The Department of Revenge

It all started with a sign. Not from God. A long-dead sign company in a long-dead industrial park from the days when people actually "made" stuff. It's obvious, if you look at it.

DE

Crappy sign, pre-NT. Black plastic letters, magnetic, affixed to what used to be a white background at the ass end of the previous century.

DEP

Definitely not God's handiwork. No way.

DEPA

The Supreme Deity is not big on extruded plastic with that cracked, yellow look certain long chain polymers get when they've been cooking in the sun for several decades. The magnetic letters are badly spaced, yet! If God can keep the universe humming along, he can definitely handle kerning.

DEPART

This low-rent, last-century appearance is, no doubt, deliberate. A calculated effect from the man behind the curtain. Or woman. Or whoever's running the shadowy public sector establishment this lousy sign draws your attention to. They're projecting an oldtimey image that's the antithesis of cold perfection, or the nightmares of Orwell, Kafka or Dante. We're crappy, therefore non-threatening. Which makes them all the more threatening. In his opinion.

DEPARTM

OK, OK. Let's get on with it.

The badly-spaced magnetic letters read: DEPARTMENT OF REVENGE.

Art's driven by that sign a thousand times. (Strictly speaking 1,117 times. The expression is rhetorical.)

Today ...

Today, he's finally going in.

By way of background ...

What they used to call a "computer" used to be the size of a warehouse. Thanks to the relentless efforts of engineers, it shrunk to the size of a room, further dwindled to a big ugly box that fit on a desk, then to a small, pretty box, then a 'vice you put in your pocket, then invisible motes that hung in the air. "Ubiquitous computing," another worn-out expression, became a reality. Computers the size of bacteria and the capacity of Big Blue. Everywhere. Up your ass, and not rhetorically.

And all the little eyes, ears and minds watched everybody everywhere. And they talked to each other.The world didn't resemble a bad dystopian movie, thanks to strict regulation enforced by rule-based systems. But the motes would rat you out if you were planning some form of murder, theft, rape or assault. So people stopped doing that stuff.

Imagine a world without crime. It's not so jolly wonderful as it sounds.

Human beings have this hard-wired sense of when they've been wronged -- and a hard-wired need to balance the karmic scales. If you take away the big stuff, the small stuff turns into the big stuff. Snubs, dirty looks, insults. I'm gonna make that bastard pay. If you can't, you go out of your ever-loving mind. The motes figured this out.

Hence, THE DEPARTMENT OF REVENGE.

In a related development, Gregor Samsa was turned into a giant cockroach by the hive mind of Yeptide-7. The experiment turned out badly.

Art navigates a hall under a drop-ceiling of popcorn rectangles interspersed with flickering florescent lights. On the walls, helpful red arrows point to DOR. He follows them, and arrives at the DOR office. Glass door, metal frame. The sign on the door reads ...

VENGEANCE IS YOURS!

Department of Revenge (DOR) District 12

Lic.# 10-23847629

Art pushes his way in. The door squeaks, resists, but opens.

He's in. This is it.

A gum-chewing secretary walks up to him. Female, but let us elide the implication of sexism and focus on her archaic profession. Secretary? She might as well be a blacksmith. In this cowardly new world, secretaries, like blacksmiths, are rarely seen outside of some kind of theater. Which this probably is.

"Name?"

"Arthur Cobb."

Farthur Cobb. Farter Cobb. Art the Fart. Art the Nob. Arse Cob. Arser Slob. Nobbler Cock. Corncob Fart. Corner Hole. Assbreath Glob.

"Have you been wronged?"

"Yes."

"Sorry to hear that, sir. Do you desire, within the statutory limits of the law, to right that wrong or series of wrongs through your own actions?"

"Well, why do you think I'm here?"

"Sir, are you trying to get smart with me?"

Her big, blue eyes stare at him.

"What?"

Smart. Nobody's accused him of that. An upgrade upstairs? Art can't afford it.

"I can't read your mind, Mr. Cobb. You have to tell me. That's procedure. Please answer the question."

