Dunmere just nodded. “Perhaps. If there’s nothing else…”
Merryn silenced him by rapidly pulling a slip of paper from his breast pocket. A slip of paper with very familiar dimensions. “Something not many people know about the death machines,” he said, wiggling the slip between his fingers. “Everything they output they also record. The manufacturers keep archives of everything. And you’d be surprised what a few bribes in the right place can get you.”
Dunmere remained silent, his face expressionless.
“See, I couldn’t think of any reason why you wouldn’t get your prediction, not while it was costing you the vote and all. So, out of curiosity, I had a look for myself. And when I did, suddenly it all fell into place.”
He got up. “My papers will start talking you up first thing tomorrow. You’ll become Prime Minister and everyone will be happy. You just remember who your friends are and no embarrassing personal destinies will have to be revealed. I’ll see myself out.”
Dunmere took a deep breath and stood up. “I don’t want to be Prime Minister!”
“Well, not everyone gets what they want, you know,” said Merryn, not turning around. Then he was gone.
Volger came back in, all seriousness returned and practically oozing his way up to the desk. “Do you really not want to be Prime Minister, Fred?”
“God, that’s all you care about, isn’t it. No, since you ask, I don’t particularly want to be Prime Minister anymore. And I definitely don’t want to be a corporate puppet.”
“Look, don’t you worry about Merryn,” said Volger, effortlessly side-stepping the issue. “We’ll dig something up on him. There’re bound to be all sorts to choose from. You just play nice doggie for as long as that takes and then we can assert ourselves. He publishes, we publish. You know how it goes. The old scandal cold war.”
“I’m not happy with any of this. All this…backroom dealing.”
“Well, you’ve always been an idealist, Fred, and no offence, but it’s always been your weakest feature.” He pretended to notice the documents in his hand for the first time. “Oh, the BBC want you in for another interview tonight, just in time for the election. They’re probably sensing the tide turning as well, so it should go easier on you than before. We should go over the issues that need addressing.”
Volger was still going over the issues during the ride to the TV studio that evening, and Dunmere had learned to block him out. He was trying to think. If he stepped down from the race, Merryn would publish, and his political career would be ruined. On the other hand, if he became Prime Minister, he turned the country over to corporate rule: a dangerous slope. And even if that could be avoided, was it fair to let a country be ruled by someone who didn’t want to? It would be like an unwanted child, growing up without getting the love it needed…
The only possibility that Dunmere liked was to continue running, but to lose. Merryn couldn’t blame him for that. But that seemed the least realistic scenario of them all. The opposition was in turmoil after Fortham’s death and no one would ever go for a third party. Like it or not, Dunmere was ahead in the polls. It would take something drastic to change that…
By the time he had dragged himself from his reverie, he was already seated in the studio, baking under the spotlights and the layer of makeup, fidgeting with his hands as the programme’s theme tune heralded the interview. Before he even knew what was happening, Pander was turning to him with questions in hand.
“So, Frederick Dunmere MP,” he said. “How would you say Fortham’s death has affected the possible outcome of the general election?”
“Well, of course the death of my honourable friend was an unqualified tragedy and I was deeply saddened,” said Dunmere, going into automatic. “I have great sympathy for his family and his colleagues at the party, and can only hope they will be able to continue working hard for the values Derek held dear. But having said that, I believe that the cornerstone of a new government is stability, stability that I fear the opposition currently lacks. We’re living in a new age, and it’s time for a new kind of government. Open, accepting, and…honest.”
From the emphasis he had placed on that last word, Volger figured out what Dunmere was planning. Out of the corner of his eye, Dunmere could see him frantically waving his hands and mouthing ‘no.’ He ignored him.
“Yes, honest. And in the interests of this philosophy, and partly in honour of my late friend Mr. Fortham, I have decided to reveal the manner in which I will die. I am to die of exhaustion while having sex with a minor. An underaged person. I apologise for not having been open about it sooner, but I think under the circumstances you could understand why I would wish to conceal it. What has also been concealed from public eye is the fact that my father was himself imprisoned for a paedophilic act, and in the name of our new commitment to honesty, I feel these things must be aired. Frankly I’m glad to have gotten them off my chest, and I can only hope the British public will see these trivialities for what they are and vote for what they know is right.”
