Psychos

by Neil Gaiman

  Go ahead, what are you waiting for? Depress the plungers and fill my veins with paralytics and poison.

  I’m not the Antichrist. I’m not another schizophrenic messiah. Constructing cathedrals that soar to the sky and washing the jam from between my toes is unnecessary, but you can at least acknowledge my achievement. Admittedly, I am guilty of murder.

  I’m the man who murdered Hatred.

  I’m the man who murdered Holy Wars.

  I eradicated Aggression and purged us of Fundamentalist Religious Fervor. Dead and gone forever, amen.

  Lying here, gazing up into a halo of fluorescent light, I feel nothing. Like all of you tranquilized deadheads, my unwitting disciples, doped to the gills and drooling onto your shirt collars.

  Love, Passion, and adrenalized skydiving (and five billion souls) were unforeseen collateral damage, but the scales are balanced. For the first time there is hope.

  Think what you will, and take your pill. When the plungers come down, my peace will be eternal.

  The Mannerly Man

  BY MEHITOBEL WILSON

  Every society since the dawn of time has sought ways to channel our most aggressive impulses into relatively harmless activity. And so it is with speculative fiction.

  Even Ernest Callanbach’s 1975 utopian New Age hippie classic Ecotopia understood that violent sports were a necessary safety valve for a community devoted to peace. Cuz all that ugly’s got to go somewhere. (As Stephen King once said. “Lennon and McCartney were right. All you need is love. As long as you keep the gators fed.”)

  And if we can’t make nice entirely, the next available step is to focus the chaos down to a neat, contained, entertainment-friendly event we can tune in, then tune out at our leisure. From the Roman coliseums of yore to Death Race 2000, Rollerball, The Running Man, and Battle Royale (the inarguable baby-mama of the wildly popular Hunger Games series), this is a populist urge ever eager to be met. Because it will not, by itself, go away.

  Mehitobel Wilson’s brilliant “The Mannerly Man” seeks an alternate escape valve: less spectacular on the surface, but more than making up for it with creepily character-stunting paranoia as a way of life. With one psychotically perfect perk.

  At noon on Tuesday, Gregory took a break for lunch and discovered that his bathtub drain had not yet swallowed the water from his morning shower. He removed his sunglasses and looked at the standing water, which was milky with shed cells and fragrance-free soap. He did not sigh or frown. He tried to plunge the drain clear, without success. There were, he calculated, three options: he could ignore the problem, he could risk calling the landlord, or he could brave the grocery store in search of chemical relief.

  The landlord was a calm man, a mannered man, who had always seemed safe to Gregory. But one never knows, does one, thought Gregory, and deleted the landlord from the list. If he ignored the tub, it might eventually overflow and leak through the floor, staining the ceiling of the apartment below. Gregory had never met the tenants, though he’d seen them, nodded through his dark lenses at their own implacable, sunglassed faces. One never knows.

  He should have considered this eventuality and ordered some drain-cleaner from an Internet site, but he had not. The only remaining option was to brave the store.

  At times, being in public seemed more safely anonymous than did staying alone. Gregory tried not to test this theory often. No one tested anything anymore.

  So he went to the door, smoothed his jumpsuit, adjusted his sunglasses, and opened it. He passed no one on the stairs. His drab sedan was dirty enough to be dull but not so dirty as to offend anyone, he hoped. He got into it.

  En route to the store, Gregory kept pace with the traffic. He slowed once to let a car merge into his lane, and peered over the tops of his sunglasses, checking the rearview mirror for any signs of aggression from the motorist directly behind him. There were none. He kept his face placid and did not sigh in relief.

  The knife in its black mesh sheath chafed his calf every time he pressed the clutch.

  Gregory reached the store and found a parking space without incident.

  While crossing the parking lot, however, he tensed his shoulders as he caught sight of a group of young teenage boys loitering outside the automatic doors. They were wearing primary-bright sweaters, jeans, and boots. Their postures were open and easy. One smoked. One sang. The third picked his nose. None of them wore sunglasses. All three of them turned their heads this way and that, their uncovered gazes casting sightlines that mannerly folk could nearly visualize, like rifle-mounted lasers streaming through smoke.