"Sure .. uh. What's the question?"

"Do you desire, within the statutory limits of the law, to right that wrong or series of wrongs through your own actions?"

"I mean, yes. That's why I'm here. Yes."

She hands him this white flimsy thing. Wha ... he suddenly recognizes it from his childhood. Paper. It's actually a form on a sheet of paper. And now she's handing him a pen! It's a form, he's got a pen. He's supposed to fill out the form. Wow! Art suspects it's more of that "theater." But, after he figures out how the pen works, he fills it out that form thing and hands it to her.

Art's expecting applause or something. But she's not that impressed.

"Thank you, sir. Your Vendetta Counselor will be here shortly. You may sit down in the interim. A waiting room has been provided for your convenience."

She points. There's a clear plastic partition with chairs on the other side, a coffee table with magazines. Taking the hint, Art walks over to that space.

Art sits down. The  Vendetta Counselor appears instantly. Art gets back up.

Manly guy, tall, big chin, big smile, bone-crushing handshake.

"Hi, Art. My name's Jack...but you can call me Jack." Big grin. "Please step into my office."

Art follows Jack like a terrier behind a pitbull. Left, right, right, left, left, through a maze of corridors. They finally arrive.

"Ta-da!" says Jack.

Unlike the rest of this set-up, Jack's office is clean, minimalistic, intimidating. Like Jack.

Jack sits down at his desk, a floating black marble slab. Art stands. Jack waves his hand, nods, offering Art permission to sit on an amorphous blob that looks like a giant, sickly white blood cell.

"Like it, Art?"

"Uh yeah."

"Baby! You seriously imagine I give two flying shits what you do or do not like?" Jack pantomimes tossing two invisible turds. "I do not, Art. To put it more politely, fuck your opinions, shove 'em up your ass, keep 'em to yourself, do whatever you want. I like this office. That's my opinion, baby. And that's what counts."

Jack winks, snaps his finger, and points it at Art like he's aiming a gun. Archaic gesture.

Not the kindly priest figure Art was inspecting. Swaggering, insulting. Like an insult comic from the last century. Why? More theater, but Art fails to see the logic. Logic aside, Jack scares the holy crap out of him. Like every bully he's ever known. And all of his ex-wives.

"First impressions, Art?"

"Uh, no complaints, no complaints."

"Translation. No complaints you got the balls to tell me to my face. Am I right? Of course, I am. You're intimidated, right? Relax, kid. This time I'm asking for your opinion. That's different, OK? Feel free to share. Spill your gut, baby. Not about the office. The whole show. What do you think?"

"I think ... I think it's great."

"Bullshit -- exactly the kind of bullshit I'd expect! I'm extremely disappointed in you. Don't be so goddamn predictable. You 'think' we're playing with you, Farthur? This is some kind of game? Don't answer that question. Of course that's what you think. We know. See this form?"

Jack taps the white sheet of paper. Which has magically appeared at the center of his floating desk.

"Fuck the form." Jack crumples it up and bounces it off Art's forehead. "While we're at it, fuck this Colonial Williamsburg shit. Despite appearances, we know what's what. It's in your sweat, Jack. We can read it."

"I think ..."

"Sit the fuck back down!"

Art does as he's told. Hadn't even realized he'd ...

"Why the ... "

"Why the 1997 appearance? Misdirection, disorientation. Your mind's so busy trying to figure this shit out you forget to put up a mask. We wanted a clean reading. We got it."

"Clean reading?"

"Of the dartboard of your heart, Fart. All the darts still stuck there. Have you been wronged? We don't ask if you think we've been wronged. We know. You have. And you can even the karmic scales! That's what we're here for. But there's a price."

Art fumbles for his cred chip.

"No, assmonkey. Psychological, spiritual, whatever."

"OK. What ..."

"You've been wronged? What's that mean? Your feelings are hurt? No." Jack's tone changes. Serious now, reciting a catechism like the solemn priest Art had originally imagined. "Intent is the issue. On the part of the person who wronged you. The fundamental basis of injustice isn't the perception of hurt but the intent."