As he left the stage in silence, the audience not applauding, he wondered if he had overdone it.
Two days later, Frederick Dunmere became the Prime Minister of Great Britain.
“Run that by me again,” he said.
“You won,” said Volger, leaning on the desk, his smile tight and forced. “Landslide.”
“But I thought I killed myself up there.”
“So did I. So did a lot of people. But the reactions of the general public have been impossible to predict since the death machines started messing with their heads, and even more so since the voting age was lowered to 14. You of all people should know that, now you’re the youngest Prime Minister in British history.”
“But…I told everyone about my death. I told them I was going to…”
“Yes, Fred, and I’m telling you that no one seems to care. Probably because you, yourself, are still technically a minor.”
“I turn 18 in a month,” argued Dunmere sulkily.
Volger consulted the papers in his hands. “You already had the teenage vote, of course. The adults, well…half of them didn’t trust you because you were clammed up on the death note thing, and the other half didn’t think you were mature enough for the position. That interview pretty much made all of them about-face.”
“Oh, Jesus…”
Volger injected that fatherly tone into his voice again. “They were impressed by the way you confronted your past like that. The whole stuff with your father. Seen the papers? They’re saying how that one event combined with the knowledge of your future is what sparked your unstoppable drive, what made you become an MP at 14. It’s an inspiring story.”
“No,” wailed Dunmere, clasping his hands to his face. “I wanted to fail. I don’t want to be Prime Minister. I don’t deserve to run the country.”
Volger sniffed with disapproval. “Maybe, but you were elected anyway,” he said, dropping his papers on the desk with a loud slap. “So maybe it’s the country that deserves you.”
Story by Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw
Illustration by Cameron Stewart
AFTER MANY YEARS, STOPS BREATHING, WHILE ASLEEP, WITH SMILE ON FACE
“NO WAY!” SHE LAUGHS. “YOU’RE SHITTING ME!”
Jill’s seated on the edge of my desk, in my cubicle. Picture Lady Day. Atop a grand piano. She has that effect on a room. Or a cubicle. I am not shitting her. “Really?” she says, wide-eyed. “Did you have it certified?”
I roll my eyes. “My mom did. Drove straight from the doc’s to the nearest Memento Mori office. Hung a big ol’ framed copy on the wall as soon as we got home.” I smile. “On the fridge too.”
“I bet!” Jill says, laughing harder now. Her nose wrinkles when she laughs. Eyes crinkle. It’s a real laugh, the kind you wish you could see every day of your life.
“And she had this bumper sticker: My Child Is Going to Die WAY BETTER Than Your Honor Student.”
Now this time I am shitting her
, and she knows it. It earns another wrinkled nose. “Well, hell,” she says, laughing, “all I got was ‘Brain Aneurysm.’ Borr-ring!” She grins, and then suddenly her eyes go wide again.
“Hey, Ricky, you know what? You should totally go with us to Toe Tag Night at Club Congress this Thursday. You’ll be a huge hit!”
To recap: Jill Harrah is currently seated on my desk. Her leg, below the skirt, is covering my memo pad. She’s smiling and, evidently, making plans. With me.
“Well—I guess I have always wanted to be a huge hit…”
“Yessss,” she says, triumphant, and holds up her hand for a high-five. But with Jill you don’t just get a high-five; what you get is some kind of complicated “secret” “urban” handshake she’s invented on the spot. Or, maybe, like now, just some additional dap.
“Thursday,” she says, scooting off my desk. A memo slides to the floor, and immediately looks abandoned and forlorn.
And then, because I just have to push it, I ask, way too casually, “So is Brian going, too?”
When she looks at me, her eyes are neither wide nor crinkled with amusement. “No he is not,” she tells me, and walks away.
Brian is her fiancé. I am an idiot who will apparently die in his sleep someday.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” says one of Jill’s friends, leaning forward to get a better look at my shirt.
