Zanesville: A Novel

by Kris Saknussemm

  Clearfather was impressed by the seriousness of this submission. While one of the biggest moments in sports and contemporary culture was taking place live in the very megalopolis that they were headed to the next day—they were watching recorded highlights of an event that had happened well more than half a century before. Only afterward did they learn of the unthinkable outcome in LosVegas—a stunning third-round KO of the Corpse Maker by Minson Fiske, now the first gay Heavyweight Champion of the Earth. Champagne, blood, and personal lubricants were flowing freely in the streets.

  “Just as well we’re not there tonight,” Dr. Tadd said as they were heading to bed. “Sounds like chaos has been loosed.”

  Clearfather and Kokomo slipped off into the guest bed. As tired as they both were they made love—and the more gently they moved, the more intense the waves of ecstasy were, until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

  Out in the D. H. Lawrence darkness, he heard a swish in Mr. Meese’s tank, as if their eroticism had fevered the little amphibian’s dreams—or maybe Mrs. Mendoza was with him doing whatever it was they did. Love takes so many forms, Clearfather thought as he drifted off to sleep with the rich scent of Kokomo filling his dreams and the peaceful, regular sound of her breathing as reassuring as his dog Lucky’s had been back on the summer porch in South Dakota, long ago.

  CHAPTER 12

  Every Day Is Today

  Love was taking very strange forms indeed in other parts of the country. In LosVegas, where Fiske Frenzy had taken hold, Aretha Nightingale, aka Denzel Fiske—and as far as Monroe Hicks was concerned, Ernestine—found him- or herself in a very complicated position. Following the third-round knockout and a celebration featuring marbled Matsuzaka beef, farm-fresh Maine lobster, and cases of Bollinger’s—the drag queen, officially in disguise, ended up hugging and then dancing with his victorious son and then very publicly tongue-kissing his equally emotional wife. Surprised by this behavior, Monroe, who’d secretly bet against Minson, set his mind on a threesome, thinking that Eartha and Ernestine were kissin’ cousins. Imagine his disappointment, a little later, to find Eartha in bed with Ernestine—and not engaging in Sapphic pleasures. Not by a long hard shot. If only he hadn’t been naked himself, because when he stomped out of the guest boudoir in shock and anger at the trick that had been played on him, he stepped into the Jacuzzi room to find a gaggle of young white Minson Fiske fans who were snorting Fairy Princess and dousing each other in vintage bubbly without the slightest idea of where they were. The sudden sight of Monroe in the nude brought the hot tub thrashing to life.

  Meanwhile back in the Mirror Technology–hidden heart of Fort Thoreau, Finderz Keeperz was in a state of cold panic. After the stupendous defeat of the forces at Dustdevil, he was forced into the agonizing reappraisal that he would have to take the Clearfather problem into his own hands or run out of time and risk exposure.

  During the skirmish between the Corps of Discovery and the combat probe in Clearfather’s brain, the sum total of energy produced a distinctive enough signal to lock on to. It struck the dwarf that he’d underestimated the resilience of the Corps, which might still play to his advantage. Now he cranked his profound knowledge of system vulnerability up to full heat. Master of backdoor trojans, worms, weevils, and insidiously propagating viruses, he was also a firewall cracker extraordinaire and one of an elite guild capable of navigating the maximum-secret precincts of the Vitessa Central Nervous System. It was here that he delved now with increasing desperation, searching, seeking, sneaking peeks at his many wristwatches. Against a host of cyberpredators, guardians, and trapdoors, he maneuvered with adrenaline-focused concentration, for he could not afford to fail. Not now. Deeper and wider into the multitudinous infosystem he delved, becoming ever more desperate—until—he found it. Yes! A huge grin of relief wrinkled across his face. Just the right weapon. Powerful enough, but incidental enough not to be well guarded. Just the thing. Just the perfect thing.

  He’d discovered a satellite used to monitor brain-implanted prisoners, code-named Azazel. The satellite was shaped like a black stealth angel, in synchronous orbit over the middle of the United States. At any time during its orbital period it could send an electromagnetic pulse to any of the implants in its directory. A hot white explosion would occur, like an extremely clear and final idea.

