by Gibby Haynes
Once my dog is on the table, she sprays a small amount of clear mist toward his back. “It takes about three seconds for replication . . .” Now she picks up the palm-sized electronic device—some sort of controller. It’s got two knobs. The one on the left has three settings: Random, Recognize, and Another One. She clicks to Recognize.
“Right now it knows he’s a dog, or at least shaped like one. This one is for variations, so . . .”
She turns the other knob.
TRANSITION 22
After a single bright-all-over-his-body flash of light, Mr. Cigar starts changing into different dogs. Like hyper-realistic dogs. A Chihuahua, a Yorkie, a freakin’ Portuguese Water Dog.
“Holy shit, that’s unbelievable—”
“Believe it, sweetie!” Carla is laughing, switching from dog to dog . . . some hyper-realistic, some comical. The pit bull looked real as it was close to Cigar’s shape, but the pug was hilarious because it sort of looked like a pug but with a crazy stretched-out nose.
“Oh my God, Carla.”
“This is cracking me up . . . The system is really optimized for the human shape, but this dog thing is crazy. Can’t wait to try it on a horse. Wonder if I could make a horse look like a dog.”
I start laughing. I feel out of control. Slobbering. I fight to get a grip.
“Like I said, optimized for humans, so variations on the human face are insanely realistic,” she says.
She flips to RANDOM. Cigar turns bright white as pink polka dots travel slowly around his body. All the way to the left, white light all the way to right . . . crazy. On the far right it randomizes every time it goes past the four-o’clock position . . . Mr. Cigar’s entire body changes to black-and-white TV static for a second, then . . . crazy twisting photos, people’s heads, cartoons and what look to be pages from the Bible. It is so totally real and present and stunning that I can’t help but laugh out loud again.
“That was the setting they were using on the oak tree next to me and the furry primates!” I shout.
Carla looks curiously at me. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just kind of overwhelming.”
“Ha! Then watch this.” She adjusts the program knob to the right.
Mr. Cigar totally disappears. I mean like crazy disappears.
THE FUTURE IS PLASTIC
Wow!!!
My feet move forward toward the cheap fold-out table. Then my hands reach out to touch Mr. Cigar. He’s there, all right . . . You CAN see a momentary video-like aberration when I disturb his coat. Fucking amazing, though . . . almost perfect.
“It’s kind of creepy, right?” Carla murmurs, as if reading my mind. “Nobody knows about it but you, me, Dan and the government man . . . sounds like a song, doesn’t it? Ha ha. No, seriously, the public will know fairly soon concerning the basics of the technology but it will take a while before Joe Blow finds out about the camo thing. I mean, the public has to know and have access. I’m sure there are many applications for the system that even the inventor hasn’t thought of . . .” She trails off, staring into the big nothing, then after maybe four beats abruptly returns to the moment.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Check it out, Oscar,” she says in an almost sexy tone, obviously proud. She hands me the remote control. “Now: How does this work?” I ask.
“Simple,” Carla replies, “Two knobs . . . three settings on the left, one . . .” click, click, click “and its continuously variable on the right knob. That one gets more random as you rotate it in the clockwise direction, and you’ve used spray paint—in fact, there’s probably police surveillance footage of you using spray paint, sweetheart—anyway, it’s that simple. Just a half-second blast does an entire human body. You spray it on something from four to six inches away, then bam. You’re ready to go. Cool, huh? It’s effective for about eight hours then turns to dust the size of human skin cells.”
It’s nuts. I’m holding a Star Trek–looking wireless controller, staring at an empty table, but knowing my dog is actually there.
“Oh yeah,” Carla continues, “Oscar . . . to make Mr. Cigar visible again? Press that button in the middle; it toggles the video net on and off.”
I turn Cigar back on. A smile comes over my face, and I start toggling: off again then on again then rapidly on off on off . . . We both laugh a really good laugh, and I bet Cigar is wagging his tail.
“Now try to get him to lick your hand.” I reach toward where I think Cigar is and a partial pink dog tongue comes out of nowhere, folding itself against my hand.
