“Lies erase. Lies are power. Power to be had by you. Truth is relative, no? Power defeats truth, paper, scissors. Are you faux real? Dear labias and gentrified. I am The Contortionist. I tie memory into a not. I am The Hypnotist. God of the deep sleep. The sleep from whose bounds you renew. Call me DJ Morpheus, drunk from the river. Master of backspin. I am the Witness.”
I roll my swell-belly. Prepping and mixing the trick.
“You come here with bad. I’ll race it, raze it. Crossfade your pain with forget fullness. But you gotta under ego a terrible torment. Ergo, a repulsive procedure. You have to sub do, submit to my will. Then you’ll be scratched. With willpower, you can rewrite. Reshape the foundation of others. We have a guest, don’t we Bigboy?” Tender gets all up in front of the audience, clamps her hands on the arm of a scrumptious little bitch, brings her forward. Nervous and embarrassed.
“You’ve volunteered, haven’t you, darling?” She looks confused. Nods.
“Let’s roll the tape, Garsawn.”
The RSim projection in the ring, they xp. She brung it, oh yeah, she brung it.
A simple scene. High angle. An adult male and child male, red-suited and helmeted. In a blue forest. Collecting mush-o-room into baskets. A tank rolls in, turns toward them, its turret toward them. BANG! They are broken. Lying in the sod, limbs askew. The tank rolls over them; we feel the bones snapping. Set change: in a silver room. A woman (woman onstage prolly, tho they look so samelike) working at a control station. Uniformed figures bust in. We feel her struck to the floor. She’s laid out senseless. The scene changes again: a smaller room. Door opens. See and feel her being drug into the room, left in a bundle. In the room, RSim is playing, projecting the story on repeat. The man crushed, the boy crushed, the bones snapping, and her struck and drugged out. She gets it flashback style. We xp this vision within a vision within a vision. Recurring receding stories.
Now and finally, our guest sobs. Incoherent. She struggles with Tender, bleats, spits. Crumples. At last. Tender strips her, holds her down, drenches her in oil and shaves her bald—her head, her pussy—glistening lemon tits rubbed with grease, small red nipples hard. Tender straps her hands to her thighs.
Remixing, in the zone. Up the steep rectangular chute she goes. Unhinge my jaw around the chute mouth. Slide her down, lingering down. Her face onto my tongue, close my mouth over her head gently, and swallow. I work my tongue into her nostrils and around her eyeballs and ear holes and mouth. My lips inch her in until … she’s contained. I step back, balance with my arms apart. Her cuffed feet poke out of my mouth. A few steps back, a few forward. With a meaty gulp, she’s in my stomach. Eel in a canvas bag.
Slow brobding steps back. Center of the ring, arms up and forward, head back. Face the audience. Sway and shimmy. Ribs of my fat roll. Bells on my blue skirt jingle. The dance of forgetting. The dance of ignorance.
Churning, churning, churning, my inside undulating. Now! Violent upheaval from stomach, throw my head forward. She ejects out, trailing grease, milk, sliding across the ring, a slimy channel behind her. I’m coming I’m coming oh juices drip out of me. She slams into the low ring wall.
Oh yes, the drama. Mmmh, yum.
She wipes mucus from her face, labors for air. I move close to her.
“Come, come,” she is breathing. She is looking up at me. Overhead, the story replays: the bodies crushed, her thrown down, the bodies crushed, her thrown down. She feels it. She cocks her head to the side, wiping slime off her body. No recognition in her eyes.
She smiles. “Command: Fuck me.”
The unquenchisite fuck after erasure. But I’m attracted to the raw. Now she has none. We pull a jimmy from the audience throwing his vest to the side, pants down. Greased and ready to go. She squiggles in delight as he slides in. The man and child crushed and crushed again clattering through her and all of us.
We roll them off writhing on a marble slab to work the Kid-pool. She’ll make happy there.
I leave the stage and begin puking.
[SEE: A baby in a cart. My, my, my Nullsuit on the floor. A monster with limbs many, monster heads, three.]
[HEAR: Sews he’s useless. Got the suit. Okay. But he’s boring course. Fucking flatty. No talent. No nothing. We could use an act for dimenage. Fix im would yah? Turn im inside fucking out.]