  Aretha could soon be returning. The dwarf had to move fast. He’d seen that Vitessa could not be trusted to handle the Clearfather situation expeditiously. But if he could strike Clearfather down himself—if he could bring the brain of the Messiah Weapon to Vitessa on a silver platter, having used their own metaphorical bolt of lightning—he would have his criminal record expunged and no longer have to live in a filthy tent surrounded by inferior minds with egalitarian visions. He might well be given a Region to head. Hah!

  He hacked into Azazel and entered the transponder code based on the frequency of the combined signals from the earlier confrontation between the probes. The moment they engaged again, Azazel would be alerted. And if they didn’t, still all was not lost, for he would leave the line open, allowing Vitessa to trace the hack. Once their position was triangulated, the Mirror Field would eventually be deduced and Fort Thoreau would be under permanent siege. And as for Clearfather, even if he survived Azazel, sooner or later the invasive brain insert would accomplish its deadly mission. That would have to be worth some consideration. As long as Keeperz could escape Fort Thoreau.

  Out in New Albu, Mrs. Mendoza let the troops sleep in before shifting into high gear. Dr. Tadd, Clearfather, and Kokomo were treated to a late breakfast of huevos rancheros; Mr. Meese was left to enjoy pumpkin-colored goo. Señora M had arranged for the Village laundry service to mole-clean their clothes. Then came the delicate task of moving Mr. Meese’s tank and installing it in the Wienermobile, along with his many supplies and support equipment, including catheters, unguents, drips, drops, and fluid treatment tablets.

  Clearfather saw that there might have been more to the choice of vehicle than Dr. Tadd’s sense of humor and relish for Americana. The passenger section had just the right amount of added ceiling height and total length to allow suspension of his father’s tank by carbon cord from two anchor points, thus minimizing vibrations and allowing the old man the best view, both through the retractable UV-guarded Wiener Bun sunroof and the normal tinted windows.

  Mrs. Mendoza packed them a generous lunch, fired several hundred instructions at Dr. Tadd, many in Spanish—and a stern warning about the Sidewinder. She nodded politely to Clearfather, gave Kokomo a hug, and then became very restrained and proper saying goodbye to Mr. Meese (although Clearfather later noted the steamy heart-shaped impression of her lips on the tank). The sky was huge and cornflower blue, and the Wienermobile went like an environmentally sensitive rocket past enormous eidolons of Geronimo and Billy the Kid.

  Kokomo wanted to sit up with Tadd so Clearfather sat in the back with Mr. Meese, which was a little awkward because the tank took up so much room, and very awkward because he didn’t know what to say. Then he discovered that Mr. Meese was tuned in to an ancient baseball game and didn’t appear to be very interested in conversing anyway, so he checked out the Stinky Wiggler music that Kokomo had been listening to earlier. Dr. Tadd had the whole catalog—Preaching to the Perverted, Sealed for Your Protection, Open Slather. Clearfather activated one disc called Conditions Apply and slipped on the headphones. He listened. But he didn’t hear anything. He checked the player selection and the volume. There was complete silence. At first he thought it was a joke. But the more he listened, the completer the silence seemed, as if the disc absorbed all peripheral noise. Time seemed to drift. The sense of calm was hypnotic.

  Another disc was titled Manifest Disney. He put it on. Again, he heard nothing at first—then there were faint suggestions of sounds—horses’ hooves, river rapids, gunfire, machines. It wasn’t like any music he’d ever imagined. He closed his eyes and a series of powerful eidetic images emerged. The first was a railroad tra
ck at night, running between tall pines. Out of the dark there appeared a steam train with a piercing lantern and a gaping smokestack. The locomotive was enormous and black, except for the driving rods and the cowcatcher, which were made of solid gold. As the train approached, the cross-ties it passed over came alive, like sleepers rising—and he saw that they were Chinese men and women. The train grew nearer and he could make out the engineer and the fireman, their faces and hands burning with flames, the same red as the firebox, which they fed with little cigar-store Indians carved of sequoia and oak. The train reached a river and across the canyon was a trestle, which in the light of the lantern he saw was made of the horns and antlers of animals. Then the music—or the silence—changed, and he was on a modern commuter train coming down from Westchester into Manhattan. In the Bronx a large black bear got on and ambled down the aisle, but no one noticed. The commuters were all Voyancing or reading. A herd of deer grazed in the middle of Fifth Avenue and the cabs kept driving. No one commented on the giant beaver dam outside Radio City Music Hall or that Rockefeller Center was teeming with muskrats. Then he was riding on a train full of raccoons and red-winged blackbirds all the way to Coney Island—and out on a desolate pier he saw Henry Hudson wrapped in a Bowery overcoat swigging Thunderbird Wine beside a saltwater taffy stand covered in placas. The wretched explorer huddled, watching the gulls and a couple of old Jewish men cutting open a beached whale. They’d found a bottle in the mammal’s gut and inside the bottle was a message . . .

