The Unwelcome Guest Plus Nin and Nan

by Eckhard Gerdes

  "That drummer's as sloppy as Keith Moon," said Nan.

  "So turn it off, then," said Nin.

  "No. I love Keef Spoon."

  "Nin, you should appreciate all kinds of music," said Sam.

  "Sheesh," said Nin and Said simultaneously.

  "Parescum paribus facillime congregantur," said Sam.

  "What?" asked Nan.

  "Birds of a feather flake their feathers," said Sam.

  "Oh," and the jingle announcing a speech by the Emperor came on.

  "Not again."

  Nin turned the radio off.

  "No, leave it on," said Nan.

  "Oh, god, it's awful."

  "You gotta know what he's saying." Nan turned it on.

  "The trade imbalance is impaired by terriers and bailiffs," said the Emperor.

  Nin turned the radio off. "Be real. He doesn't make any sense anyway."

  "Leave it on," said Nan, switching it on again.

  "For the most part, the peoples stink the way I do," said the Emperor.

  Then a well-timed ad for deodorant soap came on. Even Nin couldn't take it, as when even strengthening accord.

  As when even strengthening accord, evening was more than we could afford. Through the telephone was broadcast the voice of irate Beth: ripped me off, Dom Perignon? You didn't even leave me a glassful. My Big Brother knows you're there.

  "Sam, you idiot. You gave her your number?"

  "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Famous last words. You've got to ditch that phone. They have global positioning systems in them. Now that you called in for messages, they can find us."

  "Do not fear her big brother," said the shepherd, flinging the phone out the window. "Only the Lord can see where we are and where we are going."

  "I guess in the larger, philosophical sense, that's true," said Nan.

  As when even strengthening accord, Nin kicked Ninself in the butt. They needed some of the rest of the saints. That'd recover their divanity. And even a cute angel has angles. A dowager turned to a dowitcher and said, "Fly me away over the firewater and set my keester on the kieselguhr." Nin turned awee.

  "Stop that!" said Nan. "Your spinning's making me dizzy."

  "Don't tell me. Tell Jenny."

  "Beth," said Sam.

  "Oh, play us a song on the spinneret," said Nin. "I'll see you all later." And Nin left.

  "What's gotten into Nin?" asked Sam.

  "Nin's not big on the radio," answered Nan.

  "Bad ratings?" asked the shepherd.

  "No. Not like that. Even God has bad ratings. Nin just doesn't like much popular music or talk radio."

  "What does Nin like?"

  "Old radio shows. The Green Hornet. The Shadow. Inner Sanctum. That kind of stuff."

  "Politics today are the greatest radio play of all," said Sam.

  "I don't think Nin thinks so," said Nan.

  "Sure does. This is part of Nin's act in it."

  "I do not think that Nan does not think that Nin thinks so," said Said. "For if Nan did, the Lord would think, So what? But he has not revealed that to me."

  "The Lord would think? So what? What are you saying, man?" challenged Sam.

  "We must be in a moon void-of-course."

  "'We must be in a moon void, of course'?"

  "Never mind."

  "Nevermind? What? In Bloom?"

  "Is that Joyce?"

  "You mean Beth?"

  Will you all just shut up? My house has just been invaded by ladybugs and box elder bugs—there go those elders chasing the young ladies again—and I can barely walk without crunching something. Even the harmless can be annoying. Unless annoyance is their harm.

  They attack the paper I am writing on. They distract me from the table. Now I have nothing to Chase Manhattans down with the fascist regime! What am I hunting for, again? Meaning? Or just the next word? Or do I want the last word? Omega. Which ends in an alpha, which begins the whole stinkin' process all over again.

  Similarly, the consonant alphabet ends on a vowel. What? Only one vowel ends on a consonant. I tell you, English ain't fair. Ignore that linguist behind the curtain. He's not really the Great Linguini!

  "Poseur!" I want to hear you yell.

  Help that shy manicotti come out of his shell, would ya?

  Recording the events as they occurred is difficult when all the voices come at once.

  "Nan? Wake up!" The writer crashed the cymbals like Mick Fleetwood in the Blues Jam in Chicago.

  "He's no fun—he fell right over," said Sam, quoting Firesign Theatre.