"Which means ..."

"I thou, I it. Fuck it!" Back to insult comic again. "Failing the fucking empathy test. Treating another person as a thing, as a nothing, a means to an end, not a person. Somebody do that to you?

"I ..".

"Yeah, they did. Stop playing stupid, Art. That smart mouth of yours got your ass kicked. You learned to play stupid. You're not stupid. IQ's at 139 give or take. Do me a favor and drop the stupid act."

Art starts weeping. Jack slaps him.

"No crying!"

He points to a sign on the wall. The sign says: NO CRYING!

Art stops crying.

"Now what?"

"Now what? What do you think? Payback time? Is that what you think, you dickless wonder? Fuck that shit. We're not interested in some fucking Jacobean revenge tragedy. Here at the DOR, revenge is redemptive. You're going to make that asshole a better person! Every one of those assholes. With government permission, you'll get into their minds, tear 'em apart and put 'em back together."

"It's gonna hurt?'

"Of course it's gonna hurt."

"But it's just bad dreams ..."

"That seem completely real while they're happening."

"How ..."

"You seen the fucking Matrix?"

"Yeah."

"Then don't waste my time! They'll feel it, OK? And you'll feel it too."

"What?"

"It's very simple, dumbass. Think of it this way. You're the executioner, Art -- and it's your head on the block at the same time. You can swing that axe. But if you want the bastards to feel it, you have to feel it."

"I still don't get it."

"Jesus. Duh. The pain you put in somebody else's head goes into your head too. Duh. That's what you gotta do to make the bad guys hurt. Get it?"

Art nods. Yeah. He finally gets it. 

"That's the price, my friend. You in?"

"Sure."

"Sign."

Art looks around for pen and paper.

"In the air, asswipe. With your finger."

Art signs.

"Now what?"

"It's your life. How the fuck should I know?"

Jack pushes a big red button on his desk that wasn't there five seconds ago.

"Bye."

He's looking up. The lattice of a geodesic dome getting a little closer, a little further away, a little closer ...

He finally realizes where he is.

Refugee camp. Art, like the weakling that he is, is struggling to do a pull-up on the parallel bars. Despite the low lunar gravity, it's still hard. If he can just do one today, and maybe two tomorrow and keep doing it, he'll be strong. The cheerleaders are watching. Out of nowhere, Greg runs over, grabs him by the ankles and pulls. Art slams the ground. Like. Punch in the gut from a giant's fist. Can't. Breathe. Art gasps like a fish, flops. Greg laughs and runs off. The cheerleaders laugh.

Art gets his breath back, staggers to his feet.

Clenches his weak fists. Looks around.

Where is he? Where the fuck is he?

There. Standing behind the ...

Runs. Around the chain link fence where Greg is laughing it up with his lackeys. Art has the element of surprise. Greg's not expecting ...

Art to walk up to him from behind. Pull back his fist. And slam Greg in his fat fucking gut.

There's a vague ghost memory. Some other life. Art doing the gut punch. Greg blinking like he's been stung by a mosquito. Then breaking Art's nose with a fist like a canned ham.

But this time around ...

Art's punch is a popped hydro-cell. Greg drops to his knees, howling.

Art grabs a baseball bat. (Wow, just conveniently lying there, what are the odds?) Metal, new NT-alloy, light but vicious. Bat in hand, Art goes to town.

Welcome to Revenge City. Population You.

Knees. Ribs. Elbow. Ribs again.

Greg screams. Begs.

"Oh, it hurts huh? That's what it feels like, fucker. That's how it feels!"

Another swing to his goddamn right knee. Greg screams like a girl.

"Stop! Please... stop!"

Art doesn't stop. Not for awhile. Then he tosses the bat down. It rings like a church bell on the NT-crete.

He walks away. Some of Greg's toadies actually applaud. Greg is still weeping.

Yeah, that was fun.

His new rep spreads out through the hive mind of this shitty school. Art is reassessed. His standing changes. His status goes up.