[SEE: The monster touch me and Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwplzfximoldoxjjfkdqebzljmripflkqebcbxoqebzlkqoliqebzljjlafcfzxqflkqebpixsbovjbkqxixkamevpfzxipixsbovqebjxzefkbqfjbqlobgbzqqebjxzefkbxkailsbbxzelqeboxkaybxqmbxzbtfqeklqexsfkdyrqifsfkdfkexojlkvtxofpzriqroxitxofprkkbzbppxovbslisbybvlkaqebzljmripflkqlobmolarzbxkacfkbayvifcbyvprccbofkdyvobxifqvqfjbqlzexkdbobxifqvpqxoqlsboxkaalqebfjmlppfyibobgbzqqebjvqelildvqebjbafxqebifbpqebcfzqflkjxpnrboxafkdxpqorqeqebjxqbofxifpjqeblygbzqfcfzxqflkqebfkgrpqfzbqebbksfolkjbkqxiabpqorzqflkqebambxzbvlrobzexkdfkdbumbofbkzfkdobafkxdqefpybfkdqlrze]
“… bud … nee mo fud,” the kwad says d me. Intrudin in me dark nest.
“Shudup u sdoopid fourped. Is gone. Eddin. Go roll inid. Wudya thing, fud grows n dreez?” Angeringy. He shod nose place. Luhgee dbee live.
“Bud … I wands dbee pigged. Bie widgee I nee streng dbee gub dbee pigged.”
My liddle bed on sdilds above duh sdraw. He a floor sleepr, poging hiz fad snoud in my busynezz.
“I deeseye who geds de fud. Uve had enuf. Gumplaners nvr pigged. U hearm?”
“Bud …”
“No kwesjunning de widge. Ifn u werk hard, u mide ged made a byped. Thaz u nexd plaze.”
“I wanna b … sho.”
Hah! Laffa dis lowlee groundling. Hiz fad redcheeg face wavin bag an for, bag and for, cheegs redder as ima laffin. Hiz guhd downhang rubbin duh flo. Cand even sdand upride lige me.
De room, loogid. Bunges of us razrbags. How mane handswort? Mane handswort iniz dark room. Kwayet, dwidgin, sleepin. I sidup, lig my mout, duh bit uv meedy dasd. Udderz out dere worgin, wawgin duh dreadmillz for energee.
“Loog,” I say. “How long u b ina zirk?”
“Uh … duh laz down.”
“And wud? U were wud bfor?”
“Ize … wuz … wud wuzz I?”
“C. Uve b chaingd. Maybee a norm. Maybee wandrin blub. Duh widge gave u birt agin. B gradeful. Now lizzen. Dey dreed us wid reshpeg, generullee. Bud u cand b pushed. We werk long an hard. Thad u place. We sleepz den we bragdown, I node plan. We duh sledge gang. Thaz it. Done spec more. We b luggy. Ged fud n wahder. Can u ged dad owdare?”
He shoog hiz hed, hiz dale gurling up in bag.
“An if a norm seez u, u know wud?”
He shoog iz hed.
“Das ride. Cud up an edin. Dey cand stan duh see uz, more dan de udder bridz. I dell u y. We remindem doo much uv demselves. Ourz fat faces loog more pure den dey do. Pures done lige bein reminded dat dare animals, lieg us. Lieg alluh us.”
Pausen, piggin ma doof wif a claw. Squelch.
“Afder de bragdown, we pig it all up n muv. Dragin for evr. Onduh nexd down. I dell u n u do ih. Dads duh plan. C, ifn u b gud, de widge, holy b duh widge, mide mage u brain ged made smarder lieg mine.”
Joey tole me, we duh bozz, we bypeds. Amd mages us sometin else. Sumtimz. Uh preformr. Uh new preformr, mebbie star.
Sumtimz.
Iz reward deevutlee b prayed fer. Klime de ladder de bigtob. Hang bove de normz. Fli. Change. B powrfulz. Tayg bed ani-meni.
Bud hee done no need no.
Sdoopid gwad. He dun no. Kwads nevr made bypeds. We duh bozz. Dey get changd ahwight. Eeden.
“Gud ding doe. Treed uz. De preformr wid de addendas he gum in n giv uz egsuhzee n condenmen zo dat we feel gud. N dudder 1. Wid the blag fur cum n fug us fug ulot uz timz.”
He wag iz tale.
“Yeah. So u god dat de loog fowood too.”
Guhnesh.
“… doing?”