  There was no other way into the store.

  Gregory’s own head balanced on his neck in the same position it always did, his face tilted down just low enough to be polite. Others he passed had their own faces tipped down into the meek zone. Gregory found that as dangerous as he found aggression.

  He approached the doors. The boys stared at him. He felt a measure of fear, but not too much. There was never too much of anything anymore.

  If any of them had a Legal left, and chose to exercise their Right against Gregory, he would feel no pain. So he hoped, anyway.

  And he knew that the boys had nothing against him personally, that they were just looking for attention. It was rude, but not enough to attract the kind of attention they were looking for. Perhaps that was their point, Gregory realized. Perhaps they weren’t obnoxious kids, but activists, trying to prove by example that survival did not depend on manners, after all. Perhaps they each hoped to sacrifice themselves in order to waste the Legals of strangers, thereby potentially saving other, better lives. There were, Gregory had heard, people like that.

  Gregory stepped onto the concrete walkway leading to the shaded doors of the store, and the boys pivoted their heads and let words through their sneery grins, words all running under each other, low and easy-mean. “Do you hate me? Do you? Want me dead? Want to kill me? Motherfucker, want to take me down? Am I bothering you? Are you scared? Think you bother me? Talk to me, talk to me, Sir, give it up, hand it over, Sir, where’s your eyes, where’s your gun, whatcha packin’, am I rude?”

  He walked through the words, ignored the adrenaline seething in his cheeks, and the doors sucked apart and let him in.

  Very few customers shopped in the store. Most had the same agenda as Gregory: get in, get out, offend no one. Some were nearly furtive in their movements, which drew Gregory’s attention and made him wish them well. One man held his smooth chin high and shoulders back, but his brave stance made him look all the more afraid. Gregory walked down an extra aisle to avoid that one.

  In the six years since the Right to One had become final, the country’s population had been cut in half. Everything was going according to plan. The equal-rights people were made happy by the fact that everyone had the Right to One, the choice-loving people were happy that they could choose whether or not to exercise their Right, the pro-life people had been thrilled that they could act as the fist of God and remain on the good side of the law. Citizens who preferred government aid appreciated the money liberated now that prisons were nearly obsolete; those who preferred to handle things themselves liked the freedom to do so.

  And everyone was very, very polite.

  Fear of the ultimate retribution had made the remaining members of the population very considerate. Please, thank you, yes sir. May I come in, do you have a moment? Is this a good time?

  It was hard. Gregory still wasn’t sure, after all this time, whether he had the game right. One mustn’t bother or offend anyone. No interruptions of their private trains of thought, but no ignoring them, either.

  The sunglasses were imperative. Everyone could gauge one another’s moods without being noticed. The jumpsuits kept the fearful anonymous.

  When the Right to One was put into effect, twenty percent of the population died within two weeks. Twenty percent of the population had inflicted wrongs, imagined or real, so deep that their murderers came for them immediately. More than one news
story featured a person who had crossed the country to exercise their Right and discovered that the person against whom they bore a deadly grudge had already been Legally killed. Most of those stories ended with addenda stating that, in fits of rage, the frustrated killers had wasted their Right on the next person that passed.

  Thousands more were executed by the Authorities for surpassing their limit of One.

  Over the years, the people who had prudently decided to save their Right started to snap. Twelve items in the 10 Item or Less line could get you killed. Road rage exploded. Saying hello to a stranger could earn you a shot to the face; not doing so could result in the same end.

  Now that the country was paranoid, and now that the pensioners had killed the drug dealers, and the meek had killed the bullies, and abused and abusers killed one another, things had settled down a bit. Everyone tried to remain invisible, as Gregory did. Those who had exercised their Right hid the face that they had, for they would be easy prey. Even a killing in self-defense was call for execution if it was not the One.