  And pop goes the weasel.

  Ping! The arrow was loosed, and the weasel was killed, teeth locked on the eagle's jugular. And eagle-weasel stew fed them at the campsite that night.

  Eager-Weasel Stu came upon them from the freight yard and asked if they would share their libation.

  "If you mean this god-awful stew," said Sam, "be our guest."

  "Do not blaspheme!" said Said.

  "No, I mean what he's drinking when you're not looking," said Stu, pointing to Said's jacket pocket.

  Sam reached in and pulled out a pint of rotgut. "Aha! Don't talk to me of blasphemy, old man. For all you know, this could be your son."

  Said squinted at Stu, sized up his features, and said, "Are you of the covenant?"

  "Huh?"

  "Are you of the covenant?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "He means," explained Nan, "have you had a chunk of your penis lopped off by illiterate believers who don't understand what Paul meant in Galatians when he said the ritual had been 'abrogated.'"

  "What Nan means," explained Sam, "is are you circumcised?"

  "What a rude question," answered Stu. "I only wanted a snort."

  "My son was circumcised."

  "Well, not that it's any of your business, but so was I."

  "Aha!" said Said. "Tie Isaac to that rock. I must prepare the sacrifice."

  "No, Said. Don't you have to take him to the top of the mountain first?" pointed out Sam, gesturing towards the top of the hill.

  "Oh, yes. Well, Son. Well met. You will accompany us. You will be well fed and made ready for the Lord."

  "Can I have a snort of that bottle?"

  "Sure. Have it all. We'll get you more tomorrow."

  "Thanks, Father."

  Sam said as an aside to Nan, "I think we can assume Said believes in the God of the Old Testament, not the New."

  "And you think they are different?" asked Nan.

  "Well, at the very least, the Old Testament God was far more immature than the New Testament one."

  "Ah, you've read Alfred North Whitehead."

  "Who?"

  "Forget it."

  "Alfred Lord Penishead?"

  "I said forget it. You're as bad as Nin."

  "Speaking of whom," said Sam, raising his voice to include Said and Stu, "I wonder where the hell—"

  Said raised his eyebrows.

  "—where the heck Nin is. Then Sam reboarded his previous train:

  "Alfred White Skinhead?"

  "Hush."

  "Alfred Popped Blackheads?"

  "Be quiet."

  "Didn't he write The Idiots of the King?"

  "Idylls, and that was Alfred Lord Tennisball, as Python said. Now please be quiet. You're giving me a migraine."

  "I pain, you pain, we all pain for migraine."

  "What a reet. No wonder your music career is shit."

  "Hey!"

  "Wait, young Nan," said Said. "You are unfair. Sam here has a brilliant ballad he once shared with me. I don't remember the words, but it was called 'Busy Buzzy' or something."

  Nan rolled the eyes at Sam. "He doesn't remember the song?"

  At the top of the hill, Said said again, "Now tie Isaac to the rock!"

  Nan looked around. "What rock, Said?"

  "Do not call me Said. My name of the covenant is Abraham."

  Nan laughed. "I can't believe I'm up here with you thre
e stooges."

  Said tied up Stu with twine, pushed him down onto the ground, and then pulled out a long, serrated chef's knife. He lifted the knife and was about to bring it down. Then an 8000-watt amplified voice boomed across the hillside: "Abraham!" The voice was so loud, Nan's ears rang.

  It repeated: "Abraham!"

  "Yes, Lord!" said Said, trembling.

  "Put down that knife!"

  "Stupid knife! Ugly knife! Knife of the guttersnipe!" said Nan, laughing.

  Sam slapped Nan's arm.

  "What? The Lord said to put it down."

  "Ha ha."

  Said backed away from Stu and dropped the knife. "Lord?"

  "I want you to leave here and get a job at a 7-11 and never say anything about this to anyone ever again!"

  "Yes, Lord."

  "And I want you to forget Sam's song."

  "I don't remember it anyway."

  "Oh, shit," said the Lord.

  "The Lord just cussed," said Nan, elbowing Sam in the ribs. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

  "What about Said and Stu?"

  "Forget about them. It's over."

  Down the hill, Sam and Nan got in the car, and Nin ran up and joined them.

