At the appropriate time, Ken announced, “Time for our Swim!”
They all raced down to the ocean and plunged into the waves.
As a Father, Ken was permitted to stroke out strongly away from the others, who could only frolic near the shore.
After a few dozen yards, he paused, treading water.
At the horizon, Florence Henderson’s immense miniskirt-clad legs entered the ocean as if she were some modern-day Colossus of Rhodes. A funny feeling came over Ken, as he imagined swimming the whole three miles out to the television wall. Would he be able to see up her skirt, view the National Mother’s private parts, her babymaker…?
Shaking off the strange sensation—that bump from the shoe must’ve done more to his brain than he first thought—Ken headed back to his family.
Almost before they knew it, it was time to leave. They packed everything back into the station wagon, and joined their fellow citizens on the trip home. The tired children slumped fast asleep, including their halfling. (At least Ken assumed it was their halfling; it was kind of hard to tell them apart. Still, what difference did it make…?)
Half-turning to Mona J., Ken said, “Going to the park tonight to hear the Town Band play and Mayor Fairleigh make his speech would be the perfect end to this day.”
“Oh, Father, that’s what you say every week!”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Oh, I know. It just makes me smile. Anyway, I wonder what his wife will be wearing? Bonita has such good taste. On Monday, you see her Saturday outfit in all the stores.”
“And why not?”
After showers and supper—Velveeta sandwiches washed down with Tang—the Skye family set out to walk to the Town Common.
Amidst the comforting throng, with the strains of Sousa washing over them, the Skye family drank Pepsis and watched the sky dim. (But not to the point where the Eternal Sitcom ever entirely vanished.)
Just as the latest episode of the Eternal Sitcom was reaching its climax, Ken felt someone tapping on his shoulder.
It was Mayor Charles Upton Fairleigh!
Ken was stunned. “Wha-why, Mayor Fairleigh … What can I do for you?”
“C’mon with me. And hurry up!”
Without even saying goodbye to his family, Ken accompanied the Mayor. Truth to tell, he had little choice, since that worthy had grabbed his arm and was practically dragging him.
“You gotta help me,” said Mayor Fairleigh.
“Me? How could I possibly help you?”
“You gotta get that ring away from Bonnie. I can’t stand this fucking shitty world she’s made one second longer. At first it was okay, being top dog, having anything I wanted. But it’s gotten too fucking weird lately. Everybody acting like fucking zombies, the women all the same. Jesus, I like some variety in my fucking!”
“What’s that word you keep using?” interrupted Ken.
“What word?”
“It starts with an eff.’ I don’t know it.…”
Mayor Fairleigh clutched his head. “Jesus fucking Christ! Of course you don’t know it! That’s Bonnie’s doing too! Even I’m starting to forget how to say it, and I only been away from the mood ring for a minute or so. It took all my willpower and concentration just to break away and get you.”
“I don’t understand. If you want Mrs. Mayor Fairleigh to give you some ring of hers, why don’t you just ask for it? Or even take it. You’re the Father, after all, the Wonderbreadwinner.”
“She’s got a spell on me, some kinda curse that stops me every time I try to snatch the ring. That lousy fuh-fuh-fuh—cuh-cuh-cuh—! Poop! Listen, there’s no time to waste! You’ll understand once you get close enough to her. You’re responsible for this whole mess, Grease Monkey! You’ve got to help me undo it.”
“You know I’m at your complete disposal, Mayor Fairleigh.”
“Great. Now follow me!”
Ken accompanied the Mayor to the base of the speaker’s platform. Standing atop the reviewing stand, her back to them, was the Mayor’s wife, waving gaily to the populace. Other dignitaries stood beside her, and Ken noticed for the first time how they all maintained an invisible circle of a certain diameter around her.
Mayor Fairleigh whispered in Ken’s ear. “When I’m about halfway through my standard speech, I’ll trip the ignorant slut. You rush up and yank the ring off her finger. But don’t put it on! Hand it to me!”
