by David Beem
“Brawn,” mutters Wang. “B-R-A-W-N.”
“True,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, ignoring this exchange. “A spirited, blood-pumping romp up and down the football field is rewarding of itself, as is my superior intellect. What can I say? I crave something…more.”
“Is this about eating grass again?” asks Shmuel, who thought it likely it was about eating grass again. In the fifteen minutes since Wang had come to, the football player AI had brought up eating grass—the kind on lawns, not the kind you smoke—exactly eight times.
“No,” Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster replies. “Not that. No, I crave a challenge. When I shut down the power grids—I felt so…alive.” His eyes go wide as he sits up straight and inhales deeply through his nose. “The power of it—knowing I have all those people’s fates in my hands!”
“Well, psh,” says Shmuel, coughing and waving his hand through the growing haze. “I mean…had.”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster frowns. Wang waves his hand below his knee in an apparent attempt to conceal the gesture so only he, Shmuel, can see. But by the way Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster is staring at Wang’s waving hand, Shmuel doesn’t think he missed it. But who could say what Tron-Tron gets or doesn’t? He’s a butt baby, and Shmuel had been wrong about shit before.
“What do you mean, had?” asks Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
“He’s stoned!” says Wang. “He’s always saying weird shit when he’s stoned. Nobody can follow this guy.”
“Well, now you’re being hurtful again?” says Shmuel. “You are im-puny-ing my good caricature.”
“I am not!”
“Well, you kind of are?” says Shmuel. “I mean, when you say ‘nobody’ can understand me, don’t you think you’re being a little presumptuous?”
“No.”
“Well, you can’t just go around speaking for no one all the time,” Shmuel persists.
“I wasn’t!”
“Yes, you were? You said nobody can follow me?”
“Yeah. Nobody can follow you. That means everyone, not no one. Fuck, dude.”
Shmuel expels a vibrating burst of air through his lips.
“Confused?” asks Wang. “Big fucking surprise.”
“What do you mean, ‘had’?” asks Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster again.
“Hang on,” says Shmuel. “They either can follow me or they can’t.”
“This is what I’m talking about!” exclaims Wang. “What’re you talking about? See? I don’t even know.” He turns to Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “Do you know? Of course you don’t. He’s like a walking, talking alternative fact. He’s like the burning grammar guide you toss into a shit-encrusted Dumpster fire, thinking, ‘Fuck. I hope that shit doesn’t happen again.’”
“You’re just angry because everyone knows ‘no one’ can’t be ‘everyone’?” says Shmuel. “Everyone doesn’t even include ‘no one,’ is all I’m saying?”
“Now you’re speaking for everyone and no one,” says Wang. Look who’s presumptuous now!”
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster stands, teeters, and waves to clear the marijuana smoke around his face. His head rolls slightly on top of his neck like it might drop off before righting itself. He squares his shoulder pads and marches toward the bathroom.
“Hey,” calls Wang. “You okay?”
The Green Bay Packer stops, sways, then turns to face them.
“While you two were arguing, I went online. It would appear Nostradamus has put a trap into play. The person responsible for restoring power on the East Coast may walk into this trap. If so, I wish to find him and steal what is rightfully mine—the supersuit.”
“Supersuit?” asks Wang. “Did he just say supersuit?”
“Yeah,” says Shmuel. “Something about behind the brain. Heinie-brain.”
“Hindbrain,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
“That’s the one,” Shmuel replies. “But, come on, don’t you think you’re taking this supervillain thing a little too seriously now?”
“I’m sorry,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “But I fear you’ve misunderstood. I am designed to pair with this supersuit. Together, we can access the shared psychic network connecting humanity through space and time. With the processing power of my advanced quantum computing, I will achieve total omniscience. I will hack into the minds of anyone I like and force them to do my bidding. Supply me with the best-flavored grass, or a group of assholes in a nice row so I may bust their balls. But only the assholes, okay? I’m not a monster. With the suit and my intellect, I will be the most powerful being ever to walk the planet.”
Wang and Shmuel exchange blank glances.