Art is crazy this is clear. The shitheads who used to pick on him stop. 

The disciplinary review board absolves Art. Consistent pattern of harassment. PTSD. Emotional explosion. Inevitable. Not his fault.

Greg limps after that. Kicked off the football team.

Fatass joke now. Shadow of his former self. Dragging that bad leg around like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. After a week or so, Greg starts doing pull ups to get his strength back.

There he is, grunting and straining.

Art...

Heh-heh-heh.

Art seizes this window of opportunity.

He runs up and grabs Greg by the ankles and pulls him down.

Greg hits the ground. (Slab of NT-crete. Just easier to call it the "ground," OK?) Hard, oh yeah. Greg belly-flops. Just slams right into it.

The cheerleaders laugh

Pathetic.

Greg writhes and gasps like a beached fish. (Now where have we seen this before?) Art stands there, enjoying it, really enjoying it.

Then runs off to his new set of pals who spend most of their time kissing Art's ass (metaphorically) telling him how great he is.

And he's back in that nightmare office.

"No," he says.

"Yeah," Jack says.

"Jesus, I'm just as bad as ..."

"Sure. Give a weak sister like you a little power? You're worse."

"No. That's crap you fed into my brain. I wouldn't do ... "

Smiling Jack, having a laugh at his expense. "Yeah, that' s exactly what you'd do, baby. You might remember that old bullshit Indian proverb? 'To judge a man, you must walk a mile in his moccasins.' Some shit like that, remember?"

"Y-yeah."

"Well. It ain't like that. As a matter of fact, it's the other way around. You judge some motherfucker, you'll walk a mile in his moccasins. All of 'em, Art. Every single one. Ready for the next one?"

"No. Wait. I've learned my lesson!"

"Like hell you did. We ain't even started, baby."

"I didn't like it."

"Tough shit. Karma's a bitch, ain't it?"

"You have no right!"

"Hey, you signed the contract, pal. Full payback, as I recall. Every bastard who did whatever is gonna get theirs. The legal lingo's a little more fancy. But that's the point. Now buckle your seatbelt and take it like a ..."

"No!"

"You're telling me no? Seriously?"

Jack laughs.

"Who the hell do you think you are, Art?"

"I ...well... could pose the same question to you, Jack!"

It's the perfect comeback.

"Who the hell do you think you are? God?"

Jack blinks. Actually surprised.

"God? You mean ... Me personally?"

"No. This whole ... Department of Revenge ... thing. 

"Nah, kid. We're just humble public servants here." Snort. "Just a government agency, separation of church and state and all that. Yeah. 'We're playing God.' Woah. Said accusation has been voiced in certain libertarian and old-time-religion quarters.. But Gawd is clearly a separate category in our book."

"Then why are you ..."

"Funding, baby."

"Funding?"

"Government money, stupid. This virtual reality spaghetti western you're experiencing? Some bureaucrat in 2057 thought it balanced the karmic scales or something. Funny thing? Some jerk like you gets revenge. Guess what? All the jerks you put through hell want revenge on you! The wheel goes round and round, baby. This gravy train never stops!"

"What? I .. I want out."

"And out you shall get. The only way out is through, baby."

"No."

"Yeah. Bottom line? The bill passed, and nobody actually read it. Sailed through Congress like shit through a goose! Who cares? Ancient history. Let's get going."

Jack pushes the big red button.

Art is 13 years old.

A kid with bad teeth spits in Art's face.

Honest Opinion

We draw your attention to a man in his late 20s in an antiseptic hotel room resembling the ersatz environment at the end of 2001 which the aliens created as a reference frame for the poor unsuspecting astronaut before they turned him into a space fetus. Let’s call him “Jeff.” That’s not his real name, but nobody wrote that down.

Jeff is lying in bed in a business suit in this suite in the Marriott from Hell. Fully clothed, except for the lack of shoes and socks. The lights are on, but he’s out. A girl giggles in the next room, keeps doing it, trilling up and down the giggle scales, eventually pulling Jeff up to the threshold of waking consciousness. His eyes do the REM thing. Jeff’s eyes in Jeff’s head and Jeff’s watching. How, exactly? As logic holes go, it’s a sucking chest wound. Jeff notices it.