  Clearfather suddenly looked up and saw the fantasy parks rising from the yucca—and out of the sky there appeared to leap an enormous astronaut, who landed in a cloud of eidolonic glitter and said, “That’s one small step for a man . . . and the second step’s a doozy! Welcome to LosVegas! Where every day is Today!”

  CHAPTER 13

  The Notorious Frontier

  Aretha and Eartha slept late. Figuring that the damage was done as far as Monroe was concerned, they had an extended lovemaking session. When they emerged from the sprawling opulence of the guest quarters into the smeared decadence of the main suite, they found it was oddly quiet. Monroe’s chef was passed out beneath a mountain of hairy crab shells. The master bedroom was a shambles of silk underwear, drugs, bottles, and the occasional sliver of dog tongue. In the spa room the mirror walls were covered in dried bubble bath, K-Y jelly, and Matsuzaka beef. There was no sign of Monroe.

  A Harijan and two Bolivian women came to clean up while Aretha and Eartha went out for brunch (and a little shopping). When they returned the suite was spotless except for the print of someone’s butt cheeks on a wall in the spa room—but there was still no sign of Monroe. They made plans to have a quiet dinner with a very hungover Minson at the Reef and Beef on the corner of Eddie Murphy and Cameron Diaz. As the suite was paid for for another night, there was no point in not enjoying it. If Monroe doesn’t show up by tomorrow morning, Eartha thought, I’ll call the police. If Monroe does show up, there’ll be trouble, Aretha thought. But he didn’t care. For the first time in years all he could think of was the moment.

  “Just look at those cars!” Dr. Tadd marveled in the speakerphone as the Wienermobile cruised down Ronald Reagan Boulevard. On the corner of Goldie Hawn there was an eighteen-wheel papaya-green Le Roi and a Prussian blue bobsled powered by a Rocketdyne liquid oxygen and kerosene engine called a Hegira. “The main nerve of the Now Frontier! More murders, millionaires, mental institutions, and resources consumed each day than anywhere else on the planet,” purred Tadd.

  “Slow down!” Mr. Meese called from the tank’s intercom. “I wanna check out the honeys—did you see the hooters on that one!”

  Clearfather had never imagined so many aloha shirts, all-terrain vehicles, and automatic weapons—and that was just in one store, which took up all of George Clooney Drive. And the people! Sikhs, Yogis, and the Dead Girl gangs of Little Phnom Penh. The sunlight flared off the octagonal panels of the envirodomes as the Wienermobile passed topless tapas bars, pet counselors, and clinics that specialized in genital resculpturing. POWDERPUFF WHUPS BULLY the buildings flashed as the giant laser ghosts flickered and danced. FRUIT BEATS MEAT!

  Dr. Tadd cruised Seismic to Colorado River Way, into the dense tangle of avenues named for lost stars of yesteryear. The air was thick with camel shit, Acapulco Gold, and food. You could buy guinea pig enchiladas or sea slugs in hoisin sauce, or wander among the eel and snake restaurants of Michael Douglas Mall—or the specialty shops offering giant Chinese salamanders in Nicole Kidman.

  Dr. Tadd and Mr. Meese were staying at the Amazonia, the largest thatched structure in the world, surrounded by jungles of rain forest hardwood and pools and fountains turning into miniature rivers, complete with thundering waterfalls (which locals regularly threw themselves into when their drug, gambling, or psychiatric debts overwhelmed them). Mr. Meese liked the sound of running water and was welcomed by the loinclothed doormen; Dr. Tadd was a big tipper wherever his father was concerned.

