by ed. Pela Via
And I really wasn’t too far removed, either. No one at school was more popular. I had successfully made my way through all the girls at my school and even some of the staff. I’d moved into the pants of schoolgirls in neighboring towns as the nicknames started creating a wake of whispers behind me. Agents with ponytails called the house about movies of the week featuring my father’s son and the woman who died because of him. At some point he would put a stop to all this. A chair would fly, he would scoop me up and kick out the front door screaming that enough was enough.
But instead he said, “Okay good, I really want that television we were talking about.”
A few months later a movie premiering on the cable network for women by women was viewed on the television paid for by my sold rights. Mom seemed to enjoy it, but my dad had to reassure her that even though the movie said I conspired with Tommy, it wouldn’t ruin the possibility of future projects.
“If anything, it sells the drama,” he said.
In college, my girlfriend said she hadn’t heard about me, and I instantly loved her. She made me feel safe and needed. Her hair was the color of dried wheat but smelled like pressed flowers scattered over clean sheets, beautiful and airy but not overly fruity, just simply perfect. She was perfect, and she laughed in song. And the sex video she sold to the internet porn company paid for both of our tuition, with my face in a nice night-vision-green on the cover.
At graduation a woman walked up to me wearing a pantsuit, greeting me with, “Mongrel.”
She said that despite her better judgment, followed by her pleas of absolution, she had been sent by her employer to escort me to Hollywood. A reality show circuit had my name all over it, perhaps a Christmas album, and as I drifted off into obscurity, a satellite radio show. In the meantime I could work the talk shows, pepper in an autobiography and really finish off the life my parents had made for me.
Which brings me here, America. As you all know, the reality show had a successful run. My drug rehab farce carried it a year beyond its life expectancy, and then the celebrity reality shows, the dancing, the weight loss, the season when I was center square on a game show revamp. This interview here was to mark the twentieth anniversary of that night I watched television with my best friend’s mother.
I wash my hands in the bile pumping out, the blood that’s been spilled, my organs on display. My eyes find the stage lights while the strike team bursts into the studio looking for my killer, my reunited best friend. One of the officers throws up as another screams for a paramedic. I feel myself fall, wooden floorboards waking the numbness in my knees.
“Jesus Christ, where’s that medic?” he yells. “Hold on, man.”
This is the blood, shed for you.
I find his face through the tears welling up in my eyes.
Please, forgive my sins.
“It’s all right, son,” his hand says as it grips my shoulder.
And it all fades.
The clapping is what I hear next. The lights come back and an assistant comes and unhooks the props from my abdomen. The officer that was gripping my shoulder is wiping sweat from his eyebrow and asking an intern if he thought he should ask for another take. The director calls for the union-mandated lunch break and people pat me on the back for a job well done.
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Laws of Virulence
by Jeremy Robert Johnson
INTERNAL MEMO: 08/07/2010
CASE: F-DPD0758 (CDC NORS-Water Report ID VEC147, Received 08/03/2010 via State Report OMB No. 0920-0004, Submitted by: Dr. Lorena Santos of Pacific Grace Clinic)
ETIOLOGY: Unknown (comparative specimen analysis in progress, genus/species/serotype may require new designations)
CONTAMINATION FACTOR: C-N/A, Unknown
SURVIVAL FACTOR: S-N/A, Deaths can be attributed to case though comparable pathogens have displayed symbiotic behavior
DOCUMENT INSERT: Verbatim transcript of post-containment etiology determination interview with Subject 5 (Matthew Hall). Due to active vector status (transmission mode remains classified as Indeterminate/Other/Unknown although enteric Phase 1 possible) subject interviewed in iso via 2-way audio. DPDx program active/engaged. Elimination & Control team at ready.
Recorded at Director’s Request/Classified Confidential 1-A. Speaking: DPD Director Cliff Selzer, Matthew Hall
CS: Hello, Mr. Hall.
MH: [No response]
CS: I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. Hall . . . Can I call you Matthew?
MH: You can call me whatever you want.
CS: Very well, Matthew. I need you to understand the situation we’re in right now. How important you are. How much you can help us.
