My name … will be on the tip of my tongue … until it slips from me like a half-remembered dream. I’ll start to sweat. We’ll regard each other in silence, Ron the Penis Man’s eyes small and sad.
“How ’bout I call you … Last-Man-I-See.” Bright watercolor paint will swim in concentric rings. “That only lasts a little while—” he’ll gesture up at the acid babble spiraling on all sides. “Listen, Guy-Right-Here, mind if I call you Guy-Right-Here? Life is like a game of … whudyacallit? You put the thing in the thing, and you twiddle it? And you could die or not die. Right? That’s life. But now wait, that’s not the rules, it’s not like you die, but a different thing happens, I can’t remember what. But it hasn’t happened to me anyway. Least, I don’t think it has. Which is very unusual. Has it happened to me?”
His eyes will distress me: one black and the other grey. Both dull. Painfully dry. He’ll continue to look into my face until the moment I comprehend he had actually asked me a question. I’ll shrug.
“Don’t forget your gloves, Person-Under-Glass, shall I call you Person?” he’ll say, nodding toward a pair of heavy-duty gloves made of what seems to be a leathery material coated in plastic. He’ll knit his brow in a gesture of concern. A pair of gloves. I’ll pick them up. He’ll pass me the cup. A cup. A rough-hewn silver cup with clear liquid inside. Dull silver, weathered and tarnished. I’ll take a sip.
A pair of hands will intrude into my frame of view and take a cup from my hands. I’ll look up. “Well, look who’s here,” the man next to me will say. I’ll look around. We’ll be sitting under a dome. No one there but the two of us. Me, I’ll be there. And a man with a long grey beard and a face eroded by time.
“Where didja been?” he’ll ask me.
An interesting, incomprehensible question. I’ll shrug.
“Oh, sure, sure. Understandable,” he’ll go on. “My name’s Ron. So, how’d you come to discover this glass thingy?”
The glassy thingy. It will not look familiar. I’ll shrug again.
“You don’t say? Well, goddamn.”
He’ll look around then up at a sky dull and lifeless.
“Well, goddamn. So what’re you doing here?”
I’ll slide around in my mind—unable to pin down why things don’t feel right—sweat dripping down my brow.
“Well, now. Well spoken. Say, I like those gloves of yours. Say, you don’t know how I got this bubble, do you?”
I’ll try to say no.
“Okay, well, just to be safe, I better not leave it. Say, you look familiar. Have we met?”
I will open my mouth and begin to scream.
I’ll find myself pacing along a dirt bank, keeping my distance from a streaming river of grey while a hazy glow emanates from dripping sky stalactites just twenty feet or so above. Off to the left, a copse of tumorous trees. Plodding, plodding, plodding for an indefinite period of time. As numb as the monotonous hard-packed dirt and occasional scraggly tree. A muddle of dingy air will curtain my range of sight, erasing the concept of distance. Hunger pangs will demand my attention. A blast of sound from above will smash me down. I’ll cringe in a ball, briefly panicked, until I can gather my wits and scan for movement … nothing. I’ll continue more quickly, distance passing. At some point, I’ll hear the jagged sound again—animal cry? Delirious, lungs burning, compelled to the river, I’ll stumble to the bank hoping to find a drop of moisture, but there will be no water. No water, only a river of dust choking on itself.
Just ahead, two tree trunks will jut out over the river, nearly crossing each other at a narrowing point. They’ll shrivel like burnt matchsticks and drop into the dust.
A new sound—distant but cacophonous, at war with itself. Burning phlegm in the back of my throat. I’ll hack and cough it up at the same moment as a mournful siren wails and two animals break from the fog ahead, racing toward me along the river. The one in the lead will be black and glossy, a blur of legs, while a larger creature will pursue it like a fierce wind—a dog almost wolf-sized, sandy grey and ocher speckled with a snout longer than seems right. I’ll recognize this animal. Jackal. A coyote. Coyote will gain on the blur as they barrel toward me—I should run but will be unable to move, petrified. Coyote will catch up to the blur and pounce, arched above its prey like the pulse of a jellyfish, defying gravity. Hairpin turn: the blur will dash into the river (in profile clearly antlike), its feet splashing up ashes, whirring across the surface—an ant running across a desert. Coyote will land on the bank some twenty feet from me, attentive; the foot-tall ant will make it halfway across—then gone. Instantly gone.