Again, big laughter.
“We don’t do tongues at the Itty Bitty Corporation, but we’re working on it,” Carla says.
“Ha ha ha. We actually are working on it. The teeth are almost there, but to really sell somebody else’s face, for the time being, you got to keep your tongue in your mouth and your mouth shut.”
I smirk at her. “Nice, Carla.”
She hands me the spray can. “Give it a blast, Oscar. Just a little squirt against the wall . . . It’s an interesting effect. First you hold that center button in for three seconds to deactivate Mr. Cigar’s net and create a new one. Only one net at a time with this controller. Once a net is deactivated, you must reapply the aerosol. Or you are free to create a completely new net.”
“Got it.”
With spray can in one hand and remote in the other, I step toward the wall, giddy with amazement, none of it drug-induced . . . well, maybe some.
IF I DIE, FIND OUT WHY . . . EXIT THE TIGER
Before I spray—
The office door swings open. Cigar is still invisible. In walks Jack Ogilvie. Always tall and stately and suited, accompanied by a sharp-featured man in a darker suit and shades. (At whatever o’clock in the morning?) He has a huge scar/deformity on his left nostril. Changing gazes like a robot. No doubt the government/military contractor. Or at least the cartoon version.
“Hey, Carla, I suppose you saw us onstage tonight,” Jack says. “This is Colonel Pete Sanders . . .” He nods at nostril-scar dude.
I’m thinking, Wow. A real Colonel Sanders . . . can’t be. I’ve seen the Kentucky Fried Chicken commercials. Is this guy original recipe . . . ? No, gotta be extra crispy.
“Nice to meet you, Colonel Sanders!” Carla offers.
Invisible Cigar lets out a little growl. I don’t think anyone notices but me.
“I think I can speak for Pete here . . .” Jack continues. “We were both thoroughly impressed with the new technology, Carla. The aerosol application is stunning.” He turns to me, stiff and formal, his smile as usual: all teeth and no light behind the eyes. “Hello, Oscar. I’ve known Pete for going on twenty years now. He was a friend of your dad’s. We all went through basic together. Colonel San— Oh, Excuse, me. Pete. This is Gerry’s son, Oscar. He’s been working with me for over a year now.”
“It’s been a solid four years.”
“Okay, Oscar,” chuckles Jack. “I guess it has been four years . . .”
“Good to meet you, sir.” I extend a hand, finding it difficult to look directly into Nostril Man’s eyes. All I can see is his totally psychedelic left nose hole.
“Well, Colonel Sanders,” Carla interjects, “if you would like to see the camo mode close-up you’ve actually come at an opportune moment. I’m leaning a little more in the original recipe direction.”
I laugh. We two laugh. The colonel and Jack grimace.
Carla says, “Oscar, turn Mr. Cigar on.”
Cigar barks, this time more nervously. His net has not been deactivated. I click the outer button once, and out of the virtual ether, a tense and agitated dog—my dog—magically reappears. Ears back. Tail not wagging. Standing on the folding table beside us.
“Voilà,” says Carla.
“Ah ha,” says Jack.
ENTER THE DRAGON
“Oh my God,” says Nostril Man.
Mr. Cigar, highly agitated, growls, locking eyes with him.
The colonel, saucer eyed, lunges at Mr. Cigar, blurting out “Goddamn it, that’s government military property, Ogilvie . . .”
Cigar springs forward in return. I’ve never seen him so aggressive. He makes contact with all four legs squarely in the center of Colonel Sanders’s chest—who is knocked back a good four feet. Mr. Cigar dashes out the door and into the predawn night.
“Goddamn it, Jack . . . That thing’s immortal?” Nostril Man is sputtering.
Jack is stunned while Colonel Sanders whirls to face me.
“Is that your dog, son?”