  “If you have any doubts where to meet someone,” said Dr. Tadd, doffing a Panama hat, “go to Lucas Square. Sooner or later all the action passes through. Rather like the lower bowel. Meanwhile, if you need anything, we’ll be here three nights. Then on to MormonLand. Dad’s never seen it.”

  “Thanks for everything,” said Clearfather wistfully. “Maybe we’ll stop by when we’re settled.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I hope so, too,” Clearfather said, thinking that here was another fatherly figure that had appeared to help him. “By the way—that museum—the owner you said has the Dustdevil artifacts? I’d like to meet him.”

  “Olly? It’s the Museum of Notorious Americans on Brando Street.”

  “How do we get there? Can we walk?”

  “Oh my, no,” said Dr. Tadd. “It’s on the other side of the Streisand Canal. You’ll want the Synapse Train. You see the Encephalon ride . . . the big pink brain? Go between that and the Bill Cosby Center and you’ll see the lake. You get off at the Ono station, I think—but ask the train. Just don’t go through the botanical gardens after dark. The place is crawling with satanists.”

  “Thanks,” Clearfather smiled—grateful and sad at the same time.

  They were standing on a bamboo bridge when a monkey leaned over to pull off Dr. Tadd’s brim. The branch it was balanced on sagged and the creature dipped to water level, where a large catfish breached and swallowed it whole.

  “Tough town,” said Dr. Tadd. “Stay alert.”

  Standing alone with Kokomo again, Clearfather felt as exposed as they had been back in Texas. Vitessa was probably watching them at that very moment, and he knew he should’ve been scared but he wasn’t. (He didn’t know that the Corps of Discovery had triggered an endorphin release inside his brain; he thought it was the excitement of arrival and his gratitude for Dr. Tadd’s assistance.)

  Clearfather could see the elevated ribbon of the Synapse Train firing along. We can hop on that anytime, he reasoned. Best to stretch a bit and get the lay of the land. This time he was certain there was someone waiting for them.

  Kokomo had a funny expression on her face. She held on tight to him as they navigated the bustling causeways below the billowing American and Vitessa Cultporation flags, catching sight between the minarets and adrenaline rides of eidolons of Kuan Ti, patron god of the Triads, and on Mount Meditation, the breathtaking gold Buddha, which stood as tall as the Tower of Bagels.

  They cut through Nuevo Tokyo, past the pavilions where the Go masters sat deep in thought over hologram games with giant tortoises for playing stones. They boarded the train in the Pacino District. The crystalline gel-steel domes of 20th CenturyLand, HolyLand, MusicaLand, the other IMAGINE-NATION parks lit up the dusk, revealing the black outlines of hundreds of fruit bats or flying foxes making their way back to the trees in the botanical gardens.

  Brando Street started off bright and sleazy like Patphong Road in Bangkok and then darkened into what seemed like a garage sale for the Mayo Clinic, with d
iscounted offers for all sorts of surgical procedures, although it was hard to understand the hawkers and barkers because they yacked in different languages and many wore oxygen masks.

  The couple finally located the Museum of Notorious Americans between a boarded-up digital pet repair shop and a gender bender bar called Thingmakers. The building if not the enterprise as a whole appeared torn between being a Macao gambling den and Grant’s Tomb, with a strong hint of Redondo Beach Elks Club circa 1974. Admission was ludicrously expensive, but Clearfather was in no mood to quibble. Once inside, they found Olly Podrida, a tense and sweaty gentleman in a Hong Kong suit, deep in consultation with his principal tech head, trying to work out a problem with J. Robert Oppenheimer.

  “You look familiar,” the museumeer gruffed. “Meesy called and said you were on the way over. Want a cream soda?”

  “No . . . thanks. We’ve—I’m just after information.”

  Life-sized eidolons began to appear as if at a cocktail party in a dream. Clearfather was surprised that the outcast Detroit Tiger Denny McLain was among them.

  “El Doctoro says you’re interested in something from the private collection?”

  “He said you have artifacts from The Kingdom of Joy, the love cult in Texas,” Clearfather answered.

  Olly Podrida sprayed cream soda.

  “Something wrong?”

  Olly set down his drink and motioned for Clearfather to follow him through a mirrored door in the wall. Kokomo wandered over to check out Denny McLain. The hallway behind the mirror was cluttered with laser componentry. In a workshop Brigham Young and Mae West wavered in and out like divorcés on a blind date.