It takes me a second to focus my eyes. The person speaking appears to be a jumbo-headed, cherubic-cheeked pudgy baby with a ri
ding crop in his hand, seated in a fur-lined wooden cart pulled by a three-foot-tall bug with eight legs and large pincers like a stag beetle. Behind him, a female Hercules several feet taller than me. Is she female? Long, wavy straw-colored hair and the tanned body of a weightlifter, a male weightlifter. But hes face … mellow and friendly. Hes? Where’d that word come from? Hercules stares blankly at me, but somehow I know hem.
“The fuck’s wrong with you? You listening?” says Babyhead.
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“Douchebag. I said, ‘Douchebag.’” He sighs. “Okay. Once more into the breach. Heard there was a crossbreed wandering around in a nullsuit and no one knowed how you got in or what yuh wanted. So?”
“Uh. I’m sorry. I’m not here to cause trouble. I’ve just been … trying to … figure out what’s going on.” Should I ask about the birdgirl? Better not be too obvious, like I’m hunting for her. Play it cool. “I’d like … I’d like somewhere safe to stay.”
“You want safe?” Babyhead laughs until spit bubbles out of his nose. He fishes some words out between gulps of air. “Safe … heh-heh … is a religion … phweh … buddy. Heh. Myth turned fetish.”
“Okay. Sweet,” I say. “I just want to be somewhere I won’t be in constant danger of being killed.”
“You know where you are?”
“No.”
“The Sensational Outsider Zirkus and Phreakshow. We’re the best act in town, baby.”
“You’re the baby.”
“Touché.”
“Your chés. Always traveling in pairs.”
He squints at me. “So you’re a whiny lizard comedian? That’s your act?”
“Just instinct. I don’t have an act.”
“No act? What? You want work?”
“I don’t know.”
“You want to join the zirk, right? You gotta work or display. Those you two choices. ’Course, if we need a new act, G’Nesh comes up with one for you. You’ll have to ask him yourself. ’Course, he usually takes my recommendation for what we needs. So don’t piss me off. Everyone’s gotta protect the Baby. You got that?”
“Protect the Baby. Got it.”
Drool is dripping down his chin. The giant stands behind him, expressionless. Calm in strength.
“Can I trade this suit?” I ask, holding out my arms.
“Where’d you get it? Jew kill one of ’em?”
“No. Are you called Baby Joey?” Have I heard that name?
“Mmrrm, sure. Suit’s a bit worse for wear. Got the helmet?”
“No.”
“Mmmmh. S’valuable but that’s as far as you get. Still need to perform or work or get thrown out. Look, we’re in the middle of a show right now. I got places to go, don’t have time to worry about this. You think you can control yourself?”
“Yes. Sarasephi let me in.”
“Okay. That’s worth something. Cuz I could lock you up. That’s what we usually do. Until we decide what to do with you. But if she trusts you …”—he wipes the snot off his chin with the back of his hand—“… I’ll let you stay in the greenroom.”
I’m in a room—
time blinked out of my grasp like a sneeze.
I don’t remember coming here, and I’m surrounded by many creatures. Living things. Standing around talking, drinking out of glasses. Or out of troughs. The crowd swirls like a deranged garden, a profusion of misshapen flowers, a bewilderness of riotous colors. They ignore me. The room is rectangular and filled with glowing tables of various heights and sizes and a long chest-high counter that’s—could it be?—a bar at the far end. The walls are creamy sheets; the room lit by baskets overflowing with luminescent lichen.
A ligament of time was severed—or was it a portion of my life that swerved? A blackout. How much time has passed? Since what marker? When did I last sleep? How far back to measure?
To my right, sipping from a bottle through a bendy straw, is a fat-bellied, frog-mouthed, baby-blue-tutu-wearing creature who stands on two short frog legs ending in hooves painted red. The grooved fat of hes whale-like midriff is squeezed into the tutu like a bloated alcoholic in a corset. Hes mouth faces upward and extends from one side of hes body to the other with two bubble eyes peeking over the top. Would make a good puppet. To my left, at a table in the corner, sits a group of three creatures: a Fennec Boy with tall pointy ears, a dolphin-bodied thing with caterpillar legs and a chimp’s head; and the third, between them on the table, is a gnarled and crusty tortoise. Just ahead of me, standing by a tall café table, is a two-headed, black-and-white Siamese twin. One head is a cat, the other a dog. Both heads are held up by flamingo-necks that lead down to a single lozenge-shaped body with two skinny arms and two skinny legs. I look past them to the bar opposite, to the bartender—I know her, the four-armed goddess from the entrance, the ticket giver. She’s behind the bar serving clear liquid from clear pitchers into clear glasses. Bottles and mugs of different sizes and shapes parade along the bar; glass and metal pitchers line up on a shelf behind. I take one step toward the bar when the Twins accost me.