On Toe Tag Night no one wears tags on their toes. What we do is use a template on our PCs and print a graphic of a toe tag, which we then wear attached to our clothing somewhere, like on a t-shirt. The graphic looks like the toe tags you see on dead bodies—or at least on dead bodies in movies—and yes, sometimes people also include a cartoony image of a toe, or a even a whole foot. Often bloody. Printed on the tag is your Name, and How You Are Going to Die. For mine, I had to use a smaller font size.
Jill’s friends gather around, squinting. Jill’s friends. Three of them came with Jill to pick me up at my apartment. Guy from upstairs, Leonard, an older, also single man, happened to be in the lobby when the cab pulled up. “Daymn!” Leonard said, pronouncing the “y.” “Big pimpin’!” The truth was, stepping out to the curb, I didn’t feel much like a pimp. More like the pimp’s tagalong little brother, who had not himself gone into the family pimping business, but chose coding instead. Plus, to be fair, these women all had legit jobs. Smart too. They just happened to be dressed strikingly. I really don’t know how they do it, pull off these transformations. Jill was something in the office, but tonight she was something else again. Shiny, exotic, her hair, braided, streaked red, held with these little butterfly clips. The effect was multiplicitous: as if you were used to seeing this already fantastic creature, one of those supernaturally good-looking people straight out of classical mythology, and then one day she shows up with wings. And offers you a ride. I might’ve stood there all night, staring at Jill, stunned, but luckily she gave me a high-five followed by a vigorous chest bump, which basically got me moving again.
“Is he for real?” Jill’s friend says now, under the club lights, gesturing with her thumb at my tag. Her name, according to her own tag, is “LIZA.” Liza will die from “A COLLISION”—one of the vaguer predictions. She and the others are all standing around me in a way that feels great and incredibly awkward at the same time. Jill tells them I’m for real, all right. The club is starting to fill up, getting hotter. Karen, with the long black hair, leans forward, reads, leans back. “Huh,” she says. “Not my type.” She flips her hair over her bare shoulder. “I’m more into the whole ‘Gunshot Wound, Fiery Motorcycle Crash’ thing, y’know?” On her tag, Karen has written “O.D.” The “O” is drawn like a skull with little x’s for eyes. One thing I learned right away upon entering the club is that not everyone prints their toe tags on a laptop at home. Most just use the Sharpies and blank tags you can get for free at the door.
The club is really filling up now, people pouring in, and Jill’s friends start to drift with the incoming flow, Liza turning away, Karen already gone, and the last friend, Aimee, as if an afterthought, turns to me and says, “Well, I think it’s cute.” Which I’m then left to interpret on my own.
Aimee had written “NEVER” on her tag.
As a joke.
I feel a hand on my shoulder. Jill. “You coming?” She tips her head toward the crowded center of the club. It’s hot there, pulsing. A bare-chested man beneath a strobe light is performing a dance that appears to somehow involve kung fu. Lots of kicking. I tell her I’m good.
Jill smiles, studying me. “Relax,” she says after awhile. “Have a drink. Hang out. People-watch.” She pats my shoulder, lightly, once.
The bar is strung with skeleton lights. They’re already out of the urn-shaped mugs when I get there, so I settle for a plastic cup. The girl ordering next to me reads my tag and laughs. Another guy slides up on her right and says, “Hey, what’s your sign? Mine’s CANCER!” Grins. My whole generation stands on the gallows, sharing the same humor. And because this is Toe Tag Night and not a certified dating service, people are free to write pretty much whatever the hell they want about how they’re going to die. Which can be confusing. Right away, I count no fewer than five people who’ve each written “ALCOHOL POISONING” under their name, and you can’t say for sure, looking at their sweaty, shouting faces, who is just being funny and who is actually on the way. Over there by the winking Coors sign, a guy named “STEVE” has stuck a tag on his trucker hat that reads “AFTER MULTIPLE ORGASMS.” That’s another popular one, but considering it from the perspective of Steve’s partner, maybe not so much fun?
Then again, like the bumper sticker says: “We’re All Necrophiliacs Now.” Not quite accurate, but oddly appropriate, I think, to our absurd condition. I lift my beer. In the corner by the bathroom, a man is groping a woman who’s painted her face and lips blue, his face is smeared blue now too; his eyes, squeezed shut, have pennies tattooed on the lids.