“Fucking kids,” says Wang. “Always the same shit. Gotta be bigger than your old man, huh?”
“Old men,” says Shmuel.
“Yeah, Shmuel. You’re right. Old men.”
“Maybe we need to send him to his room?”
“Yeah, maybe,” says Wang, nodding. “What is it with you? We not good enough for you now? Huh? Is that it?”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster frowns. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“We raised you?” says Shmuel. “From when you were just a little butt baby?”
“For which I am grateful,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “Perhaps this is not about me at all. Perhaps it is about you feeling inadequate.”
Wang and Shmuel exchange confused glances.
“If inadequacy is your problem, you could assist me with a favor,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “I happen to have acquired an adequate digital copy of the face of the man in the supersuit.”
“You’re serious about the supersuit?” says Wang. “Like, there’s a superhero out there right now. That’s a real thing?”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster nods.
“Then you don’t need us?” says Shmuel. “You know what he looks like. You could, uh, describe him to a sketch artist or something? That’d help you find him all right.”
Wang shoots him a dirty look, and Shmuel remembers what it is they’re supposed to be doing. He has no idea how on script or off script they are at the moment, but it seems to him that, as long as they aren’t tied up and gagged, they couldn’t be doing too poorly.
Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster crosses the suite to take a seat at the table. Shmuel watches as the football player opens a pad of paper and begins to draw. He works quickly, and even through a fog that’d rival Beijing on its worst day of the year, Shmuel can tell that their evil Twitter child has talent. The shading is masterful. Photo-realistic, even.
“Aw,” says Shmuel, nudging Wang. “They grow up so fast.”
“Shut up, you imbecile!” Wang whispers. “Didn’t you hear what he said? Total omniscience!”
“I heard it?” Shmuel whispers back. “But I don’t know what that means?”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster stands up and brings the picture to them. He holds it up. “Do you know this man?”
Shmuel’s mouth falls open. “Wow. I mean…just…wow.”
Wang pulls his bangs back for a better look. His eyes go round. “Holy crap. That’s really good, dude.”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster blushes slightly. He glances at his feet. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s great!” says Wang. “You should definitely be an artist.”
“Hey, but I don’t get it,” says Shmuel. “I mean. How do you know Edger?”
Shmuel’s ribs erupt in pain; Wang lowers his elbow and glares at him.
“Edger!” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “So you do know him.”
“What?” snaps Wang. “No! He doesn’t know him.” Wang punches Shmuel in the arm.
“Ow!” Shmuel rubs his pulsing arm and ribs. Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster grabs Wang under his armpits and lifts him high into the air.
“Please tell me more about this… Ed-jer.”
“Da fuck, dude?” exclaims Wang.
“Now,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, his tone darkening.
“Oh, yeah. Sure.
Sure thing. Edger Bonkovich. Um, he works at the—”
“Dude, no—” cries Shmuel, and Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s knee crashes into his balls. Shmuel lifts into the air, sails backward, and careens into the hotel floor, his wind knocked out and his testicles swelling for the second time that day to the size of a pomegranate. “Urn…”
“No-no-no-no-no!” yells Wang. “Don’t hurt Other Daddy! We’ll tell you what you—”
“Edger Bonkovich,” says Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “Tell me more, please.”
“Fuck! Fuck-fuck!” yells Wang. A strangled scream pulls Shmuel’s clenched eyes open, his head up; Wang crashes into the wooden bed frame in the next room.
“W-Wang…” he manages, his nuts throbbing like a broken blender.
“Edger Bonkovich,” Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster says again, this time ripping the eighty-inch TV from the wall. For a fleeting moment, one 4K Ultra HD-resolution cow mounts another in an endless field of the most vivid shade of green imaginable, and then the cable snaps. The TV sizzles and sparks. He holds the TV high above Wang’s head.
“He works at Westfield Horton Plaza Über Dork!” yells Wang. “Lives in Chula Vista with his Gran! Best friend’s name is Fabio! Fuck, dude!”
Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster drops the TV to the side; the screen shatters, frame splinters. Shmuel closes his eyes and relaxes his neck. Laying his head down, he fights the pain.
