After she had given me my medicine, I tried to get back to my staring, but it was difficult. I was starting to get a little bored with it. You can only stare at something for so long before it starts looking the same.
When I could get some of the other inmates alone, out of earshot of the nurses, I asked them when the big escape was going to be. I knew a big escape was being planned, because it always is in places like this. Television has taught us that much. They said it was set for tonight. They said they had been waiting for a big stupid guy who could act as the muscle for their operation. And I had finally showed up. Just when they were starting to think I wouldn’t. I said I wasn’t stupid. I was methodical. To the point of stupidity. But I was pretty big. Would I do? They said I was perfect.
“We’ve got our big stupid guy,” one of them said, rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“You stand in the middle of the room and fight everybody while we escape.”
“And then I escape.”
“What?”
“After you escape, then I do.”
“Er… yes, that’s right.”
“Because that’s the way it would have to work if it was going to be fair.”
“Uh… absolutely. You escape too.”
“Fine.”
Late that night the asylum was thrown into an uproar. One of the institution’s Special Residents had gone insane! All the nurses, doctors, and administrators came rushing into the main room to see me standing there swinging belts around and yelling and gibbering like a madman.
The first nurse to reach me tried to calm me down with a hypodermic needle and a few soothing words. I decked her. The next one came at me with a blackjack. I decked her too.
“Gibber!” I yelled, doing my best to imitate someone who was not just special, but really special - specialer than a fruitcake, “Gibber gibber yell yell!”
More nurses and doctors tried to restrain me, but I knocked them over as fast as they arrived. The nuts were right about me. I was perfect for this job. It’s too bad it was just a one day deal. I could probably have made a nice living doing this.
While I was keeping the staff busy, and security men were being summoned from their normal stations outside to lend a hand in subduing me, inmates started going over the wall by the dozens.
Some flew out, chattering like helicopters, others bounced over the wall like the pogo sticks they thought they were, and one who thought he was Lindbergh flew out in an airplane he’d made out of toilet paper rolls that thought they were airplane parts. One guy with a split personality escaped five different ways. Though I’m told they later found two of him.
I was right behind the last of the inmates, with two nurses still clinging doggedly to me, one trying to take my temperature to find out what was wrong with me, and the other trying to tell me a bedtime story so I’d go to sleep.
I shook them off and grabbed the long plasticine arm of an inmate who thought he was a comic book hero, and was dragged up and over the wall to freedom.
Once we were outside, I immediately split off from the others. I figured I could do better on my own, since I was sane and they were not. So when they headed north, I went south. I don’t know what happened to the rest of them, but I know at least one of them got away clean, because I later saw him in the news, breaking the sound barrier, with his face. So he did all right. But I didn’t.
Just as I got clear of the other inmates, and took my first step south, a hand came down on my shoulder. I looked up. It was a G-Man. And he had a gun.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I was taken to a large ominous government facility out near the edge of town. Central City had outbid Cuba for it. Its purpose was vague, but the money it generated for the local economy was real, and that’s all the City Council cared about, so there were no investigations by the city into the weird noises or diabolical laughter that came out of the facility. The people who lived in the neighborhood complained about all the noise - and about the annoying “secret” smell that belched out of the facility’s smokestacks day and night, a smell that no one could identify exactly, but no one liked – but nothing was ever done to look into these complaints. A lot of City Council members’ salaries were paid for indirectly by that facility, and no one wanted to jeopardize their salaries. Nobody’s that stupid.
Beyond the heavily guarded main gate was nearly an acre of mixed barbed wire and dogs. Then more gates, with a dog on each one.
The main building was even more secure. There were guards at every door, on both sides. You couldn’t open a door without hitting a guard’s head with it. The swinging doors usually got both of them. So the guards were all in a mean mood. After awhile, my escorts stopped letting me open the doors. They made me walk in the middle of the group.
I was taken to the office of the man running the facility, a Mr. Albert Conklin. He was a thin white-haired, pleasant looking old duffer, but in my experience nothing about the government is pleasant – except for maybe the stamps. Some of the stamps are quite nice. So I wasn’t fooled by appearances. I expected him to be trouble. And he was.
Before he could say anything to me, I asked him a question - a question I ask everyone I meet for the first time: “Are you going to kill me?”
“Killing you isn’t enough, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. Are you sure, because…”
“Oh we’re quite sure. You’ve caused too many problems already. Just stopping you from causing any more won’t do us any good. It won’t get rid of the ones you’ve already caused.”
“No, I can see that now.” I thought for a minute. “Wait, I think I thought of a way where killing me would be enough.”
“It’s too late now.”
I made a face.
“What are you so happy about?”
“Oh. Sorry. Wrong face.”
I made another face.
“You’re right to look worried, Mr. Burly, because…”
“That’s anger, stupid.”