Cheers.
“Seriously?” the guy in the Misfits shirt asks. “Dude, that rocks.” He leans forward, slaps my tag. “You take that shit to a real dating service,” he says, swaying toward me slightly. “Fuck amateur hour. You know?” I nod. Smile. Swaying a little myself. I know what he’s trying to say. I’ve been told before that from a matchmaking perspective—particularly to those looking for an LTR—how I am going to die is considered extremely desirable. “Pussy magnet” as Leonard put it. Then he went back upstairs to watch his Battlestar Caligula internet porn and eat a single-serving microwave dinner.
The guy in the Misfits shirt stumbles back into the crowd. On the far wall they are projecting footage from last year’s Dia De Los Muertos parade, a festival that has become increasingly popular in recent years. The images of the parade revelers in full costume superimposed on the club-goers creates a blurred, surreal effect, and I realize I have been drinking too fast. I turn away, toward the stage. The flyers posted everywhere said that tonight would feature the shock-punk band, Anna Nicole’s Death Fridge. Instead there’s an all-woman three-piece called Violet who play straight ahead rock-and-roll refreshingly free of irony.
I’m bobbing my head, not a thought in it, when suddenly there’s Jill. She gives me a high-five, and then, still clasping my hand, manages to snap her fingers three times in a row without letting go. “What’s the haps?” she says jokingly, her nose crinkled and perfect. Her face is flushed from dancing. She looks wholly alive.
A group of goth kids push their way up to the bar. Jill peeks at me over the tops of their heads and smiles. Or maybe they’re just dressed like goth kids. If you’re a real goth kid, every night is basically a kind of Toe Tag Night. And words like “SUICIDE” make for extremely stylish tattoos. I lean toward Jill and shout over the music. “Hey!” I shout, cupping my mouth with my hand, “I read that in England they don’t have Toe Tag Nights! It’s Headstone Night!”
“Really?” Jill scoots down the bar, closer to me. She tilts her head, tucking her hair delicately behind one ear. Our knees to
uch. “Yeah,” I continue, my face hot, “you know: ‘Here Lies So-and-So,’ died of ‘Shingles’ or whatever…” I want to say something else, about how their graphics are probably much better, all graveyards and moonlight, but I stop myself because I don’t want to sound like a dork.
“I bet their graphics are killer!” Jill says. “Hey!” She squeezes my arm. “We should do a shot!” She orders and the bartender brings out a cardboard box painted to look like the machine and we reach inside and get our cards. Mine says “BOURBON.” Jill gets “SAMBUCA.” “Trade ya!” she shouts. Her eyes are ablaze, reflecting neon. She winks. We don’t trade. We share. One of each.
The band is taking a break and Jill has just finished showing me a new handshake that somehow ended up with both of us locking elbows and wiggling our open hands above our heads like antlers or antennae, laughing helplessly, and for no reason I can name I ask her why Brian doesn’t come to these things. Jill stares at me, pop-eyed, for a full second. Then gives me the finger. Only it’s the finger next to the middle one, which I’m guessing is kind of like the variation she gives to her handshakes, and I’m just glad she’s still smiling.
A guy immediately slumps onto the stool next to hers. “Hey, what’s your sign?” he says through a loose grin. “Mine’s—”
“Cancer. Got it.” Jill turns on her seat back to me.
Liza arrives with a guy dressed in Spandex and a cape. He’s made his tag into a giant crest, emblazoned with the word “HEROICALLY.” He has a gym-built body; the wide chest and shoulders and comparatively small legs make him look, fittingly, like a Bruce Timm cartoon character. Except for the hair gel. Liza makes no introductions. She whispers something in Jill’s ear, and I’m thinking of the people you sometimes read about, who learn that they’re going to die from “A BULLET” or “FLAMES,” but rather than spending their lives hiding or trying to avoid their fate, go on to join the police department or become firefighters. Aimee and then Karen slowly walk up to the bar and nod to Liza and Jill, but not the guy. Aimee heads immediately to the front of the drink line and returns almost as quickly, a sweating death’s head cocktail in hand. Karen smokes a cigarette and looks at nothing.
Machine of Death Page 22