  "They really fell for that, didn't they?" said Nin, tossing a microphone and a small Pignose amp into the back of the van.

  "Hey, you took my Pignose?"

  "Borrowed. Not took."

  "That was good. That was really good," said Nan.

  "That should do it," agreed Sam.

  "For Said and Stu. We still have Pinocchibush to worry about, though," said Nin. "But now, let's get a few drinks."

  Chapter Eleven: Finding the Needle in a Hayseed

  "No, the Emperor is many people. The true Emperor never appears in public. He has a series of doppelgängers appear for him, pretending to be him," said the bartender to Nin.

  "The problem must be finding doppelgängers stupid enough," said Nan.

  "Actually, that's not difficult. The plastic surgery required to duplicate them must be the most complicated part of the procedure," said Sam.

  "Where's all this plastic surgery done, do you think?" asked Nin.

  Nan and Sam looked at each other and answered simultaneously, "the Makil Health Care Center!"

  "Yes. We need to go back there."

  "To the cosmetic surgery wing?"

  "Of course."

  The receptionist looked at them as they approached the hospital's cosmetic surgery registration desk.

  "May I help?" she asked with suspicion in her voice. Her gray hair was long, like a little girl's, but her face had given up childhood decades earlier. Her voice was raspy, like a lifelong, boozin', smokin' cabaret singer's. Sam halfexpected her to burst into Brecht and Weill's "Alabama Song."

  "What procedure are you here for?"

  "Do you guys do toe-lop-off-to-me's?" asked Nan. "The penis mutilators said you might."

  "No. If you're here to cause trouble, I'll just call security now," she said, reaching for the phone.

  "No!" yelled Nin. "Excuse us. Nan here sometimes loses site of our objectives. Actually, we would like to speak to someone in cloning."

  "That's a restricted ward. Not just anyone can come and clone himself or herself."

  "Of course not. Ridiculous. Clones of us? Good god, that'd be horrible. We're here to ask on behalf of Vice Admiral Dickless (by the way, your circumcision ward did fine work on the removal of his genitalia!) whether or not you can clone a heterosexual daughter for him. The press, as you know, has been merciless to his poor lesbian daughter."

  "Poor?" screeched Nan. "Do you know how much money that family has? Enough to build a whole new ward for the hospital and a recreation center for the staff. That is what the Vice Admiral was talking about, wasn't he?"

  "Yes, but that's not to be discussed!" scolded Sam, trying to come across as the boss. "We just need a quick tour of the facilities."

  "Well, we don't have any guides..."

  "Not to worry. We'll just discreetly show ourselves around. We won't get in the way. We'll only be a half-hour or so."

  "Did you say a recreation center for staff?"

  "No, we didn't. Sh!" said Sam, winking.

  "Okay, then, but a half hour only. After that I have to call security. We're not supposed to allow any unauthorized visitors."

  "Oh, we're authorized. The Vice Admiral is in such a hurry, though, that we had to forego the traditional red tape this time. He couldn't spare the extra two weeks."

  "I know what you mean. Okay, go ahead then," she said, and she returned to her registration files.

  "Quick! Come on," said Nin.

  "Right behind you," said Nan.

  They went in through the out door of a sealed-off area when an orderly left. They entered a hallway filled with display cases of clone models, and each model was the Emperor. They saw Bulked-up Muscleman Emperor, SuperTall Basketball Emperor, Darth Emperor, Sumo Emperor, Super-Sized Cranium Emperor, and, for the kids, Fashion Designer Emperor, Army Guy Emperor, Horse Groomer Emperor, Movie Star Emperor. And dozens more. Collect them and trade them with your friends! An entire culture of clones coming soon!

  "Any deviation from the Pinocchibush agenda is damned unpatriotic," read a sign on the wall. "You either agree with Pinocchibush, or you are a heathen member of the axis of evil."

  Another sign read: "One world, one culture, one mind: Pinocchibush's!"

  They read the signs and were appropriately dumbfounded. The room was as quiet as a Cistercian blog.

  "This is worse than the ward of toe-stirs," said Nan, finally breaking the silence.

  "Or a jar of mixed penis," replied Sam, with a single chuckle.