He looked at my face again for a moment, then continued: “Anyway… as I said, I’m afraid we’re going to have to do something that’s a little more drastic than just killing you.”
I decided not to try to convey my feelings about this through facial expressions. At least not until I’d had more practice. I wrote “Disappointment” down on a piece of paper and showed it to him. He crumpled the paper up and dropped it in his wastebasket.
“You see, the problem is, you have uncovered secrets which should have remained buried forever,” he continued. “Now we’ll have to reverse the damage you have caused. It’s fortunate that you got out of the asylum on your own. It saved us the trouble of figuring out a way to get you out without attracting undue attention.”
“Secrets? What secrets?”
“Never mind.”
“This is where I find out what’s going on, right?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I was disappointed by this, but I tried to be philosophical about it. “Oh well, I guess I’ll find out in the end.”
“You’d better not.”
“That’s when I usually find out. Right near the end.”
“Not this time, buster.”
“Okay. I’ll try not to.” I wasn’t happy about this. I like to find out at the end. “So, if you’re not going to kill me, what are you going to do to me?”
“We are going to make it so you never existed - so you were never born.”
I thought about this, then slipped him a note with the word “plagiarism” on it. He read the note, then threw it in the wastebasket with my other notes. Then he stood up.
“Let’s get this over with.”
“All right.”
He led me downstairs to a lower level to meet someone he would only refer to as “Clarence”.
On the way, we passed rooms full of secret machines the government had been developing. Conklin proudly pointed out a few of them to me.
> “That thing that looks like a ray gun is really a new kind of broadcasting. It can shoot a TV show into your head from three hundred yards away.”
“That will revolutionize the entertainment industry,” I observed.
He nodded. “People won’t have to argue about what to watch anymore. Everyone will get to watch his own show.”
“Wonderful.”
“You’ll get the show you want, in the head you want it in.”
“I can see that being the slogan for your campaign.”
“Yes.” He pointed at another gadget. “And that machine over there will make all the evil people in the world six inches tall.”
I was interested in this machine. As you know, I’d been looking for ways to make it easier to spot criminals. This might be just the thing.
“Where can I buy one of those gizmos?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.
Conklin shook his head regretfully. “Not on the market yet, I’m afraid. It hasn’t even been fully tested. Some of the higher-ups in our government are worried that…well, we just haven’t tested it yet, that’s all. Good idea though, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It will certainly make my job easier, that’s for sure. Say, if the government can do all this, why can’t somebody make coffee that tastes good?”
“I don’t know. Are you sure you cleaned the pot?”
“Which pot?”
“Maybe the pot needs to be cleaned.”
“I still want to know which pot.”
He didn’t answer. I decided to drop it.
Suddenly another thought occurred to me. “Hey, how are you guys connected with the ghosts?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… one minute I’m having trouble with ghosts, the next you show up with all this secret government stuff. What’s the connection?”
He frowned. “Maybe there is no connection.”
I shook my head. “That would be pretty sloppy plotting. The critics would tear us to pieces.”
“What critics? There are no critics here.” He glanced around to make sure.
“I mean, if this was a detective story, this part wouldn’t make much sense.”
“It isn’t a detective story.”
“No, but… oh, never mind. Forget I mentioned it.”
I didn’t want to tell him I would be writing all this down later. People tend to get stiff and wooden in their actions, with stilted dialogue, when they know it’s being recorded for posterity. I didn’t want to be stuck with a lot of crap dialogue in my memoirs. The reading public can spot that sometimes. The critics too. And the prize committees. I didn’t want to lose the Pulitzer Prize just because of this guy. So I didn’t tell him I was going to be writing everything down. As it turned out, Conklin’s dialogue was pretty stilted anyway. I figured I’d spiff it up a little bit before I published it, but in the end I didn’t bother.
Finally we reached a large room that had one single huge machine in the center of it.
“Meet Clarence,” Conklin said proudly.
“Hello, Clarence,” I said. I thought maybe I was expected to say more, so I added: “How are you this fine May morning?”
“All right, that’s enough talking to the machine,” said Conklin. “Impressive, isn’t it? Our engineers tell me it uses 3% of the world’s oil.”
“It’s worth it though, I bet.”
“Oh yes. The government has been working to perfect a machine like this for many years – since the republic was founded actually. The first unsuccessful prototype was made in 1776 of ‘liberty wood’, belt buckles, and beaver bottoms, and was powered by Hessians. It failed, of course. The design was too primitive. So another prototype was built. Steam powered this time. Davy Crockett was sure it would work. But it too failed. And so construction began on yet another model, which ultimately failed as well – they had to rebuild the White House after that one. And so on, down through the years.
“Now, after diverting massive amounts of money from other programs – corn-based coinage, and the vice-president-in-space program, to name but two examples…”
“I usually prefer to have three examples,” I pointed out.