That’s me. Wearing a suit? I’m … Shit. I’m looking down at myself from the ceiling. Looking down at my own eyes? How …

At which point, Jeff opens his eyes.

And sits up in bed.

Looks around. Generic hotel room, as noted. Bad.

I didn’t check into this hotel room.

Yeah. Bad. Grabs his … lapels?

I don’t wear suits, either.

Calculated insult. Very bad.

A young girl’s voice, lilting behind the wall.

“Hello?”

No answer. OK.

Bad. bad, bad.

Jeff lies back down. Studies the popcorn ceiling for a very long time. A rational response, given the irrational circumstances. Said circumstances being, potentially, exceedingly bad. Dante’s Inferno bad.

By way of explanation, Jeff is a music critic. Global bigmouth on that node all the kids like. Out of pigheaded principle or death wish, he speaks his mind. Give me your honest opinion, Jeff. Like an idiot, he does. Happy words, occasionally. Sad, angry words usually. Those unhappy words cost various, powerful iProp holders money. In the vid they'll eventually make of Jeff’s life, they’re the Bad Guys. And they’re very pissed off. Chances are they’re paying Jeff back. Chances are, they grabbed him. And stuck him here. Where’s here?

Shitty, bland hotel room. Swirls like the Cygnus the Swan and Orion on the ceiling. If Jeff was a travel and leisure critic, he’d give this place a lousy review. So where …

 This hotel room could be realspace. Physical. But Jeff doubts it. It’s too freaking perfect. Mind realm, not physical. Skullspace.

That’s what it smells like. Yep.

Chances are, Jeff’s body is a drooling, catatonic wreck, wired up in a black clinic. Jeff’s mind, meanwhile, is “here,” utterly helpless, in an imaginary realm where his tormentors can rattle his cage at will, at their mercy, ha-ha-ha. Takes serious resources to do that. Which the Bad Guys have. Most likely scenario.

But there’s still a slim, remote, infinitesimal possibility Jeff’s workmates are messing with him. It’s those kooky social outcasts back at the node, those cut-ups. This is a joke, see? They’re funning with me. Sure, Jeff.

Might as well get it over with.

Jeff stops staring at the ceiling. He gets on his shoeless feet, starts padding around the shiny space, checking it out. That spatially indeterminate, girlish voice keeps humming. Jeff calls out to her.

“Hello? Come out, come out, where ever you are.”

Just buying time. Tries the fone, dead. Tries the front door—the obsidian-black front door, which actually looks like the monolith in 2001. Gropes, gropes. OK. No doorknob. That’s how cold this is. Not even the casual sadism of a doorknob that doesn’t turn, or turns and turns. (Doesn’t sound like a workplace gag, does it?) No. It ain’t the node nerds. It’s the Bad Guys, definitely. And they’re not playing with him. Jeff’s not worth the trouble. No suspense, no build up. They cut to the chase, these people. Right up front, the door tells him he’s stuck, we’ve got you where we want you, this ain’t real.

“Hmmmm. Hmmm.”

What the hell is she singing?

The reference pops up in Jeff’s musicologist mind. Alas my love you do me wrong. “Greensleeves.” Public domain. Henry VIII supposedly. Christians ripped it off with that “What Child Is This”... Who cares? Focus.

Jeff does another barefoot circuit around the “hotel room,” finds the sweet songstress not. Finally enters the oversized bathroom. Looks at the mirror, looks in it. Sees his own reflection. Pretty much what you expect to see in a mirror. What you don’t expect --

This crazy-eyed teenaged girl standing next to his reflection. Standing to his right, in mirrorspace. Which means she’d be …

 Looks left. But she’s not there.

Looks back at the mirror.

There she is.

Just in the mirror. OK.

“Hi.”

“Low.”

She giggles. Jeff shouts, looking for the hidden cam.

“OK, guys. I don’t wanna play.”

