“My best educated guess says product testing: no-tears shampoo, waterproof mascara, that kind of thing.”
“Makes sense,” I said. We slurped in silence. I waited for Jarvis to finish his drink and then visit the pisser, after which I noticed that he had combed his wild hair into a greasy ducktail. He’d scrubbed filth from his facial creases and washed his grimy hands. Reeking of industrial cherry-scented soap, he sat down.
“How about something healthy this time,” he said. “Like a screwdriver. I could use a dose of vitamin C.”
“How about you give me the scoop on Hogzilla,” I said.
We sat for a few seconds, the meat on the table between us.
“Buy me that drink and we’ll see what I can remember.”
I bought him the drink. I myself switched back to Miller Lite, for I was starting to feel a bit dizzy.
“In my opinion,” said Jarvis. “Hogzilla also hails from the evil labs of GenExcel. They probably put some kind of bird gene in the creature to make a leaner pork—hence the wings on his back, his odd affinity for gliding, his predilection for bearing down from the sky like a wily dragon from days of yore. I can attest from personal experience that his slaver is corrosive, that his breath will literally knock you out. Men ought not dabble with God’s work, son, tinkering with the genes and whatnot.”
According to Jarvis, the airborne hog once chased him through R.V. Garland’s cornfield. After Jarvis tumbled to the ground to avoid the squawking beast, Hogzilla glided over him and treated him to a blast of his breath.
“Passed out immediately,” said Jarvis. “And my lungs ached for days after, like I’d spent the day huffing butane. And even weirder, there was a clean strip of red on my left forearm where, I believe, the animal licked me—took the topmost skin right off. Don’t know why the pig didn’t kill me.”
Jarvis paused to crack the knuckles of his right hand, one by one.
“As I recall,” he said, “’twas the beast that took your pinkie finger.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“And now you’re all fired up with revenge.”
I nodded. Jarvis snorted and shook his head.
“Where does the hog sleep?” I whispered.
“Depends,” said the old man, “on the state of the moon.”
“Meaning?”
Jarvis Riddle jerked his head back and closed his eyes with an affected convulsion, as though receiving a vision from the empyrean.
“When the moon is full”—he opened his eyes—“the animal harkens back toward its diabolical origins.”
“GenExcel?”
“Perhaps.” Jarvis whistled a haunting, vaguely familiar tune and cracked a yellow grin.
“Would you like another drink?”
“Would love one,” he said. “But let me relieve my bladder first.”
Jarvis Riddle pulled himself up from his chair, shook the kink from his back, and strode to the restroom. After ten minutes, I went to check on him, but the stalls were empty. A faint odor of leaf mold haunted the air.
• •
By the time I got home, late afternoon light was shining at the bleakest angle upon my rotted roof. Recalling the telepathic rodents from the movie Willard, I unloaded my rats, stashing them in my shop garage. And then I went into my shop to check the refrigerator for the two Millers I vaguely remembered secreting there last week.
I heard a contrived cough. I turned from the fridge to see two dark shapes perched on stools behind my counter. I flicked on the overhead lights, expecting a rush of robbers, a bullet blast to the heart, a sinking of vampire teeth into my leathery neck. But the men didn’t budge. Dressed in the kind of expensive outdoorsy clothing you find in catalogs catering to would-be country gentlemen, they kept their seats. One was slender and balding, with squinty eyes flickering above a long fox-like nose. The other had the blubbery face of a seal—undefined features, thick dark hair that almost blended with his luxurious eyebrows.
“Roman Futch?” said the plump one.
“And to whom do I owe the honor of this breaking and entering?”
“Don’t worry, we’ve done all the paperwork.”
Like smug TV goons, they flashed badges and search warrants.
“FDA,” said the thin one, “Department of Bioterrorism and Environmental Protection.”
“Let’s not beat around the bush,” said the plump one. “We’re here about the rat in your refrigerator.”
“How did you—”
“RFID microchip on its hind leg.”
“Duh.”
“Where did you find said rat?”
“Not mine. A client’s.”
