Earworm

by Aaron Thomas Milstead

  “How so?” Nicky asked. “He seems like the only good one on the whole island.”

  “The great deceiver,” Bennie said. “He’s constantly sabotaging their attempts to escape the island and obviously he’s dressed for the part. Red shirt . . . ”

  It went on like that for like two hours with the guys laying out more and more outlandish pop culture theories while they got obnoxiously drunk. I sat there quietly nodding and occasionally interjecting, but I was uncomfortable and felt like an outsider. Eventually, when the conversation devolved to talk about what famous actresses everyone would sleep with, my interest waned. My inner voice was quiet and for the first time I realized that I kind of missed it.

  At some point I realized that Savage was staring at me with narrow glazed eyes. I’d seen that expression many times before and knew that it meant he had gotten drunk enough to act upon his mean streak. “I think I’d better get going . . . Thanks for a good time, guys.”

  Savage reached out and put a rough hand on my arm. “Don’t go yet, Rip.” His words were slurred and contained menace.

  I pulled my arm away. “Sorry, it was fun, but Dare wants me to get home. You know women.”

  Savage nodded. “Yeah, I know women. But Rip . . . I want to put this delicately, but I heard that . . . I heard you guys were separated.”

  “That’s out of line,” Fieldy said. “Ripley, never you mind him.”

  “Where did you hear that?” I asked. I quickly added, “It’s bullshit.”

  Savage shrugged and said, “I’m not at liberty to reveal my source, but I believe them. They say you are living out back in the pool house.”

  “He’s had too much to drink,” Bennie said.

  “I’d say,” Fieldy said. “Jesus, mate, I thought weed was supposed to chill you out.”

  “Not when you chase it with whiskey,” Bennie said.

  “Fuck you guys,” Savage said. “Aren’t we all boys? When did everyone develop a mangina?”

  My head was spinning. How had he found out? Somehow hearing someone else speak the truth made it feel real for the first time. I quickly stood and my legs were wobbly. At first, I was afraid that I might pass out, then I suddenly became very calm. I felt my mind drift up toward the ceiling and I had the strange sensation that I was watching myself. I heard myself say, “Never mind good old Savage. He’s an enigma wrapped inside of an idiot.”

  “What?” Savage asked.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I continued. “Dumb guys can be kind of endearing. It’s the dumb guys who think they are smart who are dangerous.”

  “Oh, snap,” Bennie said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But it’s not his fault. His head is just too small to hold a lot of thoughts and when he has a new thought an old one falls out. In this case he forgot that he’s fucking with the wrong guy.”

  Savage stared up at me like I’d slapped him across the face.

  Fieldy laughed and said, “Mess with the bull . . . ”

  I grinned and said, “He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.”

  Bennie smiled appreciatively and said, “That’s Winston Churchill.”

  I nodded “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening . . . but this wasn’t it.”

  Nicky snapped his fingers. “Groucho Marx.”

  I heard myself say, “He has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends.”

  “Oscar Wilde,” Bennie said. “Damn, Ripley, you are on fire.”

  “What’s your problem, man?” Savage was turning red. “We don’t see you for weeks and you suddenly grow a pair of balls?”

  “Yeah, it has been a while,” I said. “I felt miserable without you; it was almost like having you there.”

  Even Nicky laughed as Savage sat there in sullen silence. It was like I was also a silent observer to myself; I hadn’t even heard most of the lines before and wouldn’t have known their origin if the boys weren’t there to point them out. If nothing else, I knew when to make a dramatic exit; I turned and made a swift departure with the laughter of my friends still echoing in the den.

  Heifer whines could be human cries.

  Closer comes the screaming knife.

  This beautiful creature must die.

  This beautiful creature must die.

  A death for no reason,

  And death for no reason is MURDER.

  And the flesh you so fancifully fry,

  Is not succulent, tasty or kind.

  It’s death for no reason

  And death for no reason is MURDER.

  —The Smiths

  8.

  Bogart and Bloody Hands

  I was on a high as I left Savage’s house, but I also realized I was starving. I had pretty much boycotted the Super Wal-Mart, but desperate times called for desperate measures. I followed my gut and ended up standing in the meat section. My unholy visions had made me regret ending my no red meat fast, but as I stood there looking down at the cold flesh all bets were suddenly off. I loaded up my cart with boneless chuck eye steak, beef brisket, fat Angus patties, bacon wrapped tenderloin filets . . . you name it. The bloodier the package the more it appealed to my intense hunger. I left the store with enough meat to make two Frankenstein cows.

  I wasn’t sure how to cook it, but when I opened the first package I realized it was a non-issue. I tore into the first steak, chewed it with savage abandon, and licked up the bloody puddle on my counter before I moved on to the brisket. It was a brutal display and if anyone had been watching they would have probably thought I was some kind of insane cannibal. My kitchen was soon littered with empty packages and my face and shirt were red as I climbed into bed and passed out.

  I startled as I awoke the next day, vaguely aware that I had been dreaming of falling from a great height with the harsh ground rushing up to meet me. I took a deep breath and realized that physically I had never felt better in my entire life. Now, you have hung in there during a fairly self-indulgent personal narrative thus far, but rest assured the payoff is almost here.