“It still seems like an awfully drastic course of action.…”
“Just do it! You’ll see why.”
“I don’t suppose I can refuse an actual order from someone who derives their authority directly from the King.…”
“You’ve got it, Monkey. Now, don’t screw up.”
“Screw up?”
Mayor Fairleigh left Ken in the tree shadows at the back of the stand and ascended the platform. A roar of applause swelled up at his appearance. After some throat-clearing and microphone-tapping, the Mayor began his speech.
Ken waited tensely at the base of the stairs. This was the oddest thing that had ever happened to him. He had no idea why the Mayor wanted him to do this. It seemed a dire and overly public way to settle a domestic argument. Perhaps he was dreaming.… That’s it, thought Ken. I’m lying unconscious from that strange shoe hitting my cranium. I’ll wake up any minute now.…
But he did not. And soon the moment he was dreading came.
Mayor Fairleigh whirled and lashed out savagely with a kick, sweeping Mrs. Mayor off her feet. Even before her head hit the carpeted wooden floorboards, Ken found himself rushing up onto the stage.
As soon as he got within the sphere of the STP-treated mood ring, everything flooded back to him.
Bonnie was hovering on the edge of consciousness, plainly making a tremendous effort not to lose it. Before she could take any quantum-influential action, however, Ken had pulled the mood ring from her finger and slipped it on.
5. The Oil Crisis
Kendrick Skye was the last human left alive.
And even he was not fully human any longer.
Now he was part Grease Monkey.
Half of Ken’s body—the right half—had been replaced with mechanical parts. His arm terminated in a set of socket wrenches and screwdrivers. A door in his side could open to reveal a complete diagnostic and timing console. His right leg featured a special foot designed to interface more efficiently with accelerator and brake. A set of jumper cables emerged from his back; he wore them like a lasso coiled around his shoulder.
Ken was the product of a secret Defense Department program. DOD had been attempting to create a superior Master Mechanic to service its vehicles. When Ken had been injured in a Viet Cong attack on his base at Da Nang, the Army had saved his life by turning him into a cyborg.
It had cost a lot of taxpayer money.
Now he was the Six-Million-Dollar Mechanic.
Ken had just been getting used to his new life when the Disco Plague struck.
Apparently caused by a virus from outer space, the Disco Plague was similar to the dancing mania of the Middle Ages. (Top scientists, in the few weeks before they too succumbed, had indeed speculated that the earlier epidemic derived from a brush with the identical virus.) The Disco Plague caused its victims to gyrate feverishly—at approximately 125 beats per minute—until finally dying of sheer exhaustion. Medical science could offer no cure in the short time available to it before the whole research infrastructure collapsed, and folk remedies proliferated. The miracle fabric known as Qiana was falsely deemed a preventative, as was gold in large amounts. Thus, victims of the Disco Plague frequently went to their doom swathed in the silky fabric and loaded down with jewelry.
With his unique half-human, half-mechanical makeup, Ken was the only person immune to the horrid plague. (Although at times even he felt certain atavistic twinges in his left side.…) Forced to watch the demise of the entire world population, he was nearly driven mad.
The only thing that saved Ken’s sanity was his work.
He created a fleet of sentient automobiles.
Surrounded by his creations, the last human in the whole world tried to make the best of his situation.
In a way—Ken was almost ashamed to admit this—it was a relief sometimes to be rid of people. The stupid meat machines had been too emotional and unpredictable. Ken had never been able to relate well with them. He had always felt more comfortable around cars. (Even the person he had gotten closest too—old Reese Hawrot, his mentor—had let him down.) Although he never would have engineered the extinction of the human species, Ken was not altogether busted up about it.
Ken’s post-apocalypse life seemed to be moving along on an even keel.
Until the Oil Crisis struck!
Ken sat on a large elevated makeshift throne fashioned from a bucket seat stripped from one of his failures. His vantage point occupied the middle of a deserted airstrip. The endless expanse of tarmac around him was packed with idling autos. A haze of exhaust fumes hung in the air, shielding Ken from the hot sun. The noise of the myriad throbbing engines was as comforting to Ken as the sound of a slumbering child’s breath was to a mother.