Coyote will wait, poised, before he dives into the dust and vanishes as well.
The air will feel dry as death, the river’s surface still until Coyote emerges nose-first like a specter trailing cobwebs, the black bug dangling from its mouth. It’ll turn and spring back violently as its eyes meet mine. Fur spiked on end, it will drop the dead thing from its mouth and bare its teeth, opening its mouth, farther, farther—a yawning chasm, black hair shooting from its throat between rows of teeth, disgorging a fountain of thick black hair, farther, mouth turning backwards, its gullet reversed, turning back on itself, swallowing itself, its entire body except the tail, leaving nothing but a tangled cocoon of hair and teeth. The creature’s legs will press out through the mess, one rear leg dangling behind like a rabbit’s paw.
It will release a sickened fart, its anus slanted to the sky.
My heart will pound, my mouth dry.
The inside-out Coyote will limp off on three legs, vanishing into the trees, and I’ll run blindly on faster and faster wheezing with effort and stomach pangs, trying to remember where I am, should I return to the … where had I been? … I had met someone.
A whiff of pine: out of the haze, a blue wall. Closer: a blue forest of tall, needle-decked trees—the pine smell stronger—not pine trees, pipe cleaners, bristled like pipe cleaners.
With a sense of relief, I’ll step into the forest where it’s cooler and darker among sponge-like hedges and families of cerulean bushes shaped like corkscrews. My feet will glide through a shallow hand of mist that clings to profuse low-lying vegetation carpeting the forest floor: deep red roses, metallic silver mushroom caps with pink spots, bright orange sphagnum moss, plants like sea anemones, thick and squishy, and others like butterflies sitting among piles of blue needles. Balled up fibers forming a human heart. I’ll grasp a white starfish-shaped flower—it’ll recoil, and I’ll jump from my skin.
Scanning all directions: nothing. Listening: silence.
I’ll return to the plant and grab it, tear it from the soil as it squirms furiously. I’ll hold it far from me—repulsed, gagging—holding it as far from me as my arm will allow, squeezing it, kneeling and trembling until the jellyflower goes limp. I’ll squeeze it tight, until it’s still, until I can’t squeeze it any more.
I’ll open my eyes to confront my fist slathered in bright white goo. I’ll tear off a squishy arm and hold it closer: a thick buttermilk will ooze out. I’ll lick a drop that has fallen onto my glove … taste of copper. I’ll tear off another arm, hold it above my mouth and squeeze, gulp it, and eat another.
Out of the corner of my eye: the tip of a furry white tail will disappear around a bush. I’ll hold my breath as sweat trickles down my back, my shirt drenched and cool. Then, waddling out from behind a tree and following the tail: a plump grey and brown bird with a white feather-duster tail, white wings (small and … vestigial?), and a nasty vulture beak hooked like the tip of a scythe. The animal will stop to observe me until a blaze of light obscures its head, jewelry adorns it, a necklace wraps it, its head and neck surrounded with wire, blood everywhere—it will bleed and fall as I drop too.
A glowing red spacesuit will appear from behind a tree and move toward the bird; a voice will project from the suit: “Visual tiger white command describe movement pause”—he’ll notice me and turn—“query where whatteer WHAT??? BEFORE the ENGINEER!!!” Under a large, spherical f
ishbowl of a helmet, a boy’s face will become visible. “Demonstrate aye aye aye emotion.” Aye? I. His face will crinkle up in a look of revulsion, and he’ll tip his nose and chin up at me. “React appropriately.”
He’ll take two steps toward me, plant his legs wide, and point a gun-like object at my waist. Ice blue eyes flashing. “State hideous query identity command respond or slaughter analysis impossible hideous, not even dee.”
He’ll look teenage, perhaps … sixteen? Pale face without blemish, almost albino, and polished to a symmetric archetype: jaw like a sledgehammer, a strong straight nose, pure white hair. He’ll stand up straighter, eyes widening, gun dropping to the side.
“Communicate grovel apology beg sir sir sir you you you.” He’ll drop to a knee and bow his head. “Analysis executive outside thought unoccurence. Analysis invisible nulltech, I, I unknow. Explicate visualize executives uncommon query forgiveness. State I am are sim celeb the hunter projection you have seen me … or not … importance low. State I pursue brids and exstinks, hah!” He’ll laugh awkwardly. “Query we, we, we can’t wipe anything out properly anymore.” He’ll cough, touch his helmet as if to cover his mouth—realize he can’t—rub the dome, then point upward with a big smile, “See are simule.”