“…this facility has finally managed to build a version of the machine that really works. It is a machine that will erase you, Mr. Burly, from existence. Like you were never born. We call it Clarence, after the evil angel in ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’.”
“Hello, Clarence,” I said again.
At Conklin’s direction, technicians started connecting wires from the machine to my body.
I pointed at something on the machine. “Hey, are those long things teeth?”
“Yes, but don’t be alarmed. They’re not functional. Strictly part of the design. And that’s not real blood dripping off the teeth.”
“Good.” I heard a low threatening noise coming from the machine. “Is it snarling?”
“I’ll turn the volume down.”
“Thanks.”
The technicians clipped wires onto my eyeballs and asshole.
“This seems kind of dangerous,” I said nervously. “Shouldn’t we try it out on you first?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. It’s perfectly safe. Now just relax, take a deep breath, and try not to circulate your blood.”
As I took my deep breath, and the final connections were being made between me and the Clarence machine, a white haired exquisitely tailored gentleman smelling of money and votes drifted in looking worried.
“We… uh… lost Kansas,” he said.
“There are three government agencies ahead of you,” snapped Conklin, as he fiddled with the dials on the machine. “And I have to take care of this man before I do anything else. You’ll have to wait over there.” He jerked a thumb at a waiting room on the other side of the corridor that was already half-filled with worried looking men.
“Neighboring states are getting curious about the hole,” the man persisted.
“I’m busy right now, Senator. Wait over there.”
“But…”
“Get over there, buddy,” I said. “We’re taking care of me first.”
He hesitated, then left, wringing his hands fretfully. The nerve of that guy, trying to cut in front of the line like that.
“Now,” said Conklin, after he had made a few last minute adjustments, “once I turn on the machine it will read your life history down to the cellular level, then methodically erase it, event by event.”
I frowned. “How is that possible? That doesn’t seem possible to me.”
“It is.”
“Maybe you should show me a schematic drawing of the machine and tell me how it works. You could describe the physics involved and we could look over the blueprints while we eat lunch. Then tomorrow, after we’ve had breakfast, and finished our jogging…”
He shook his head. “There’s no time for all that, I’m afraid. I’m already behind schedule. Ready?”
“I guess,” I said, in that childish tone I have when I don’t get what I want.
He twisted a dial on the machine.
I began seeing my life flashing before my eyes, backwards, with each event slowly fading away, as if it had been exposed to too much sun. There went 2007 down the drain, then 2006. There went my detective career that had never really gotten off the ground. And the three years I spent carrying cement blocks. And my six years of high school. As each memory disappeared I felt my brain growing emptier, more echo-y, and happier. It felt good not having those experiences anymore. Plus, my mind could yodel now.
The procedure was fairly painless, except for all the electricity coursing through me, and all the loud horns blaring in my ears. And I’m not sure what the chisels were digging at me for, but they sure hurt. Maybe that’s what they were for.
I felt my fingerprints melt away and my wallet get thinner, as my driver’s license and other identity papers disappeared. Finally, I felt my birthmark fade away. The process was complete. I had never been born.
Conklin
unhooked me from the machine.
“That didn’t hurt, did it?”
“Well, not too much. My rear end is burnt black though. Will that clear up after awhile?”
Conklin frowned and moved off to talk to the technicians who had helped wire me up. “No, I’ve never heard of it either,” said one of them. Then they turned back to me with reassuring smiles. “It will clear up in a couple of weeks,” said Conklin.
Despite everything I’d been told about the Clarence machine, and the things I’d seen flashing before my eyes, I didn’t really believe I had never been born. I didn’t feel any different. And I didn’t look any different, except for all the burn marks, the corncob pipe, and the different shirt.
“Your machine’s a bust, Conklin,” I said, twirling my handlebar mustache. “Nothing has changed.”
“Oh no?”
He took me over to the window. We watched 2000 men from a troopship trot by in front of the facility.
“Hey, I thought the men from that troopship were dead!” I said.
“None of the men on that troopship died, because you weren’t there to get them killed.”
I stared at him in horror. Quickly, I checked to see if the black eyes I usually have were still there. They weren’t. My nose wasn’t bent in all four directions either. It was like my face had never been punched at all. Then I knew it was true. I had never been born. This was like some kind of Capraesque nightmare!
I was taken down to a lower level and shoved into a cell. Conklin said they couldn’t let me go, because I knew too much.
“Oh, come on!” I scoffed. “I don’t know anything. Everybody knows that.”
“You know about Clarence,” Conklin reminded me, “and the machine that makes evil men short, and a number of other things we’d rather not have blabbed all over town at the moment. Or ever. So I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us. It will be a long one.”
“Well, I’m sure I will enjoy my stay, enormously, but…”
“The guards will push a piece of meat through your bars once a day.”
My cell door clanged shut, and Conklin walked off.
I wondered when the meat was coming. It sounded pretty good.
Dead Men Scare Me Stupid Page 5