The nearest cars to Ken formed his personal bodyguard, and consisted of various Muscle Cars: Barracudas, Chargers, Mustangs, Camaros, Firebirds and others. These swift aggressive autos raced their engines threateningly and flapped their hoods open and closed whenever any of Ken’s lesser subjects wheeled up too near, whether out of mere curiosity or desire to have an audience with the Supreme Grease Monkey.
Now from across the field raced a smaller car plainly bent on speaking with the human. Recognizing it while it was still some distance away, Ken called out, “Let the supplicant approach!”
The elite guard parted ranks in deference to the command.
The vehicle—an old Valiant—came near.
In a nostalgic tribute to his departed human acquaintances, Ken had programmed many of his first creations with simulations of his old friends. (Later cars possessed only a generic personality.)
The Valiant manifested the persona of Reese Hawrot, and functioned as Ken’s advisor.
“What do you have to report?” demanded Ken.
The Valiant coughed, the sound emerging from its radio speaker. “The news isn’t good, boy.” (Only the old Valiant could address the Grease Monkey in such a familiar fashion.) “The scouts come back almost dry. There ain’t a lick of gasoline in a hunnerd-mile circle.”
The citizens of Ken’s empire were kept running twenty-four hours a day, since not only couldn’t Ken bear to shut any of them off, but it was logistically impossible for him to stop and start each car every day. Due to the failure of the electrical grid and the impossibility of pumping gas conventionally, Ken had equipped all the cars with special mechanisms that allowed them to open the access pipes to any underground tank, drop a tube and suck up all the gas they needed.
This perpetual scavenging, combined with the poor mileage most models got, had evidently depleted the surrounding territory. It was an eventuality Ken had been dreading, but for which he had a plan.
Picking up a megaphone, Ken bellowed out his orders.
“Attention, loyal subjects! I am authorizing the opening of the High Octane Reserve Supply!”
“Hurrah!” came the massed response.
“All vehicles will be allowed to top off their tanks. There should be plenty for everyone. As soon as each car drinks its fill, we will proceed south—to the Strategic Petroleum Reserves! Once there, I’ll get a refinery going. The gasoline will flow like water for years to come!”
As soon as Ken finished his proclamation, the cars began to race for the Reserve Supply.
Ken’s Praetorian Guard, knowing that their needs would not be neglected, remained loyally at their posts.
Descending his throne, Ken approached a blue Fairlane.
“Chuck Fairlane!”
“Yes, sir!”
“I’m making you my personal command car. I’ll travel in your driver’s seat, and we’ll lead the crusade.”
“I’m honored, sir!”
“Go now, and drink deeply for the journey.”
The Fairlane roared off, pumping blue exhaust.
“When he returns, the rest of you may go.”
Already the first of the sated cars were returning. Ken halted them, explaining that they must wait for the Fairlane, who would be their pace car.
These first arrivals were a pride of pink Swingers; obviously the more macho cars had allowed them priority access to the new gasoline. Now a little giddy from the High Octane, the Swingers giggled and chatted girlishly among themselves.
Ken approached them, and their giggles increased.
Stroking their headlights, Ken questioned his subjects.
“Bonnie, Mona J.—do you feel up to the journey? Are you scared? Are you well greased?”
“I could always use another lube job from you,” Bonnie coquettishly answered.
“Don’t listen to her, Ken,” said Mona J. peevishly. “She’s nothing but a sparkplug-teaser. You can put your key in my ignition anytime!”
Feeling gratified at the attention of the girls, Ken patted them on their bumpers and turned away. He had heard the familiar sound of Chuck Fairlane from a quarter of a mile off. For a moment, Ken thought to detect an anomalous noise beneath the healthy throb. When the Fairlane wheeled up to a screeching stop, Ken questioned it.
“Chuck, is there anything wrong with your fan belt?”
“No, sir!”