I’ll see nothing.
“Communicate value I, I exist popularly with bees and seas”—he’ll blink; I’ll realize Bs, Cs—“sir, grovel.” He’ll drop his gun and bend forward as if in supplication, tears streaming out of his eyes against the inside of the helmet. “Communicate grovel beg request undemote sirsirsir you, you, you affect regret exclaim oh eminent engineer, fluid wasted.”
The details will be confusing but the submission will be obvious. “You will get undressed,” I’ll hear myself say.
“Sir!” Then under his breath, “Sir.”
He’ll wince, take off his helmet gingerly, set it down, slide his arms out of the jumpsuit, and drop it to his feet in a fiery red puddle against the bright blue grass.
“Project I cleansing anon.”
He’ll hop awkwardly from one foot to the other in a white nylon wrap—muscular and perfectly proportioned with the body of someone older than his face appears. His face will be handsome to the point of blandness, like a computer’s idea of beauty. Eyes … oddly proportioned … large as quarters? Bigger than seems normal.
“Ow, ow. Query your your your title sir sir sir.” His penis will be a foot long, swinging side to side as he hops.
I will not reply.
“Query I depart.” He’ll hug the gun to his chest and run into the forest. I’ll become agitated, falling epileptic, seizing up, my entire body a vicious spasm—panic attack or tension erupting. Clenched like a charley horse, I’ll lie exhausted for quite a while.
Eventually, regaining my composure and struggling to my feet, I’ll walk to the space suit and examine the pieces. Very simple: a spherical helmet—plastic, maybe polycarbonate—and a ring at the base where it connects; space boots connected to a red jumpsuit; fabric glowing with tiny rippling beads.
The suit … a reason for it, there will be some reason for wearing it. I’ll pick up the helmet examining the surface and
shades of some unknown viridian from dark to light;
scaled:
made of thousands of cobblestones,
tiny extruded balloons
the nostrils—forward not down
the whole face—forward like a dog
teeth pointed and triangular like dulled saw teeth,
clearing my throat a sound, a sussing will respond,
spin the world like a wheel.
This will appear to be him. Himself. He.
But he won’t recognize this face—he’s supposed to look different, not like this. How? He’ll drop the helmet, touch his face and feel scales. Dense and pliable like Eucalyptus or leaves from a rubber tree. Tear his shirt and jacket open, pull down his pants. All over. Scales down to his crotch. He’ll frantically rub between his legs, but nothing will be there—a crease or pocket—he’ll pull it open with two fingers on either side causing a turtle head to peek out—no—a penis. It will release a stream of pee over his hands unexpectedly. He’ll let go, and it will slide back in. His thighs and calves will be thick and strong and covered by overlapping green scales like armor plate. He’ll get his fingers up under a few scales and tug on them—hurts a little. He’ll pull harder, making it hurt more—confusing him further. He’ll pick up the helmet and look at the reflection again, turn his head to observe the strange face move with him, and touch the top of his head—sleek and hairless. Not right.
Hunger will arrest his attention, shove the helmet from his hands, and drive him to the soggy bird corpse lying in a purple mud of gore and needles. He’ll put the body under his shoe and pull a leg upward, red splattering across his chest. His bloated tongue will wrap anxiously around the sickening and strange meat.
He’ll swallow the bones last.
The suit. He’ll put it on methodically, rotating the helmet and locking himself inside. He’ll close his eyes and breathe in pine scent infected by a metallic taste.
He’ll hurry through the blue woods until he rounds a tree and is caught face-to-face with three knee-height little people standing on squat pedestals. All three will be dressed in well-tailored navy blue suits embroidered with interlocking three-sided hieroglyphic squares on both sides of a row of cobalt eye-shaped buttons. The three will wear animal masks—realistic full headpieces. Too late to hide … but fortunately they won’t be frightening.
The furry orange and white tiger-masked one on the left will speak first: “I feel no pain”—its black lips mesmerizing, so small and subtly textured, moving with every word—“because my senses indulge but the surface of things. Thus, every thing is calm. Lives are drops of rain. These bodies live forever. But selves blink on and off and on, fireflies in the pool of eternity. I thirst to drink from the pool.”