  I stood up from the bed. As I stared down at my bloody hands and recalled the feeding carnage that had capped off my previous night, I heard someone say “Well, kid, I have finally arrived.”

  I knew, even as I quickly searched my bedroom, that the voice had come from within. More intimate than buds shoved into my ear canals. More clear and precise than Dolby. I sat back down and muttered, “Fucking shit.”

  Now that’s no proper greeting, kid. I’d prefer if you called me Bogart.

  Bogart. I’d recently heard that name before, but where?

  You don’t have the best memory, kid, do you? It was just a few days ago in . . .

  The dream. The one with the Toy Story character. Woody.

  There you go, kid. Let’s get past that mess though. If you have to personify me, please choose something less ridiculous than a toy cowboy. I’ll take: Bruce Lee, Muhammed Ali, Jim Brown, Sean Connery, Clint Eastwood, Charles Bronson . . . Hell, I’d take Elvis over a penis puppet.

  Bogart? Like Humphrey Bogart? (Just to clarify, my responses to the inner voice were not audible. It was an inner monologue that my internal intruder could hear as if they were spoken aloud).

  The thing inside my head chuckled and the high-pitched sound reverberated, making me a bit queasy. Just like Humphrey Bogart, kid. Good for you for knowing him. My last host was a fucking Millennial, so his reference list was disappointingly short. He preferred to pretend that I was someone known as the Situation.

  Did you know Humphrey Bogart? I asked him.

  Intimately. Easily my favorite host . . . . Other than you of course. If you don’t mind, visualize me as the Bogart from the Big Sleep. Suit and tie with a fedora and an expression like I could bitch slap someone at any moment.

  So, I realized, I’m officially insane. My brain is Swiss cheese and my only consolation is that my schizophrenic voice is friendly. A kind voice to entertain me as I prepare to die; rather than Jesus or the devil I get H
umphrey Bogart.

  That’s fucking dark, kid. I figured I gave you enough of a shot of dopamine to counter your naturally morose tendencies.

  Bogart was right. Despite my dark thoughts I really did feel optimistic. Borderline euphoric. I asked him: what could you possibly be other than a delusion?

  I’m as real as you are, kid, though I can completely understand why you might doubt your sanity or my authenticity. There’s no good way to prepare you for the reality of your situation. I tried to soften it by speaking to you in your dreams and during your most suggestable waking moments. Songs in particular . . .

  Those stupid songs? Randy Newman? You are responsible for those intolerable ear worms.

  Intolerable ear worm? He chuckled again. That might be the most accurate description of me that I’ve ever heard.

  My mind was racing as I tried to process what Bogart could possibly be. If he wasn’t a schizophrenic delusion, then what could I be dealing with? As I flashed on the various intrusions I had recently been forced to deal with, my mind settled on my toilet and the horrifying . . . .

  Sick shit, right kid?

  My God . . . is that what you are? Are you atelekinetic alien giant lamprey eel that is living inside my rectum?

  Bogart chuckled. No way, kid.

  Thank God. I was afraid that you were an internal parasite.

  Well . . . Here’s the deal. What I’ve learned over the years is that it can sometimes be difficult for a host to accept the reality of their new situation. I’ve developed a system that works pretty well. My first step is, as I’m still growing and acclimating, to speak through the subconscious. Dreams. Thoughts.

  Ear Worms.

  Exactly, kid. You get the gist of it. My second step is to prepare my host for my more literal presence. It’s kind of like telling a sexual partner that you gave them AIDS, but then once they’ve freaked out you tell them you were just kidding and really all they have is herpes.

  That’s fucked up.

  Maybe so. Forgive the analogy, my last host was kind of an asshole and some of his thought tendencies are still lingering. My point is that the giant lamprey monsters was my way of telling you that you have AIDS . . . but you don’t.

  Are you saying you are herpes?

  Like I said, an unfortunate analogy, but . . . yeah. I’m herpes.

  What does that literally mean?

  Okay, enough dancing around. Do you remember when you found that dead guy?

  It’s not something I’d likely forget.

  Yeah. Well, do you remember when you leaned down to check him for a heartbeat? As optimistic a move as I’ve ever seen, by the way.

  Yeah, I remember.

  Well, that dead guy was my host. His brain was still filled with some electrical impulses, but they were fading fast. I had to transfer quickly or I was going to die. I was praying for a paramedic or a cop or . . . the options were limited, he wasn’t a very popular guy. My point is that you came around at just the right time. You saved me, kid.

  That tickle in my ear . . .

  You got it. That was me.

  I was struck with a horrible realization. I asked Bogart: Did you crawl inside my ear? Did you crawl out of his ear and into mine?

  Bingo. That’s just what I did.

  I stuck a pinkie into my ear and dug around. I couldn’t feel anything moving inside. I vigorously shook my head. Nothing. ““Where are you?”

  I’m in deep, kid. Way deeper than you realize. Did you know there are no pain receptors in the brain?

  You crawled into my brain?

  That’s a crude way to put it, kid. I crawled into your ear, but I integrated myself into your brain. Snuggled in.