MH: I’m not important. I’m the least important person you’ve ever met. And I don’t give a shit about helping you. And if you don’t get me something stiffer than this glass of fucking tap water then I’m not saying a word.
CS: Matthew, I’m afraid that water is all we can provide you right now. But if you cooperate there could be adjustments to your Stay Profile.
MH: You get me a bottle of Maker’s and a shotgun. You promise that. Then I’ll tell you everything.
CS: You know I can’t do that.
MH: I don’t know what you can or can’t do. I don’t even know who the hell you are. You strip me naked. You spray me down with some kind of goddamn fire extinguisher and make me sit in the dark in three smaller and smaller rooms. I thought you were cooking me alive in the last one.
CS: Matthew, that was all for standard decontamination protocol. We’re trying to protect you and others.
MH: So am I safe now?
CS: “Safe?”
MH: Decontaminated?
CS: [Long pause] We’re not sure, Matthew. That’s why it’s so important you tell us what you know.
MH: [Garbled] fucking shitbirds. Just let me die. Please.
CS: That’s very selfish, Matthew. There are millions of people in this country who don’t want to die, and you’re putting them at risk. If you won’t speak with me will you at least consider filling out the form we’ve placed in front of you?
MH: [Sound of pen being thrown across room, striking floor. Sound of Subject 5 expectorating on form CS115.]
BREAK IN RECORDING
MH: Now that’s more like it, chief. Aaah, that’s more like it.
CS: I suggest you slow down, Matthew. We don’t know how alcohol will affect the specimen or its interaction with your body.
MH: [Sound of gulping.] Shit on your specimen, chief. [Sound of belch.] Oh, Jesus, that fucking burns.
CS: It’s 100 proof, Matthew.
MH: No, not the booze. That stuff is silky. It’s the fucking crawler. Sonofabitch never stops working on me. I knew it. Your precious little detox rooms were a waste. [Sound of fabric rubbing on skin.] See, my mouth is already bleeding. Then I’ll get the fucking seaweed eyes. Then you guys will wish you already would’ve given me that shotgun.
CS: “Seaweed eyes?”
MH: Yeah. It’s like lace under the eyes, or like . . . like they’re bloodshot but the blood is dark green.
CS: And your wife displayed this condition?
MH: Claire had it first, and then . . .
CS: Then your daughter?
MH: [Long pause. Sound of gulping.] Yeah . . . Myra.
CS: We’ve performed a full sweep of your apartment, Matthew. We’re aware of your loss and I promise you we understand how difficult this must be.
MH: Did you burn them?
CS: No. Our procedure dictates a course other than destruction . . .
MH: Quit fucking around and burn them. Please. Give them that. Claire always wanted to be cremated and . . . I was going to do it myself, before you guys booted in my goddamn door . . . please. It’s the last good thing I can do for them.
CS: The sooner we know what you know, the sooner we can honor your request.
MH: Promise?
CS: We will do our best to keep funeral processing in motion.
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MH: Well, cheers to that. [Sound of gulping.]
CS: So, at what point did you notice the discoloration in your wife’s eyes? And were there any notable signs or symptoms prior to that? Vomiting? Fever? Abdominal cramps?
MH: There are probably some symptoms I didn’t even notice. To be honest, we weren’t talking that much. I mean, this all happened last week and it happened so fast. But she was always bitching and crunching on Tums and popping Tylenol, so . . . I mean, running a daycare center is hard work. She used to joke that children could only grow by stealing your energy and happiness. But she liked it, she really did. Hell, she was pretty much raising Myra without me.
CS: Our records indicate you lived together.
MH: [Brief laughter.] Depends on how you define living, chief. We split rent on an apartment and had the same last name, you know . . . Sometimes I’d take Myra to the park. She was too little to go on the swings or anything, but she liked to smell the flowers and watch the other kids play . . . But Claire would have been the second person, after me of course, to tell you that I’m a piece of shit. A real charity case. So the truth is that I didn’t notice how wrong things were until they’d gone way past wrong.
CS: What did you observe first?