  "Assaulted jar," added Nin, nervously. They located the control center of the room, to which was attached a presumably-cloned brain of the Emperor.

  "Okay—there's the brain. Nan, hand me the plastique."

  "What if that's the real brain," said Sam, "and the rest are clones?"

  "I think there'd be better security."

  "You're probably right."

  "I don't know," said Nan. "It looks like some of the emperors are male, others female, and still others androgynous or even hermaphroditic. Maybe this is the sort of advancement needed by society."

  "What? You idiot!" answered Nin, placing the plastique at the brainstem. "A fascism of androgyny is still fascism. Approving of dictatorship just because your side would benefit is unconscionable. Remember how the Emperor solidified his power: by staging a mock terrorist attack on the cultural center of the empire. This way he could simultaneously silence dissident artists while setting the table for an imperialist expansionist war." Click!

  "Okay," said Nan.

  "Come on," said Nin. "We have ten minutes to get out of here."

  From across the field beyond the parking lot, the explosion was beautiful, its plume reaching to heaven for purification and justification, which it received in its dissipation.

  Fusty, lis pendens took my breath away. Would I get it back? That was hard to say.

  Breathing had been made illegal in 2004. And canned Pinnochibush air smelled like a killing floor. Polyphemus Pinocchibush staring at a mirror at its own Gorgonish hair, the most evil emperor gormandizing there.

  Millennium alimentary elementary aluminum laminates the luminous elimination of mellifluous lepidopterists who malign my line of neo-Malthusian malediction while claiming "butterfly" means "flutter by" rather than "butter excrement."

  The banana moon fills the cold with emptiness. Driving west, I, my destruction left behind, find myself unfindable; I'll never understand myself, so my reason is gone.

  I thought, by throwing myself into politics like Lennon I could stave it off a little. Even he only staved it off briefly.

  I thought by focusing outward, my innards would heal themselves. However, what I've found is that, as polluted as I am, the outside is polluted more.

  There are the realities of life. Learn them now and decide if you
want to continue:

  No one will ever really love you. They all have angles and games and needs and desires that pollute the purity of real love.

  No one will ever really like you. Only when they have to seem like they do to further themselves in others' eyes will they bother to pretend.

  No one will ever really tolerate you. Even your parents and spouse will wish you dead over continuing to have to deal with you. They'll love criminals and charlatans over you. Actually, they'll ascribe criminality and charlatanism to you while praising the integrity of the criminals and charlatans.

  Pay them no mind. They want to destroy you, or, as I have said elsewhere, they want to destory you.

  Here is their message: Hatehatehatehatehate...

  I hope you are not overwhelmed by its complexity. They cloak it like Joseph, but it's still hatehatehatehatehate.

  "Nan!" A voice. Nin's. "Come on, snap out of it!" And then, apparently to Sam, Nin said, "Nan's lost in reverie again."

  "Oh, yeah?" Nan snatched a bugle out of a passer-by's hand and played about twenty notes of a boisterous call and then stopped.

  "What are you doing?" asked Nin.

  "There! Now I'm lost in 'Reveille'!"

  "Isn't that a ghost town along the extraterrestrial highway near Area 51?" asked Sam.

  "Nan's been lost there for years," laughed Nin, climbing up into the truck.

  "Here," said Sam, "throw this in the CD player."

  "What's this?"

  "A book-on-CD about Area 51."

  "Who roaded down?" asked Nan.

  "I don't know. I snagged it in the hospital as we were walking through."

  Nan opened the box, but the Area 51 CD was not inside. Instead, Nan found a CD entitled Preventive Hysterectomy for Troublesome Female Toddlers.

  The CD argued that early hysterectomy, especially infant hysterectomy, prevented not only potential hygiene problems and infections—the same argument used for circumcision—but also prevented undesirable sexual behavior problems, including emotional upheaval due to hormonal imbalance. Of course, circumcision and excision, or female circumcision, are both prescribed as methods of preventing randiness and nymphomania and other sexual maladies. Thus, argued the CD, preventive hysterectomy was the best way to assure parents of having wellmannered and cooperative daughters.

  "Hey," said Sam, after ten minutes. "What's that got to do with Area 51?"