  Some citizens refused their Legal Right because they feared that the whole law was a trick, that the Authorities executed all who exercised it and claimed that they were punishing people for their second kills, when each kill was the first.

  The Authorities frightened everyone. They were executioners who could not themselves be killed.

  Gregory had once wanted very badly to be an Authority. The killing would bother him, but the relative immortality would have been worth it. But he had been afraid to apply, because it would bring him to their attention. What if they had not let him join the Force? What if one of them hated him? The fear of being noticed was too much to bear, so Gregory stayed at home and telecommuted, delivering spreadsheets and calculations on the hour to the warehouse whose stock he tracked.

  He had never exercised his Right. He was a prudent man.

  He carried his drain cleaner to the cash register. There was no clerk. Clerks drew ire too easily: made incorrect change, perhaps raised an eyebrow a millimeter if someone bought hemorrhoid cream. Editorials in the newspaper often commented upon the unforeseen way the Right to One had affected technology. Now Gregory waited as the placid jumpsuited young woman in front of him fed her four purchases through the laser screen. Toothpaste, mouthwash, dental floss, and menthol lozenges. Gregory looked at the clean brown hair on the back of her head and wondered what was wrong with her mouth. Her total appeared on the LED readout; she slotted her card in the reader. The gates opened and she crossed through. No alarm sounded. She turned her mirror-lensed face to Gregory, and her mouth looked fine to him.

  He nodded at her, just enough, and pushed his bottle of cleaner through the red-light screen.

  Her face was still turned towards him. Her mouth looked less fine now. It looked curly at the corners.

  Then it cracked open and showed him teeth so white they looked tinged with blue, and he dropped his gaze to her hands. No gun. She was gathering her purchases into a mesh bag. He looked at her face again and realized that she was smiling.

  Gregory faltered, stunned to see a living person smile directly at him. The customer in line behind him shifted and Gregory heard the squeak of shoe leather against the linoleum. He turned quickly and said to the invisible man behind him, “I’m sorry, I was a bit distracted for a moment. My apologies.”

  The man’s head ticked forward, as if he’d seen something in Gregory’s face that bothered him. “It’s quite all right,” he said. His voice was pleasant.

  Gregory was quick to pay, and anxious as he waited for the gates to part. No alarm sounded.

  The girl with the lozenges stood waiting for him. Her breath smelled of medicine. Her smile was huge and, now that Gregory had assimilated it, genuine.

  He was terrified.

  She took off her sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes, and said, “I’ve missed you very much. I fucked up, I know that. I can’t sleep without you next to me. The nightmares are worse now that you’re gone. Please have coffee with me? Please let me talk to you? I know you must be hurting, but I need to explain some things.”

  Gregory had never seen the girl before in his life.

  He clenched his bottle of cleaner and wished for the first time that he kept his knife sheathed on his ribs.

  Possibilities: she could be nuts, and he could die. She could have mistaken him for someone else, and her confusion and embarrassment upon discovery might get him killed. She might have used her One already, but that was not a chance he was willing to take. He could play along, and she might kill him for it. She might be trying to trick him and kill him anyway.

  “Coffee,” he said. “That would be nice. Let me drive you.” He wanted one of her lozenges. Each syllable bruised his fear-tight throat.

  Her lips tightened with emotion, and then the smile came back, smaller, grateful. Nervous. Her eyes filled with tears; she severed his access to them with her sunglasses.

  They left the store. Behind them, the three boys postured in the shade. One of them said, “That’s that fucking guy, man!” Gregory told himself that they could not mean him, that he had done nothing, and he did not look back.

  Together, they walked toward his car.

  She was very small.

  His bottle of drain cleaner was heavy. Eighty fluid ounces. “Thank you, Marcel,” she whispered, and touched his wrist. He flinched. When was the last time he had been touched? Smiles, eyes, speech, and touch all in the space of four minutes. His heart beat incorrectly. His breath was wrong.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, wishing her knew her name, wishing he knew how hard a blow would render her unconscious.