MH: Well, I woke up after Claire every day, and I’d make the bed to pretend I was useful in some way, and I noticed some little spots of blood on her pillow. Nothing too serious looking. But then she got home that night and had a hefty cough. Plus, her breath had become pretty toxic. She’d block it with her hand but the smell would float across the whole room. And this smell, chief, it was like a dead hooker’s pussy stuffed with old shrimp. But worse. It crawled into your nose like it was living. She started burning nag champa incense, so she must have smelled it too.
CS: Is that when she decided to go to the hospital?
MH: No. Claire is . . . Claire was a tough one. I was starting to feel a little sick, too, and Claire figured we had some food poisoning. It was her birthday a few days before, and I’d been out “job hunting” at the Pussycat Palace. You know the place?
CS: I’m aware of it.
MH: So you’ve seen Cherry Headrush dance before?
CS: No, Matthew. But I’m aware of many venues and chains because of their prominence on our regional disease vector maps.
MH: Oh. Shit. [Sound of gulping.] Well, I’d flipped for this girl, Cherry. And they’d just extended my unemployment for another three months so I was feeling flush. Spent almost my whole check in one afternoon, hogging up the lap dances. Milking a cheap beer buzz for hours. And then my cell started vibrating and a Reminder message pops up: CLAIRE B-DAY DINNER TONIGHT. Only the “tonight” is spelled like 2-N-I-T-E which means Claire programmed this into my phone so I’d remember. [Long pause.]
CS: Please continue. The food poisoning?
MH: So I’m running late, very buzzed and most of my cash is already in the Pussycat’s sterilizer. But I have to try and pull myself out of this so I hit Chinatown and looked for something fancy to cook up. Chan’s Market has a beautiful red snapper on discount, so I cop that, pick up some lemon and capers, and get two fancy chocolate Cupcakes at Dreampuff’s.
SEE SEPARATE DOCUMENT INSERT FOR RELATED DIRECTOR ORDER: DPDx multi-venue deploy/search/surveil. Full containment authorized. Andolini appointed Team Leader.
CS: Sorry about that break, Matthew. You’ve been very helpful.
MH: Do I have any choice? Really? I appreciate the second bottle, but you might want to give me a bucket if I’m going to keep going. Although I’d have no problem shellacking your little desk here.
CS: Consider us well advised. Please continue.
MH: Shit, man . . . it seems obvious, doesn’t it? I barely had any time to bake the fish before Claire got home with Myra. I brushed up and changed my clothes and put on some Alicia Keys even though I can’t stand that shit. Lit a couple of tea lights I found under the sink. But I still fucked it up. I still fucked it up. [Pause] The fish looked good by candle-light. Looked delicious.
CS: You think the red snapper was the original source of the sickness?
MH: Thing is, I was pulling off the sober act, but I had to burp. And that just ruined it. One hundred percent. Like a strip club came out of my mouth. Claire pegged it, and laid into me, even though Myra was sitting in the room in her little bouncy chair and we’d sworn not to fight in front of her. And I mentioned that and we tried to enjoy the dinner and pretend that something was okay and nice and we didn’t even notice how raw the snapper was until we’d taken out half of the fish.
CS: So Claire was guessing that the raw fish had given each of you food poisoning?
MH: Yeah. She was toughing it out until Myra got sick, too. Because that didn’t make any sense. Myra was still breastfeeding, so she never had any of that nasty snapper. But she was coughing and having the blood speckles just the same.
CS: That’s when she visited Pacific Grace, toward the beginning of August?
MH: I think so. I was sort of on my own thing (delete) while this was happening. Sleeping on the couch at night. Hiding at Pussycat’s during the day. I told myself I was in exile, giving Claire some space to forgive me. But I was really just doing the same old shit. Living in a worn down strip club booth, paying Cherry to hip-hump me. Hoping that Claire and Myra would start feeling better. That maybe Claire would start feeling so good she’d build up the mojo to finally drop me.
CS: When did you find out she wasn’t feeling better?