Before I can respond, he comes at me, crazy-eyed, arms outstretched. I fake left and go right, stretching past Colonel Sanders, through the doorway, into the darkness after Mr. Cigar . . . with a last glimpse of Carla and Jack—silent faces slack with shock—I sprint behind a row of junipers, pursued by a mysteriously angry Colonel Pete Sanders. But he can’t keep up. Making a hard left through a cedar thicket, I lose Nostril Man and make record time to the beach and a hiding spot . . . Before I can even call out for Mr. Cigar, he appears instantly. We both run through shallow water, jumping behind the falls and into a room of sculpted limestone. Totally hidden and alone—lungs heaving, still clutching the remote and spray can—I peer through the cascading water to see if Colonel Sanders is still in pursuit.
A voice from behind asks: “Why so out of breath, dude?”
THIS IS CHINA CLIPPER
I whirl 180 degrees . . . to find Mike the DJ sitting cross-legged with a huge smile across his face. He’s holding up a clear plastic container of water. He crinkles the plastic a bit. “Want a drag, man? Looks like you could use it.”
My legs feel like jelly. “Holy shit, man, you scared the fuck out of me.”
“There is literally no fuck left in my body,” he replies.
I pant like Cigar would pant at noon on a summer day, hunched over, staring at him. “Jesus. What are you doing here?”
“Just chillin’.”
I grab the water and take three or four chugs.
“Whoa, man, there’s like half a gram in there . . .”
“Half a gram of Molly?!”
“Yep.”
“In this bottle?!”
His eyes narrow. “Well, significantly less now . . .”
“Ohhh noo!”
“Why?” He’s amused and puzzled. “What’s the deal?”
“I don’t do MDMA.”
“That’s weird, because I swear your dog dropped like a baggie full of it in my lap when we were coming here from the airport—”
“That’s different, man,” I say, panting again. “I just sell it, I don’t do it.”
“That’s weirder ’cause I swear you did a major blast in the car right before we got here.”
“Again, that’s totally different because I didn’t know I did it—”
“That doesn’t make any sense to me, but whatever . . . I guess you do it now. Jesus, man, I gotta get out of here.”
Nice to see you, Mike.
A DATE AT THE MOVIES
We dash out of the cave behind the falls, back to the beach, determined to get to the car and home before the twisted specter of psychedelics rears its brightly colored head once again.
Through the cedar tree and behind the junipers we make our way back toward the office then stop dead in our tracks fifty yards from my parking spot. We’re fairly stealthy, but the blacked-out late-model Ford parked next to my car isn’t . . . especially since Nostril Man is leaning on the hood smoking a cigarette talking on his phone. His head is on a swivel. What the fuck?
I would call the clown to come pick us up, but my phone is dead, plus Colonel Sanders has a clear view of everything in the parking lot, and with only about a dozen cars left, there is really no hope of evading notice. If I can’t get to my car, there is a golf cart and an ATV that we used for the event. The golf cart is useless, but the ATV would do nicely, as it has the keys and could easily go across the shallow waters at the falls and follow the creek upstream to the IBC headquarters.
The creek actually goes all the way through town, but the company headquarters just happen to be to the right of the creek, a few miles shy of the city limits. Probably ten or so miles from here. So if the ATV has enough gas, I can get there in a couple of hours, borrow Carla’s pickup truck then maybe crash out there and try to figure out what to do. Stolen money, crooked cops and Nostril Man, not to mention the MDMA, have my head spinning with both knowledge and confusion.
THE WINE IS LIKE YOUR HAIR
The tank is full, and coasting the ATV conveniently down a small hill is simple. I see Carla and Jack talking intently through the office window. Now, starting the engine and putting it in gear, I proceed unnoticed through the junipers toward the shallow crossing at Honeycomb Falls.
It’s a dark night, and I will definitely need the headlights to cut through the small amount of fog coming off the creek. Happily, I managed to escape the office with the remote control and aerosol can of video screen stuff. I put them in a small backpack I find on the four-wheeler then ease through the creek, turning to the left toward IBC. Mr. Cigar is standing on the gas tank, staring straight ahead.