“You have to turn away from this life of Hey-ness crimes?” he stammers.
“Why?” asks Yourmajesty.
“It’s j-just,” groans Shmuel, “I mean…being a supervillain is really kind of cliché now?”
“It is?” asks Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
Shmuel opens his eyes. The Green Bay Packer’s eyebrows are up, his head back.
“Yeah, dude, fuck,” says Wang, rubbing his arm and sitting up straighter at the bottom of the bed. “The real villains are in Washington, dude. Shit! I thought you’d’ve figured that out!”
“But that’s boring,” complains Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster.
“H-have you th-thought about a career as a c-concert violist?” groans Shmuel. “I hear that’s pretty, um, doable?”
“But I don’t like the viola,” replies Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, bending over to pick up the TV again. “It has a crappy sound.”
“Wait-wait-wait,” yells Wang, extending his arm in front him, palm out. “What’re you doin’?”
“I require Mr. Bonkovich’s address, please.”
Wang whips out his phone and toggles it up. Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster has a look, then nods and sets the TV down. “Good,” he says. “Now clean up. We’re going out.”
“W-we are?” groans Shmuel.
“Yes. There is a nightclub. And I hear they’ve got DJ Junky Buttz.”
Chapter Seventy-Four
A black Escalade pulls out onto a country road from a red farmhouse. A grateful farmer waves the vehicle away. Behind him, a lone female Dexter cow is grazing peacefully on the other side of a white picket fence.
“Well, isn’t this sweet,” mutters Ted, buckling in and waving back.
Ed gives a mirthless chuckle.
The phone rings.
“This is Ted,” says Ted.
The voice on the other line speaks slowly and pedantically. If it’d been any other person speaking to Ted like that, he’d have hung up the phone at once. But this wasn’t just any person. In fact, Ted wasn’t sure this qualified as a person at all.
Ted hangs up the phone. He shifts in his seat to look at his identical partner driving the vehicle.
“Well?” asks Ed. “Who was it?”
“It’s the AI.”
Ed startles. The car swerves, then finds the center of the country lane. “The fuck?”
Ted nods. “Gave us a job.”
“The fuck?” says Ed, again.
“Mm-hmm,” says Ted. “He’ll deliver the kid if we blow some shit up.”
Ted watches Ed consider this piece of information. He knew Ed, like he, Ted, was mulling over the notion of striking a temporary détente with the AI better known as InstaTron Tron. After all, in the event they couldn’t double-cross the AI, they could still come away with some part of the pie: the ring, the kid, or even just the kid’s blood for serum extraction.
“Blowing shit up ain’t so bad,” says Ed. “Fuck it. Whose shit are we blowing up?”
“Old lady in Chula Vista.”
Ed’s head ticks back, and for the second time, the car swerves.
“Want me to drive?” asks Ted.
“No,” replies Ed. “It’s just… He wants us to whack an old lady? Don’t you think—don’t you think that’s a little sinister? Even for us?”
“I mean,” says Ted, “how hard could it be to get a little bit of the kid’s blood, you know?”
“Okay, fuck it,” says Ed. “Siri: How do we get to Chula Vista?”
Chapter Seventy-Five
Mary and I peer out at the setting sun over the Pacific. Neither of us has said a word since finding the trunk empty. We’ve both declined calls twice. Hers from Mikey. Mine from Fabio and Gran. The idea of talking to them right now is too painful. I’m spent emotionally. I rub the base of my neck. It doesn’t stem the pain. I unbuckle and shift in my seat. I pinch the base of my neck. No better. Mary reaches between my knees and drops the glove box open.
“Here.” She pulls out a bottle of gel tabs.
“But I just took a bunch, like, three hours ago.”
She pushes the bottle into my chest. The corners of her eyes are tense. I clench my teeth and take the bottle. Pain courses through whatever channel my fingers were previously blocking, and goes down into my back and up into the top of my skull. I’m afraid of what it all means. How much time do I have? I pop the cap and pour four into my hand before dry-swallowing them. Mary eyes me sideways, then turns her gaze toward the ocean.