MH: Well, Pussycat’s kind of extradited me back to my family. I was already putting off that rotten jellyfish smell and . . . let’s just say there aren’t enough dollars to make a stripper let you cough blood in her face. I didn’t even see it coming. Just sitting there half-chubbed and dead drunk and BOOM! No tickle in the throat. No warning.
CS: Do you happen to know Cherry Headrush’s real name?
MH: You’re kidding, right? [Sound of bottle opening/sound of gulping.] All I know is that I was home and starting to feel pretty rotten myself, and I can’t imagine how Claire was managing to run the daycare like that. All those little people screaming. “I want. I need. Watch me. Love me.” Jesus.
CS: This was the Morning Sun Daycare on Stanton?
MH: Yup. So, Claire stumbles into the house and she and Myra are both coughing and they have those triple-dark circles under their eyes, and seeing them like that makes me feel like I managed to sneak into Hell without dying. Just worthless. No, worse than that—fucking evil. [Long pause] Claire said the lady at the hospital gave them both two I.V. bags to rehydrate them, and that they needed to go back tomorrow for more diagnostics. But she thought it might be a parasite, like one of those squiggly little gut worms you get from eating sushi in Ohio.
CS: Did she suggest you go with them?
MH: Of course. And I was thinking it was the right thing to do. I was starting to feel weak in my bones. But the next morning I wake up and they’re already gone and there’s a text on my phone saying that they’re both “feeling much better.” Which was weird, because they’d been coughing like crazy all night. Just brutal sounding. Wet. Like I’d guess TB used to sound.
CS: So . . . a productive cough followed by an apparent return to vigor?
MH: Sure, chief. However you want to call it. It spooked me because I was still under the weather. But I pegged that up in my mind as booze-related immune suppression. All those sauced little white blood cells getting bitch-slapped by the bugs in my system.
SEE SEPARATE DOCUMENT INSERT RE: Viability of ethanol [or variant] ingestion as chemical deterrent to life cycle of [un-named parasite/parasitoid CASE: F-DPD0758].
CS: So when did it become evident that Claire and Myra were still . . . unwell?
MH: [Prolonged sound of gulping.] You want to hear the rest, you get me a loaded shotgun. I promise I’ll only fire it once.
CS: Not an option, Matthew.
MH: Okay. Fuck it. I better get the truth out before the goddamn crawler starts telling my story [
Pause/sound of shuddering exhalation.] I knew they were still unwell when I found their tongues. Claire’s was in the bed, tucked under a pillow. Dried up already, like jerky. And Myra’s . . .
CS: Please, Matthew.
MH: Myra’s was in her crib, next to her favorite pacifier, the one with the orange dolphin on the back. And I’ve got to tell you, chief, between my half-sick, half-drunk stupor and lack of sleep, I felt like I was dreaming. So I did what seemed like the right thing. I threw the tongues in the garbage and kept on tidying the apartment. Like I could organize away what I was seeing. Like I could clean up reality.
SEE SEPARATE DOCUMENT INSERT FOR RELATED DIRECTOR ORDER: DPDx forensic detachment to attain SW Sanitation schedule/potential combing of landfill [use of trailing dogs authorized]. Retention of tissue from Subjects 3 and 4 Top Priority, presence/absence of eggs to be communicated ASAP.
MH (continued): So I had the place pretty spruced, and I was waiting for them to come home. Claire wasn’t answering her phone. And my nerves were on four alarm blaze, so I had some bourbon close by, just to keep things mellow until I could figure out what was going on. I’d call her phone. Five rings. Voice mail. Nothing. Take a swig. Five rings. Voice mail. Nothing. And they still weren’t home by 9:00 p.m.
CS: Records show you called Claire’s mother.
MH: Three or four times. But she never picked up. And I thought about calling the cops, but I knew my speech was slurring by that point. What would I tell them? There was no crime, and they’d probably guess it was just another wife bailing with the kid, leaving the stew-bum behind.
CS: But their tongues? That must have . . .
MH: Can’t see that impressing the cops either. Just a way to induce them to pack a straight jacket. Besides, if I mentioned finding their tongues . . . I’d been on a steady drunk trying to bury that detail, hoping I was just losing my shit.