As-in the guys back at the node. Jeff’s still desperately clinging to the hope that his pals are pranking him.

Mirror Girl wrinkles her nose.

 “He doesn’t want to play.”

 “Seriously.”

 “OK, Jeff. Seriously.”

Smile. Merciless. Eyes like green whirlpools.

Jeff studies mirror. Sees his reflection. Sees the smiling greeneyed girl standing next to his reflection, viewer’s left. Black hair, like the fabric of space. Yeah, too sexy, too young, too crazy. Just my type. The Bad Guys know what they’re doing.

“I’m here,” he says.

“You’re there.”

“My reflection is …But you’re …”

Jeff pushes out his left hand. Mirror Jeff extends his right hand, reaching out to Mirror Girl. But she sidesteps out of the way.

“OK. It’s pretty clear this is not really happening.”

“Wow, you’re so smart. It’s like all in your mind, right?”

Jeff jabs to his left. Mirror Girl dodges.

“You’re not here. This is either Wonderland or skullspace.”

“Yeah.  Or I am here—in a camo suit. But the mirror makes me visible.” Little shake of the hips. Boom boom. “So, this could be realspace.”

“OK. It could.”

And flying monkeys could emerge from Jeff’s ass and make all content free. Or she’d give him a straight answer if he asks her name. He bites his tongue and doesn’t say that. He asks the question she won’t answer.

“What’s your name?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Who’s behind this?”

“Boring.”

“Oh, do I bore you? Gee I’m really, really sorry.”

“No, I’m really, really sorry.”

“Where am I?”

“51°25' N, 33°32' E.”

“What’s there?”

“Abandoned missile silo. Medical stuff. Computers. You.”

“Any other questions?”

What do you want?

That’s the logical question to ask her. The bear trap the Bad Guys figure he’ll stick his leg into.

What do you want?

Jeff’s biting his tongue again. It’s not his style

He wants to say, “Fuck you. I know how this works. The Bad Guys got me. The iProp holders I’ve pissed off. They got me trapped in a dungeon of the mind and they’re ready to rattle my cage. ‘What do I want?’ That question’s the trigger. You’ll start talking in a weird voice. “What do we want? What do you think we want, Jeff?” Then I’ll fall to my needs and start begging and bargaining. Oh please don’t hurt me. Then you’ll laugh and start hurting me. I’m not stupid. Fuck you, OK?”

Thank God he didn’t say that. But the way she’s looking at him, biting her lower lip. Fuck. He did say it.

“The Bad Guys won’t hurt you. Sorry.”

“Oh great. They’re not going to torture me—and you’re sorry? Why?”

She’s going to torture you.

“Oh great. Then what …”

“I’m sorry.”

“Let me out. Please?”

“I’m rilly, rilly sorry.”

“Rilly.” Valley Girl lingo. SoCal, right? Hometown patois. Or she loaded it. You never know these days. Real, not real.

Jeff isn’t worried about the iProp holders anymore. He’s worried about. Something familiar about. Her. If he wasn’t such an idiot, he’d get it.

 “I’m sorry!”

She’d been shouting that for awhile. Jeff drifted off, lost the thread.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. I’m really sorry.”

Sorry. For dirty deeds done or dirty deeds planned? Rich chick, crazy. Maybe she’s some sick freak trapped me in skullspace for S&M torture. How do I state that delicately?

“What is this, some kind of sex thing?”

“No. And it’s certainly not torture, bad boy.”

 “Who said …”

“You. Not yet.”

She smiles. Those whirlpool eyes.

“Microexpressions. Tongue. T. . roof of the mouth.”

What the hell are you?

 “Torture, from Latin root, tortu, to twist. No, it’s not like those cruelfun vids, no. Sorry! Bad girl implying don’t-hurt-me cowardly badness in you. Fear is a natural response. Badness is me. Yeah, rilly. His heart is beating too fast, tell him? OK. I’m not going to –”

“Hurt me physically.”

“Physically, metaphysically, metempsychotically, no. “

This associational word salad. Something familiar about it. Yeah. She’s one of those …

The girl giggles and claps her hands.

