Champ resumed. “So the bartender says, ‘I feel sorry for you,’ and the cat says, ‘It’s not so bad. Last year I swallowed two gay mice and was burping semen for a month.’
“The bartender says, ‘How’d you get them out?’
“‘Republican mice.’
“‘How’d you get them out?’
“‘Stomach tax.’”
The motes dispersed and cohered to form
the outside of the nightclub. The lights were turned off, and the word closed shone upon the living wall. Driverless jetbuses sped across the multi-tiered streets as Eagle and Champ walked to the antique motorcycle.
“You did good tonight,” said the re-bodied man.
“Thanks.” The amateur comedian sucked on a vapor tube, eliciting a trilling B-flat. “A couple of duds in there, but I got some laughs.”
“A lot of laughs. I liked that stuff with the cat the best.” Eagle turned away and said, “I’ve decided it’s time to stop all this.”
Champ did not understand what his father meant. Dragging on his vapor tube, he asked, “You mean coming to my shows? You don’t have to come to all of them—I know you’ve heard lots of these jokes before.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. What I mean—what I’m talking about—is living in the robot…being this thing. I want to stop.”
The amateur comedian paled. “Is it broken? Is something wrong with it? We could get it fixed if—”
“I haven’t felt my hands in a few years…but that’s not why I made my decision.”
Silent and frightened, Champ stared at his father. “What’s wrong?” he asked weakly.
Eagle touched his gelware fingertips to the leather motorcycle seat and then slid them to the chrome gas tank. “Potato…Butch…Pedro—my friends are all dead. I watched them go, one after another.” The re-bodied man looked at his son and said, “I don’t know how long the mannequin will last…but…well…you’re not so young anymore and there’re some things I just don’t ever want to see.”
Champ’s hands shook. “So you’re just going to…to shut down again?”
“No,” said Eagle. “I’m gonna end it permanent this time.”
“No!” exclaimed Champ. “Please.”
The brilliant white light of a passing jetbus inflamed the tableau, illuminating the amateur comedian’s white hair, glimmering eyes, and wrinkled face. Soon, the vehicle was gone, and the night returned.
Eagle said, “You enjoy doing these shows, and you’ve got a great wife, a cute girl and an awesome boy. Seeing you this happy—that’s the only thing I wanted before I checked out.” The re-bodied man turned his lenses upon his son and added, “There’s a reason I named you Champ.”
Holding back tears, the amateur comedian protested, “But, Dad, there’s—”
“Let’s not argue about it, ’cause you’re not gonna change anything—I made the decision. It’s done. Tell Molly good-bye, and tell Gale and Richard that I went to work in outer space, or something else exciting that makes them happy.”
Champ sniffed, wiped tears from his eyelashes and nodded his head.
The father and son hugged each other.
At the exact same time, the two Sapplines said, “I love you.”
The motes dispersed and then rendered
Eagle Sappline, seated upon his speeding motorcycle. Sunlight shone like an oily explosion upon the chromium mannequin, model 8M, from which torn-up latex skin trailed in long tattered ribbons. The street was empty.
Eagle Sappline steered his two-wheeler directly toward the Corpus Chrome, Incorporated Memorial. Sunlight glared brilliantly upon the giant chrome kidney, blinding the re-bodied man, but he did not close his irises.
The roar of Eagle Sappline’s engine sounded like the proclamation of an angry lion, the growl of an attack dog, the final explosion that destroyed the Empire State Building, three dissonant flutes, the hand of a sixth-floor champion slapping the cheek of a fifth-floor foe, a clenched fist breaking the cartilage in another man’s nose, a rocket impacting a gelatinous wall, the mewling of an obese cat, a trapdoor shutting, the gurgle of an upset stomach, the groans of orgasmic lovers, thrusters igniting, the shouts of those who saw the CCI Building fall, the metallic clank of two crossed katanas, a popped champagne cork, a joyous symphony, the applause of an enthusiastic audience, a coffin lid closing, a newborn girl crying, the beating of a heart and the chirping of the last functional mannequin in the world.
Also available from S. Craig Zahler:
Wraiths of the Broken Land
A brutal and unflinching tale that takes many of its cues from both cinema and pulp horror, Wraiths of the Broken Land is like no Western you’ve ever seen or read. Desperate to reclaim two kidnapped sisters who were forced into prostitution, the Plugfords storm across the badlands and blast their way through Hell. This gritty, character-driven piece will have you by the throat from the very first page and drag you across sharp rocks for its unrelenting duration. Prepare yourself for a savage Western experience that combines elements of Horror, Noir and Asian ultra-violence.
About the Author
Florida-born New Yorker S. Craig Zahler worked for many years as a cinematographer and a catering chef, while playing heavy metal and creating some strange theater pieces. His debut western novel, A Congregation of Jackals was nominated for both the Peacemaker and the Spur awards, and his western screenplay, The Brigands of Rattleborge, garnered him a three-picture deal at Warner Brothers and topped the prestigious Black List. In 2011, a horror movie that he wrote in college called, Asylum Blackout (aka The Incident) was made and picked up by IFC Films after a couple of people fainted at its Toronto premiere. His horror western novel Wraiths of the Broken Land was published by Raw Dog Screaming Press in 2013, and he is currently at work on his directorial debut Bone Tomahawk.
A drummer, lyricist and songwriter, Zahler is half of the doomy epic metal band Realmbuilder (which is signed to I Hate Records of Sweden) and the black metal project Charnel Valley (whose two albums were released by Paragon Records). He studies kung-fu and is a longtime fan of animation (hand drawn and stop-motion), heavy metal (all types), soul music, genre books (especially, horror, crime and hard sci-fi), old movies, obese cats and asymmetrical robots.
To learn more about S. Craig Zahler, visit scraigzahler.com and rawdogscreaming. com.
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