“Whose?”
“I signed a confidentiality form.”
“Scovel Boughknight.” The plump one grinned, revealing thick white donkey teeth.
“We’ve already read his specification form.”
“Then why bother asking?”
“Where was the specimen harvested?” asked the thin guy.
“Near GenExcel, of course,” I said, getting it over with, thinking I might save Scovel some hassle, wondering when they were going to ask about the live rats in my garage.
“Can you be more specific, please?”
“Twenty yards and ten millimeters from their security fence, south side.”
Both men nodded, the plump one grinning, the thin one frowning.
“How did you lose the finger?” the former asked.
“Lawn mower accident.”
“Ouch.”
“Mr. Futch,” said the thin one, “can you tell us about the experiments you participated in at the Center for Cybernetic Neuroscience in Atlanta?”
“What the hell does that have to do with genetically modified rats?”
“We’ll do the questioning here.”
“It involved downloading information into my brain. They used some kind of biological computer to implant wet chips and direct nanobots to restructure my neurons. At least that’s what the contract said—the confidential contract, I might add. From what I gather, you’ve already given it a look-see. Otherwise, how would you—”
“Do you have any idea who they’re working for?”
“Vague question.”
“Ever heard of BioFutures Inc.?”
“Yes, but—”
“Mr. Futch.” The skinny one pulled an Oracle9 from his pocket and tapped its screen with long, elegant fingers. “Since the experiments, have you experienced any blackouts or lost time? Have you found yourself waking up in unfamiliar places?”
“No. I mean, I’ve passed out before. What’s this all about?”
“Again, we’ll do the questioning here. Where have you suffered blackouts?”
“I’ve passed out after drinking at home a few times. Once while hunting.”
“Can you be more specific? Hunting what?”
“Squirrels.”
“Why squirrels?”
“For eating. Well, that and a taxidermy project.”
“By which you’re referring to the prison.”
“So you’ve been snooping in my workshop.”
The agents flashed an official flurry of papers again.
“Mutant squirrels, Mr. Futch. Do you have a license for that?”
“Yes, I do. I mean, not for mutants specifically. SCDNR doesn’t make such distinctions.”
“Why a prison, Mr. Futch?” asked the thin one.
“Why not a prison? It’s just art, a statement on the twenty-first-century predicament, hierarchical surveillance, which is ironic considering our little question-and-answer session, which I hope is drawing to a close.”
“Actually, it is, but we’re going to have to take your rat.”
The thin agent held up a Baggie, cold limp rat encased. He finally rose from his stool.
“It’s been surreal,” I said, thinking of Kafka as I walked the men to the door.
Of course there was no vehicle outside in the drive, and I imagined a black sedan or some su
ch parked a few blocks away, down where the neighborhood dips into a flood zone. It was dusk by then. As I stood outside my shop, watching the agents disappear down Cypress Street, I felt an ache in my phantom pinkie finger—deep in the spectral bone. I thought about my last blackout, trying to figure out exactly when I’d gone under and how long I’d been out.
I recalled an episode of In Search of . . . in which Leonard Nimoy, that game-show host of the occult, probed the mysteries of hypnosis. Remote regions of the brain could be tapped for good or evil designs. With the aid of hypnosis, an old man in Massachusetts had quit smoking after sixty years. Via the same mesmerizing techniques perfected by Nazi scientists, an ordinary Russian plumber had been turned into a robot flunky by the KGB. With the utterance of the word moonbeam, delivered via telephone, the plumber would lapse into zombie mode and stop whatever he was doing to report to some odd location in Moscow. Dressed in bathrobe and slippers, mustard stains on his chin, he’d once blown up an American spy’s car.
I rubbed the scars on the dome of my skull where the three BC transmitters had once nested. I closed my eyes. Stopping up my ears with my fingers, I listened to the roar inside my head—it sounded like a distant volcano, steadily erupting lava, endless quantities of molten rock drawn from tumultuous depths.
