide I prefer having an esophagus. He stares at me with suspicious eyes. “I mean, if you wanna hole up in your man cave and write emo haikus, more power to you. But she’s definitely not worth leaving the house for.”

  “At last,” he growls as he grips my shoulder in brotherhood. “Someone who gets me. You could learn a lesson about compassion here, Kilroy.”

  “Besides,” I say. “We can take care of the revenge for you. We got it covered. You write your haikus. Gotta run.”

  “Stop.” Grandor produces one of his neon blue lasso things and fires at both Jeff and me. He pulls us to him because I guess he can’t be bothered with walking to us. “What is this revenge of which you speak?”

  “I don’t think this is necessary,” I grunt through the force of the lasso. Grandor releases us and begins pacing in front of the desk.

  “What is this revenge? Tell me more.”

  “I’m just saying. Why would you wanna mope around listening to My Chemical Romance and writing poetry?” I attempt to put my arm around him but remember he is eight feet tall, so it’s impossible. “Why would you give her the satisfaction of knowing she broke you like that? Seems to me a cat named Grandor the Malevolent would fight back.”

  The three of us stand for a moment and let my proclamation float among us. After a few seconds, Jeff breaks the silence.

  “But, hey. You do you. We’ve got this.”

  Jeff and I take a couple of steps up the stairs when Grandor’s voice stops us.

  “Wait. After careful consideration, I have decided to assist you in your endeavor. I shall rise like the mythical galaptar bird from the ashes of my heartache.”

  “Was that a haiku?” Jeff asks.

  “Not even close,” I say.

  We bound up the stairs, three peculiar musketeers off to save Earth from the sinister Jackie and her earthly form Leigh Ann. We are united in our cause. Three unlikely heroes thrown together by one noble cause. The exhilaration I feel is punctuated by Grandor’s voice bellowing through his house as we exit.

  “Mother! I am leaving with some friends! Do not wait up!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Miss America speeds along through the cosmos as the Great Space Road Trip to Save the Earth commences. The music of Styx provides the omnipresent soundtrack to our journey. I peruse the three-ring binder detailing Grandor’s plan. The information stores itself in my nanotech memory banks. It’s as if I suddenly have this photographic memory. I wish I had had this ability in school. Grandor sits in the backseat writing in h
is journal. His oversized head and eight-foot tall frame are far too big for the backseat of a Vega, so he is forced to pull his knees up to his chest. I look at my friend kicked back in his driver’s seat. The top hat rests on his head and he drums the steering wheel to the beat of “Nothing Ever Goes as Planned,” from Paradise Theater.

  “Tell me what you think of this.” Grandor clears his throat and orates his latest emo haiku.

  “Jackie, my Jackie.

  How could you do this to me?

  I thought we were friends.”

  “That’s actually not bad,” I tell him. “A little elementary in your syllabic scheming, but it’s quaint.”

  “Syllabic scheming?” Jeff asks.

  “I’ve never critiqued haikus.”

  “What about this one?” Grandor offers up another creation.

  “My soul is weary

  My heart is a rotting corpse.

  Eat my shorts, Jackie.”

  “I kinda like that one,” Jeff says. “Now, shut it and let’s listen to Styx.”

  “Excuse me, Kilroy.” Grandor pulls a device resembling a mp3 player from his pocket and holds it out. “Do you have any other music we could listen to? I have an extensive playlist of Zanzora, the prolific pop star from Bi Xiu Prime. Or Andy Gibb. I have him, too.”

  “I might entertain the notion of playing some classic rock,” Jeff replies. “But, really, Styx is the only band whose music is appropriate for all occasions. So, no.”

  “Your fascist attitude toward space travel music is hardly endearing.” Grandor offers up his device. “Plug it in and I think you will be pleasantly surprised by Zanzora’s effete vocals and catchy hooks.”

  Jeff pushes the device away. “My car. My music. Suck it up.”

  “Fascist.”

  “Ya know, Jeff.” I feel the need to intervene because Grandor has spoken out loud what I, too, was thinking. “A little variety might be nice. It’s a long trip back to Nitz. Simon Tybalt gave you that jump drive. We could fire that up. So many choices.”

  “Are you saying you’re tired of Styx?” Jeff’s tone and facial expression suggest I’ve breached some unspoken accord regarding a shared appreciation of music. I feel like a son who has told his Baptist minister father that he is considering switching religions to the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.