  I don’t understand. What are you? What do you look like?

  That’s not important, kid.

  I want to know. I need to.

  I’m indescribable. I really am. There aren’t proper words for what I am.

  Try.

  Stubborn, aren’t you? If I were to put it in terms you’d understand then I’d say . . . Well, imagine a spider mixed with a roach.

  You look like a spider-roach? And you are inside my brain?

  That’s like a blunt and unfair way to put it.

  I’m quoting you.

  Yeah, that’s basically what I am and that’s exactly where I am.

  I was overcome with horror and repulsion. I had been and was being violated on a level that defies description. I was being brain raped. None of my thoughts, memories, or desires were private. I was being consumed from the inside. I was being raped and eaten.

  Bogart answered my thoughts: That’s not exactly true, kid. Some of your thoughts are buried very deep and even if I could process them all, I wouldn’t want to. You’ve led a very mundane life, kid. It’s pretty much a snore fest in here. As for me eating you . . . You are putting a negative spin on it. I’m not a parasite, I’m a symbiote.

  How are you helping me?

  Don’t you know? It might have been good fortune for me that you happened across me when you did, but for you it was more like divine intervention. Brace yourself kid, but you were . . .

  Dying.

  Worse than that, kid. Everything that lives is dying, but in your case . . . I’d say you had less than a week left before your body would have shut down if I hadn’t crawled inside you and gotten to work.

  Is that true?

  Absolutely. You saved me, but I immediately returned the favor. I’ve been inside corpses with healthier brains than you had. It took every trick in my book to put you together.

  Yeah, but for how long? A week? Two weeks? A month if I’m lucky?

  You got it wrong, kid. A newborn doesn’t even have your new life expectancy.

  My mind was reeling. “So, I’m cured. You cured me?”

  That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And more than that. I made you better than you ever were before. As long as you have me . . .

  Wait. You mean you have to stay inside me? From now on?

  If you want to put it that way, kid.

  My mind flashed on that ridiculous article about garlic and I suddenly realized why it had been pulled up on my computer while I was asleep. I was also pretty sure I knew how to get rid of Bogart.

  You don’t want to even think about that, kid. Your brain is good now, but if you evict me it all goes away. I left that information on your computer as a warning until I was strong enough to speak to you directly. We are in this together now.

  We? I’m sorry, but I don’t even know what you are. A delusion? A demon? An alien?

  Those are all just labels. Why is it that people always want to categorize everything?

  My mind shifted away from the conversation within my head and I realized I had been pacing around my bedroom the entire time. That alien voice in my head was little more than a whisper, but my internal voice had been shouting back at it. I took a deep breath and more calmly responded to Bogart, “I just need some time to process this. Is there any chance you could go away? If not physically then at least mentally . . . Do you have to be in my thoughts all of the time?”

  Not at all, kid. You got boundaries and I respect that. Some folks can take me being up front 24/7 and others are far more private. With one of my hosts we had like a safe word. She’d say, pineapple, and that would let me know that my presence was welcome. When she wasn’t interested in speaking then I kept to myself. Slept it off.

  You’ve mentioned your other hosts several times. Why have you gone through so many people if you are so helpful to them? I thought I suddenly had this long-life expectancy.

  Theoretically.

  Theoretically?

  Yeah, kid. I can cure cancer, but a bullet to the head . . .

  What bullets?

  Do you have to be so damned literal? I’m just giving you an example. Bullet. Axe. Electrocution . . .

  Throat slit from ear to ear.

  First thing you have to recognize is that by your understanding of time, I am very old. Ancient even. I�
��ve been around long enough to go through several hosts.

  My understanding? Is yours different?

  Yeah. Based on the life expectancy of my kind I’d be like a tween.

  Tween?

  It’s like the age between a child and a teenager. Like the age where they are into boy bands and Twilight and practice French kissing with their teddy bears.

  You liked Twilight?

  Quit being dense. I’m saying I’m a tween relative to your life span. We need to work on our communication.

  I still don’t understand why my life expectancy is good now, but only theoretically. I don’t have to worry about anyone trying to kill me. I might not have many friends, but the flip side is that I don’t have any enemies either. Excluding my mother-in law.

  You ever heard that saying: your enemies are my enemies?

  You mean: the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

  No, in this case what I’m saying is that my enemies are your enemies now.

  You have enemies?

  I do. Too many to count, but one particularly bad one.

  The muscle-head with his throat cut?

  That was the bad result of my enemy being his enemy.

  Pineapple.

  Kid, we need to talk . . .

  Pineapple!

  Now what a surprise, to discover the lies.

  You’ll be telling again in no time.

  You just don’t realize they’ll come back and be fucking up your life.

  In trouble again, I just don’t understand.

  This whole pattern that keeps repeating.

  You know you’ll do it again and admit you can step into the light.

  You know why.

  (You don’t remember why).

  Don’t you pretend that you don’t know why.

  (You fucking parasite).

  Because you’re living through association that has been getting you high.

  You’ve got nowhere to hide and all bullshit aside.

  You’ve committed a terrible crime.

  You’ve stepped over the line and you’d better be running for your life.