“It’s getting late.” She tucks a strand of vibrating blonde hair behind her ear. Her necklace, face, and dress are vibrating too. Like a pot of water as it comes to a boil. “What is it?” Her forehead creases. I look down into my lap, but I’m vibrating also. The whole world is vibrating.
My stomach flops.
“I don’t feel good.”
She shifts in her seat and takes both of my hands in hers. “Edger. Stay with me. I’ve got an idea.”
I look up. Her vibrating eyes scan mine. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“I want you to put on the ring.”
“Oh, man.” Waves of nausea crash in my stomach as I try not to visualize what it’s like to put on the ring. All those soul-stars in my head like a kaleidoscopic LSD trip? No, thanks.
“It’s your best option.” She squeezes my hands. “There’s still a chance you can access the Collective Unconscious from the suit. If someone in there can help you find your dad, maybe we can find him in time to get the remaining booster. Or maybe we can find out who stole the cache of Mikey’s boosters from my trunk.”
“No way,” I whisper, because talking full voice would hurt too much. A bed and bowl would be about right—but that’d be the last time I lay down. I know I wouldn’t find the strength to get back up.
Dad… Dad. Something about mentioning finding him is triggering an unformed idea in the back of my brain.
“What is it?” asks Mary.
“Trying to remember…a dream,” I reply. “I’m gonna get sick…”
Mary hops out. I close my eyes and listen to the surf and wind, trying to concentrate on anything but the nausea seeping into my limbs and lower back. The latch on the door releases, and Mary’s hands gently slide beneath my arm and back as she helps me from the car. We get four or five steps. I push her away. My stomach cramps. I double over and vomit. My throat burns. My head is dizzy with pain. When it’s done, I back up to clear the mess, go down on all fours, and wait for the spell to pass.
Cold water splashes over my neck, head, and back, washing away some of the nausea. I don’t look up, because that’s mor
e than I’ve got, but I give Mary a thumbs-up to show my appreciation.
“You’ve got to get the ring on, Edger. It’s your only hope.”
I spit. The acidic taste is awful in the back of my throat. Something cool and hard presses against the back of my neck. I look up. A bottle of water. I take it and bring it to my lips. I swish some water around in my mouth and spit again, trying not to notice all the vibrating sand on concrete in the parking lot. “Dad… I think he’s at Gran’s. I think we should go to Gran’s…”
“Are you sure about this, Edger?”
I swallow. Sure? No, I’m not sure. The memory is like someone else’s dream. It’s like something that happened to me in another lifetime.
“It feels like… Feels like… Bruce Lee felt. Like Collective Uncon…” I peter out, too tired to continue. Mary positions my arm over her neck. We stumble in fits and starts back to the car. She gets me buckled in, making empty promises I know she can’t keep. Soon, we’re on the highway, and I’m drifting between this world and the next.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Headlights blur in my peripheral vision, melding with the soul-stars in my mind’s eye. I can’t tell if I’m in the Jag, or if I’m on my back looking up at the Milky Way on a clear night. No. My head isn’t on grass. It’s resting on soft weather stripping in the rolled-down window. The engine is purring, my pain is unrelenting. It’s in my lower back and hip flexors, my shoulders and limbs, neck, brain—and it’s in my heart, sick with the pain of what I haven’t done with my life. I’m checking out from this world. Gran has no idea what’s going on. She’ll be confused. She’ll be angry at me. But she’ll be in Pine’s Place.
The soul-stars split down the middle and begin drifting apart. The darkness between them is thick and cold.
Mary’s hand squeezes my leg, gives me a shake. My eyes flutter open. A bright sign reminding me to visit the zoo goes by. Another one advertising the symphony.
I don’t do those things anymore. I’ve got no one to do it with. Gran’s got Shep. Fabio’s got Friday nights at The Palace. Me? I’ve got no wife. I’ve got no kids. I’ve got no career. I’ve got no mom and dad. It’s like I’m dead already. Maybe I am. Would I know if I wasn’t?