THIRTEEN
Tucked cozily into a tolerable drunk, sitting on my couch, laptop trembling on my knees, I was chatting with PigSlayer, aka “Vic.” Despite my darkest suspicions, I kept a flicker of hope alive, envisioning her as a voluptuous Amazon warrior decked out in a bikini of jaguar hide. When I brought up the subject of the FDA and Bio-Futures, she said that these nebulous entities were part of a larger conspiracy involving the corporate takeover of the American food supply. She said that BioFutures, Monsanto, the FDA, and the CIA were probably in cahoots.
—They want to turn plants and animals into products, she said.
We shot the shit about Monsanto—terminator seeds and patented animals. Talked about GM rogue crops and cryogenic zoos.
—Actually, I found myself bragging, I’m kind of a postmodern taxidermist, specializing in mutant and postnatural dioramas.
—That’s pretty sick.
My heart sank, for Victor had reared his pimply python head again.
—Do you mean sick as in killer or sick as in twisted and gross?
—Killer, though I use contemporary slang w/ a trace of irony. I teach high school English, so YK, subjected to their infectious jargon.
I recalled my own high school English teacher, Miss Fripp, a romantic dumpling of a woman who wore Gunne Sax dresses and smelled of dry cat food. Now Victor morphed into Vicky, a plump frump with facial moles and a hundred cats. I could see her lolling upon a frilly bed on a pile of accent pillows, the air hazy with fur. I could see her quivering with excitement as she forged a new identity with PigSlayer, decking her fantastic body in neoprimitive ammo and charging the hog-hunting cyberscene.
—What you doing teaching English in this godforsaken land?
PIGSLAYER IS TYPING flashed on the screen and remained there for a suspicious two minutes. “Vic” was probably racking his/her brains to come up with a convincing answer.
—Student loan forgiveness. Teach in a backwater for five years, debt gets erased.
—Really? Sweet deal.
—And housing in these parts is cheap as all get-out.
—What parts?
—Typical godforsaken low-country swamp hole. Beaufort’s not too far away.
—How far?
—A hop, skip, and a jump, good sir. Tell me more about your taxidermy.
I told her about my Panopticon diorama, pretentiously paraphrasing Foucault and throwing in some quotes from Simulacra and Simulation for good measure. I told her about hunting for squirrels and frogs, about my plan to throw GM rats into the mix, explaining my postmodern critique of naïve naturalism.
—No shit. That’s fascinating. Where do you find such specimens?
—Out and about.
—Near the GenExcel lab, right?
—How did you know?
—Duh. No brainer. How close did you get to the lab? I’m just curious.
—Not that close.
—Did you get past the security fence?
—How would I do that? Pretty serious fence.
—Where there’s a will there’s a way. You approach from north or south?
—South, toward the Combahee.
—Pretty forested. Could you see much beyond the trees?
—Nothing.
Something about her relentless questioning, despite her casualness, reminded me of my recent interrogation, and my interlocutor morphed into yet another identity. This time I imagined the FDA agent (the tall, thin one) sitting stiffly at a Days Inn desk. But now s/he resembled Tilda Swinton. Dressed in ivory silk pajamas, short hair slicked from the shower, s/he studied my file, latching on to particular quirks and peculiarities. She wore no bra. Small breasts pressed against the silk of her pajama top, her dainty nipples alert like the snouts of minks.
—You still there?
—Yup. Just thinking.
—About what?
—GenExcel.
—No telling what’s going on in that lab. I would love to take a look, wouldn’t you?
—What do you mean?
—We’ll have to talk about that later. Got to scurry off to meet some friends.
As she vanished into cyberspace, I wondered what she meant by that last line, wondered if she wanted to get together or if she meant the usual textual chatter. I spent the rest of the night trolling the websites of regional high schools, searching for English teachers that fit “Vic’s” bill, scrolling through a thousand head shots of my state’s intrepid educators until my head sank to my desk.
• •
The following morning I woke past eleven. The residue of a few weird dreams lingered. I tasted strange chemicals in my mouth—as though I’d taken a huff of Aqua Net hair spray. And strangest of all, there was mud on my bare feet.