We enter an unknown thicket of ginormous oak trees. I turn on the headlights and what was a forest of substantial oaks becomes a large, well-lit room with tree trunks. The lights have apparently changed my spatial orientation, but not nearly as much, I fear, as the MDMA that Mike the DJ just gave me. Where did that guy even come from? I fully expect to see him at any moment appear from behind a shadow and gleefully offer me a drug-laced candy bar or something.
At a small tributary I’m forced to go away from the main creek to avoid some rocks, and I find myself totally lost.
I crossed that tributary . . . Now I can’t find it or where I’m supposed to be, and the shadows are starting to get fuzzy and a little drifty. I wonder if I will ever not feel like this. Then for some reason I turn off the headlights and take the remote control out of the backpack.
THE BEST RAMEN IN TOWN
From what Carla said, I have several hours before Mr. Cigar deactivates (video-wise), so I press the center button of the remote and switch my dog to “light show” heavy on the RANDOM. Self-illuminated, he rainbows over the handlebars to the ground, both of us happily barking now. I track his psychedelic movements and confidently follow him through the forest with my headlamps turned off.
Wow, the controller for this thing is amazing—really quick response.
I can eaily make Mr. Cigar a jumble of lights or an orderly pattern . . . my choice. In the light show mode, one can toggle the variation knob back and forth, giving different morph looks every time you switch, thus making the device playble; almost like a musical instrument. When satisfied with a setting you can rotate whatever knob the opposite direction, predictably creating new colors and patterns or returning to previous ones. Hard to describe but oddly intuitive. Typical Carla Marks. Best way to put it is this thing is cool and in only a matter of minutes I’ve become fairly adept at switching Mr. Cigar back and forth from light show to Recognize, camouflage and beyond all in a highly predictable manner. This system is super entertaining, and I can see value in this technology beyond intended purpose. Like, I mean, it’s just fun to use. I totally grasp the implications of its camouflage feature, which doesn’t work quite as well in the dark but beyond that the technology is really too good to be a government secret. I mean, a dog-shaped TV screen? How cool is that? The Recognize feature on Cigar is particularly fun—like I can dial up different dogs and Cigar retains his shape but at the same time becomes a poodle or whatever, and at first he convincingly becomes a poodle, but if I study fairly closely I can tell something is going on. So I guess the technology isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough to f
ool most people . . . definitely.
Cigar jumps back and forth from the ATV gas tank to the ground barking, directing and flowing as we make our way upstream toward the IBC properly. The trees are huge in these woods, and the ATV easily chews up the terrain, while the outspread limbs and leaves seem to be pointing the way in this huge green room with a low ceiling and no walls or doors.
I can feel the effects of Mike’s water bottle, but they’re not nearly as intense as before. Mr. Cigar is all lit up; he keeps alternating riding or leading. Following the stream is almost dreamy . . . even trancelike. Effortless. Fortunately, or not, there is no family of dancing bears this time around. But I can’t stop thinking about Colonel Sanders’s nostril hole . . . and all of that stuff.
No car, no phone. Crooked cops. Basically riding a stolen vehicle through the woods high on Molly . . . to go steal another vehicle.
Kids these days.
LAST DAYS OF THE ROMANOFFS
I realize there is a certain segment of the population whose daily activities regularly include such things, but it’s just not my style. I am at least lucky the clown bust wasn’t seen by anybody that matters. I have a few grand in my checking account, so I am by no means broke. We had a significant percentage of the crowd pay at the door tonight, and that money, and more, was in the clown’s backpack when he got jumped by the police. That’s all gone now.
I guess it’s no big deal . . . My parents—or parent—are fucking rich. So, pitiful as it may be, I actually do have a trust fund (from Dad’s life insurance). So I’m okay. I wish I could say the same for the Lytle: he never has any money, he drives a beat-up truck (awesome motor) but you can bet he doesn’t have a trust fund. In fact, I’m sure he doesn’t have a trust fund, because he lives with me or at least most of the time he lives with me—and I would know.