And the middle one, the Heronhead with hairy knuckles, will swing its beak up and down as it speaks, voice whistling like music, “The will is an attempt to influence, to affect even with violence. To feel it press back on you, a response to vibrations violin violence valence. The narcissistic cry for attention of stunted creativity. ‘See? I exist!’ it cries because nothing exists without observation. Sometimes I think it’s glorious, sometimes desperate. I walk a tightrope, wish to be a tender creature, harm nothing. But is so hard, so hard. Contact has friction. Things scrape and slide. It is compulsion, convincing myself cruelty is kind. I aspire to balance conflicting desires.” Its beak … moving … a long skinny tongue inside, alive with every word.
The third creature will have the head of a rat, and its voice will tread gravel. “In evry crailty there’s a kindness, aye? Least it wisnae you whah emptied a piece af yerself oot. Trans-endence is ov’rated cos it disnae translate, aye?”
“Lishen … I … I’wl be …”—he’ll be startled by the unrecognizable, coagulated voice that comes out of his mouth, echoing a little within his helmet—
“… losht. Wiwl a … city … be nearby?”
Tigermask will reply, “I do not know. How could I know? I am unsure … how long I have been here, and … what have I been doing? It seems like a lifetime and just a minute both. But we’re past living.”
“I try to breathe with the rhythm of it all,” Heronhead will say, “but it’s hard to identify that rhythm. The song, I have forgotten it … relations become jarring, many voices clash. It’s like trying to breathe splinters. I’m anguished. I mumble to myself as I bleed from a cut. Or if I’m scrounging for feed in the scrabble dirt or digging my beak into food, a hard bowl, and you’re in the room in your apron, I’ll force a smile. We’re not meant to be friends, but I’ll smile at you. In that hole with no light, I’ll smile and hope enlightenment is out there, like a garland of stars. If I could just hold on to it, it would take me flowing fugitive through all things into totality. It lives out there even if I can’t grasp it, it’s waiting, immut
able, it’s pre—”
“Aye,” the Ratman will cut in, “ye can only love th’aines that dinnae exist. Aw-ways jist oot a’ reach. The proablem w’ peace is ail the peeps whah need tae kick ye in the beak. If ye tak’ a few, ye can fancy a bettair perspective than the bitchhole ah me, aye? Fuck. Disnae tak’ much brain the come up wi’ a baitter creation ’n this, like. Me? Ah cannae move. Y’see?” It will point down at the pedestal it stands on. “I think oim part of it. Haird t’ sae. Get nae feelin’ frae it. Is haird tae move, aye? P’rhaps oi grew frae it. Ir the rock grew frae me. Ir I was born oot the heed ahv existence in a flux. A fucks mair like it, aye?”
“I listen to touch and taste you. I talk to dance with my tongue because nothing else moves—to feel more real. What do you make of existence?” Tigermask will ask.
He’ll reply, his face cooling behind the helmet, “I … I’ll be the losht one here. All I will see … that musht be … ah fuck … might … be … a foresht … for-est … for hunters.” Tongue thick in his mouth tripping, tangling, battering against incoherence and presence. “Will … will … won’t you … know anything? Costumes? Fucking hell!”
“Without a mask to shape us, what would we face anyone with? Existence is ridiculous and impractical. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“Knowledge. All I can tell you is hurt and hunger,” will say the Heronhead.
Ratman will abruptly bark at him, “Why d’ye no get after some fuckin’ watter, y’wee arrogant fuck? Y’think Oim standin’ here feh yer pleasure? Why d’ye no know somethin’ useful like where t’ get ees some FUCKING watter! Ye airnae worth shite! Oim so thirsty, why no ye pish in mah mooth?”
“Fuck you, fuck YOU!” his scream rebounding inside the helmet as he takes flight.
“Wait!” one of them will cry as they recede behind.
And he’ll escape the forest without looking back, striding across jagged bolts of steel matted with twigs and dirt, terrain of unknown distance passing beneath his feet—the landscape littered with burnt incomprehensible corpses and shattered trees; the acrid, violent air like unholy meat sandwiched between the dirty sky and rivers of grey soap—he won’t stop, his red suit and helmet will keep him from blowing up.
A Greater Monster Page 5