“Very well, then. Let’s roll!”
The Fairlane opened its own driver’s-side door, and Ken climbed in.
The motorized crusade was underway!
At the periphery of their territory, certain scout vehicles—mostly Jeeps—began to scatter down sideroads, hunting for untouched gas stations. The vehicles would need to refuel many times if they hoped to make the far off Strategic Petroleum Reserves.…
Just as dusk was falling and Ken was considering ordering a halt to travel for the day—his human half still needed the old anodyne of sleep—the fan belt on the Fairlane snapped with a noise like a giant’s barber’s strop descending on a galvinized tin roof.
“Damn it, Chuck! I thought you said there was nothing wrong with your fan belt!”
“Sorry, sir! I’m only a humble car, sir!”
Ken got out and walked to the front of the car.
“Open your hood.”
The Fairlane obliged.
Ken bent over, head and shoulders under the shadow of the Fairlane’s hood.
With an eager snap, Chuck had Ken in his grip!
Ken’s cyborg half caught most of the blow, saving him from harm. But despite his mechanical abilities, he was inextricably trapped in Chuck’s jaws, his nose an inch away from the whirling blades of the beltless fan!
An evil laugh reminiscent of the noise one might hear from a mother swine insanely gobbling down her own newborn piglets resounded from the Fairlane’s speaker.
“You dumb motherfucker! Make me a car, would you? I’ve been waiting for this day for years in this fake-o world! You and your fucking preventative maintenance! But now I’ve got you where I want you! And you’re gonna give me that ring!”
Ken was finding it hard to breathe. “Ring? What ring?”
“Don’t give me that shit! The mood ring on your left hand!”
Suddenly, it all flooded back on Ken. The mood ring! He had completely blanked it from his consciousness after creating this world. He felt sudden remorse. What kind of pathetic mind would kill off all of humanity and replace them with automobiles? In an instant’s time, Ken searched his soul and found an answer.
His mind.
Despite this new-found realization
of how badly he had handled the power of the mood ring, Ken still hesitated before handing over the ring as Chuck demanded. What insane world would the revenge-driven automobile create?
“C’mon, c’mon, quit stalling!” The pressure from the hood increased. “I’ll slice ya in half!”
Using the tip of one screwdriver-finger, Ken removed the mood ring and placed it atop the engine.
The hood sprang open, and Ken stood up.
The world did not immediately change.
Chuck seemed inclined to gloat.
“You and the chicks were such losers,” said the Fairlane. “You couldn’t leave the world alone, could you? You were all so eager to make things fit your own personal wacky dreams, that you unbalanced everything. That’s because you’re all pitiful, spineless wimps! You can’t get along in the world as it is, so you dreamed of changing it. Well, not me! I like our old world. I don’t care if it’s full of injustice or sicko creeps or war or poverty! It is what it is! That’s what none of you could see.”
Ken dared to interrupt. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t make a few changes.…”
The Fairlane chortled. “Oh, sure, I’m gonna make some changes. But they won’t be far-out or idealistic or namby-pamby changes. They’ll just be a little seasoning, a little accenting of the things I already like.”
“I suppose you’re going to put Nixon back in office.”
Chuck seemed to consider that. “No, he was getting too stiff and paranoid. His time is past. And anyway, I’ve got something much better in mind, something that will really piss off all the liberals and pinkos.
“In the next election, in ’Seventy-six, I’m gonna let the Democrats win.”
Ken couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But you hate the Democrats.…”
“Fucking A! And by the time I’m done, so will the rest of the country. I’m gonna let that goddamn peanut farmer, what’s-his-name, win. And I’m gonna make sure he takes the whole country down the tubes, just for revenge. We’ll have more gas lines, more inflation, more of everything bad that the Democrats do so good. And will he whine about it! You’ll think your goddamn grandmother is running the country! And foreign affairs—! His one policy will be to kiss Brezhnev! Then, just when the whole nation is fed up, I’ll bring in the worst conservative I can find!”
Fractal Paisleys Page 21