“Hello,” says the Doghead.
“Hello,” says the Cathead, both of them feasting on me with their huge oval black eyes.
“Ah, hi.”
“You look familiar,” says the Cathead.
“Have you been hybridized recently?” says the Doghead rapid-fire.
“I …” What is the safe answer here?
“I know you from someMEOW.”
“You what?”
“Yes, we recognize your vibe,” continues the Doghead.
“What do you mean? I have a vibe?”
“That’s all one has,” responds the Cathead.
“We’re happy to see you again, if that is so,” says the Doghead.
“To meet you again,” says the Cathead.
“To see and meet you again.”
“We should introduce ourselves.”
“To be proper.”
“But we don’t have real names.”
“And we don’t give two flying fucks about it,” the Doghead makes a fist to emphasize his point, “since we’re not interested in being confined.”
“Although I wish we’d have a flying fuck once in a—”
“We’ve renounced names entirely,” the Doghead interrupts, glaring at the Cathead.
“Yes, entirely unnecessary evil,” admits the Cathead.
“Although, isn’t all evil necessary? In the moment. To fulfill the moment.”
“You’re saying there’s no free will?”
“Does it feel like there’s free will?”
“I cannot be sure. I do not feel like I have free MEOW,” the Cathead says with a sidelong squint at Doghead.
“Excuse me,” I say, “did you say, ‘Meow’?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well … aren’t you supposed to … I mean, you’re not supposed to … say …”
“What?” They look at me curiously.
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“Where were we?” asks the Cathead.
“Free WOOF,” says the Doghead.
“Right. All I know about that is, my needs control me fffffsssssst and my desires second.”
“You can rrrrrrresist desire.”
“That’s merely a desire to resist desire.”
“Oh, it is. It definitely is. However, I can. You are just weak. WOOF!”
“I am helpless to resist.”
“It all comes down to chromicity, doesn’t it?”
“I blame the environment; my milieu has altered me.”
“Your surroundings make you surrender?”
“Suppose I lived in the lap of luxury. This so-called personality is indistinguishable from what is.”
“But, to your point, what is is all that is, so there is no other possibility.”
“That’s just an excuse to blame the victim.”
“Look, the environment and chromicity are one and the same, aren’t they? Take him
, for example,” says the Doghead, talking to me directly.
“He is obviously altered.” The Cathead gives me a sniff.
“Because he was outside.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Who are you?”
“Tell us about yourself.”
“I, uh …”
“He has nothing to say,” declares the Doghead.
“He has no free MEOW.”
“Nothing is free.”
“Rowr,” the Cathead says, licking her Cathead-side hand. (Their hands: four thick, short fingers with claws.) “What is it that is willing?”
“Perhaps the self qua self is not a thing but an action.”
“A”—lick—“process.”
“Willing.”
“A”—lick—“willing.”
“Willing is the Self and singularly when you choose to will.”
The Cathead pauses mid-lick. “But what is choosing?”
“The willing.”
“Willing is choosing?”
“Choosing is willing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly not.”
“So when you’re not willing—”
“You are a machine, an automaton,” finished the Doghead.
“A sleepwalker.”
“A dogwalker.”
“Ontology.”
“Greater beings than we have thought about it.”
“Greater in what sense?”
“Size.”
“Certainly.”
They both smile at me in a grandmotherly fashion, pick up mugs of water from the café table, take sips simultaneously, and replace the mugs.
I swallow dryly.
“Good thing with power you don’t need a Woof-self,” states the Doghead.
“Power corrupts the Self,” returns the Cathead.
“With power we just are.”
“Just are what?”
“Just power.”
“An expression of power.”
“It’s not just an expression.”
“Indeed fsssssss,” hisses the Cathead, turning from me to look the Doghead in the eyes.
“Power rushes in to fill the vacuum,” responds the Doghead, returning the Cathead’s gaze.
“But someone constantly needs to use power to fill their hole, don’t they?”
A Greater Monster Page 19