  They reached his car. No one was parked in the space in front of his. “Let me open the trunk,” he said, “so you can put your groceries in the back.” He unlocked his car, got in, and started the engine. He left his door open. He pressed the trunk release and the pneumatic struts raised the hatch. He leaned out of his door and saw her walk to the back of the car, saw his brakelights turn the legs of her khaki jumpsuit a sour mauve.

  Gregory dropped the brake and hit the gas. The car jumped forward, the engine stammered, and then the car shot across the parking lot. His door banged into his left elbow and he winced, caught it, closed it properly. The tires hit the canary speed bump guarding the exit; the trunk lid sprung wide, then slammed shut. He braked at the street and checked the rearview mirror. The girl stood, stunned, where he’d left her. Her mesh bag dangled from her hand. He saw no weapon.

  Gregory signaled, turned onto the street, and drove home.

  A dusty green car was parking parallel on his street. He idled behind it for a moment, giving it room to maneuver.

  He parked and got out of the car. The bottle in his hand seemed heavier now. He carried it to the steps of his building, where another tenant stood, an older man, graying, fumbling with his keys. Gregory hung back for an instant, having had enough interaction for one day. But that might make the man feel tense, watched, and it’s never wise to cause tension in strangers.

  So Gregory stepped up and the man turned his head a bit, his beard rasping against the collar of his starched jumpsuit, and said, “I’m sorry about the wait, I’m having a little trouble with my keys.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Gregory. “I’m in no hurry.” An offer to help would be friendly, but might also be considered insulting. He was torn.

  The man did not turn back to the door. Instead, he stared at Gregory through smoky lenses. “Pardon me, er. I must say I’m surprised to see you here. Please accept my condolences. She was a lovely woman.”

  Gregory raised his bottle of drain cleaner. “I live in this building, sir. You may have mistaken me for someone else.”

  The man looked grave. “I understand. Please forgive my intrusion. I will, of course, be discreet. No one will know that you are here.” He turned back to the door, fitted his key into the lock, and entered the building, letting the door fall shut behind him.

 
Gregory felt a flare of annoyance at the fact that the man had not held the door, and was surprised at himself for it.

  He gave the man plenty of time to get inside his apartment before he entered the building himself.

  His hands shook a little as he unlocked his apartment door. Once inside, he allowed himself a moment of release: he shook openly, breathed deeply, lost control of his expression and let his face tighten upon itself with relief.

  No way would he leave the house again. Never. Not for weeks, at least, he told himself. People were too unpredictable. They spoke. They demanded engagement. They threw blue-white smiles at strangers and said things that made no sense. They killed. They put him in very uncomfortable situations and he hated them for it as much as he feared them.

  Then he seized control of himself, smoothed his jumpsuit, and removed his sunglasses. He inspected the instructions on the bottle of drain cleaner. He followed them. Chemical fumes filled the bathroom. He considered cracking a window for ventilation, but feared that the fumes might bother a neighbor, so he ran the exhaust fan instead. The bottle suggested he allow fifteen minutes for the treatment to work.

  He logged onto the Internet and went grocery shopping. Along with canned and frozen goods he chose drain cleaner, throat lozenges (cherry), and aspirin.

  He also ordered three jumpsuits and a new pair of sunglasses, a pair styled differently than his own.

  Thirty minutes had passed. Gregory was a prudent man. The drain cleaner had not worked.

  Gregory frowned down at the still, clouded water and then flinched as he heard a sound he hadn’t heard in years: the sound of a fist rapping on his door.

  It was not even one-thirty. He couldn’t pretend to be asleep. He crept to the door and craned his neck toward the peephole, holding his body as far away from the door as possible.

  A woman stood in the hallway, a brunette, his age. Her sunglasses were tortoiseshell. In these times, those were as much of a statement as fuschia cat’s-eye sunglasses would have been seven years before. She wore lipstick. It was a neutral beige, but it still caught his eye. She liked attention. This meant that she either had a death wish, or that she had little fear.