Sitting before a stark cup of black coffee, a vision flashed in my head: I saw an empty kitchen with warped linoleum, a brown-paper package sitting on a Formica counter. The kitchen was familiar yet peculiar: stained floor, smells of pet deodorizer and leaky plumbing accentuated by rain—uncanny, as Freud would say—and I shivered. I saw myself reaching to pluck the package from the counter. Saw myself clawing it open. Saw thick bundles of cash spilling out—orange $500 Monopoly bills held together with rubber bands. Husky masculine laughter echoed inside my head (I must have been asleep after all).
And now we will erase the experience by dissolving key synaptic connections in diverse areas of the brain, said a familiar voice, a glib manly voice that blended the growl of a bear with the sultry insinuations of a lounge singer. Subject 48FRD will not remember transferring the bills from location A to location B, though we’re still working out a few kinks.
And then poof—the vision was gone, hopefully a figment of last night’s forgotten dreams, served up by my overwrought imagination. But there was mud on my feet. I couldn’t ignore the mud, though I had gone through sleepwalking phases before: once as a child and once much later, when my mother’s dementia took a turn for the worse. The first round had happened when I was nine, right about the time Mom had started suffering from insomnia. I had a vague memory of Mom opening the car door and pulling me out (I’d crawled into the driver’s seat and curled up on the Naugahyde). I remembered standing in pajamas on the freezing driveway, Mom slapping my cheeks with her hands.
“Earth to Romie; Earth to Romie,” she’d said, smiling to reassure me, but I could see the worry in her eyes.
Decades later, on one of my visits, Mom sat on the porch, absorbed in an intense round of solitaire. When she looked up at me with a smile of recognition, I knew we’d made a mistake. She was not as bad off as we’d thought. She’d been suffering a temporary setback (she’d recently tried to eat a lightbulb, cutting her mouth), but now she looked l
ike her old self.
“What’s up?” she said.
“Hey, Mom. Do you know who I am?”
Her green eyes scanned my face. She frowned. “Walmart?” she said, a triumphant grin erupting.
That night Helen found me outside, making my steady way toward the gorge that swept down toward my childhood home.
“Fuck,” she said after she’d roused me. “One more step and you would’ve fallen in.”
• •
I sat in my yard in a lawn chair, pondering the voices I’d been hearing, methodically working through a case of Miller. Eyes fixed on the gibbous moon, I stared as though it might wax full any minute now, washing the planet with magnetic magic, goading the blood of beasts. I could picture Hogzilla, hot pink in moonlight, his eyes lit with bloodlust and pining for home. When he trotted down obscure trails to the locale of his birth, I’d be waiting somewhere in the vicinity, odorless and stealthy as death, a Savage .270 Winchester cradled in my arms.
I felt a prickle in my phantom pinkie finger, a keening of imaginary blood. I felt a pain deep in the bone. As I ached for this lost part of myself, my missing finger became a synecdoche for all lost things in my life—women and mothers, youth and full-scalp coverage, soberness and the bliss of solid sleep. Most of all, I ached for the future as a shimmering, distant thing.
The night was quiet. I heard staccato dog barks and wind rattling through the dead gorge. It was not wind, I realized, but some sizable animal, scrambling up through dried wildflowers. I jumped to my feet, ready for whatever rabid thing would charge me—coyote or fox or feral dog. But then a shadowy human head popped up from the dark abyss.
“Romie,” a familiar voice hissed. “It’s me.”
“Who?”
A man scampered up through the weeds, his face shrouded in shadow.
When, at last, my long-lost friend Trippy stepped onto level ground, my heart hammered with a warrior’s love. There he stood on the open plain, my fellow trooper, the battlefield strewn with hacked human parts, corpses of horses, bloody bullet slugs. We embraced on the sad field.
“Trippy.” I stood back to get a look at him. He wore a dark knitted skullcap pulled down over his ears.
“Shhhh,” he whispered, scoping the yard. “Let’s go inside.”
The New and Improved Romie Futch Page 23