Schizophrenics. The new kind. The old kind used to hear voices. The new kind all hear the same voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

Madthings. Popped up when the gods did.

“What are you thinking?”

I’m thinking you’re a madthing. I’m thinking I should keep that to myself.

“Stuff.”

“What do you think of me?”

Lie. Tell ‘em what they want to hear for once.

“I think you’re beautiful, probably Irish, look to be 19 or so. For all I know you’re a 47 fat guy in his underwear, but I think you look like you back in realspace. Intelligent, but …you’re probably out of your fucking mind. One of those Madthings, I’m guessing. Hear voices. Gods ordering you around.”

Great, Jeff.

“Do me a favor and cut the shit, OK? Why’d you bring me here?”

Puzzled look.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. Look, I already know the iProp holders didn’t put me here.”

Smile.

“So you put me here.”

Smile fades.

“OK, you’re not alone. It’s not the iProp guys. Who are you working for?”

She hollers. He’s under the distinct impression she said “God.”

“’God’…as in ‘God, what a stupid question.’ Or ‘God,’ as in ‘the Man Upstairs.’

“None of the above. File not found. Ask again later.”

“You’re a mouthpiece for the gods, right? One of those things that popped up. Little messenger girl?”

She nods, shyly.

 “Why am I here?”

Shrugs.

“They want you here.”

“Why do they want me here?”

“Here, you’re an ear. Here.”

“Clear as mud.”

“Midas had ass’s ears.”

“He did, huh?”

“Yes, no. Mythological figure, Greek. Midas, the king with the golden touch.”

“How did he go to the bathroom?”

She giggles. Good sign. Or not.

“You know the story.”

“The Midas touch?”

“No. The other story. The song story.”

Jeff thinks. Yeah he knows it.

“King Midas was pals with Pan, the goat-god with the pipes.”

 “Pan was satyr but wiser, ha.”

“Ha-ha. Anyway, Pan challenged Apollo, the wise-god, with the lyre, to a battle of the bands. Pan played. Apollo played. Two gods. Three human judges.”

“Apollo was the better lyre.”

Insane bright eyes.

He goes on.

“Yeah. Anyway, King Midas was one of the judges. Knowing what was good for them, the other judges kissed Apollo’s shiny ass. “Yeah, you’re the best, man. God of Light and Music and Poetry. Totally.” These two picked Apollo. Midas, like the dumbass he was, voted for his pal, Pan. Apollo, despite his reputation for rationality, rewarded him with donkey’s ears. Midas tried to hide them with a hat. But only your barber knows for sure, right?”

“The barber knew.”

“The barber knew. What do you know?”

“The barber dug a hole in the ground,” she says. “He whispered the story. Into the hole.”

“I know. And?”

“The hole filled in. The grasses grew. And then they spoke. ‘Midas has asss ears. Midas has ass’s ears.’ The grasses told on Midas.”

“To the wind. I know.”

“The wind whispered and whispered it.”

She’s going someplace with this. It’s creeping him out.

“I know. Cute story. The talking wind.”

And he hears the fucking wind. Talking.

No.

Music through the walls.

She’s crying. Jeff sees her reflected in the dead TV, her eyes welling up with tears. He knows where the tears come from, the poisoned spring at the bottom of the well in her eyes. This chick feels guilty. About what? What she’s going to tell him? What she’s going to show him? What? He’s curious, can’t deny that. But the I-don’t-want-to-die faction of his brain definitely outvotes the curiosity. He’s keeping his mouth shut and staying right here.

And he’s walking down the hallway. That damn monolith door is behind him, closing shut. He can see her walking next to him in the hallway mirrors. Faint music playing from somewhere.

“What do you want?”

“Who are you?”

“Who …? I’m a music critic. What …”

He figures it out.

“You’ve got to hear the music,” she says.

They’re standing in front of the elevator. The elevator door opens. Music pumping in louder. He can hear it, all right.

“This is as far as I go, kid.”

Now they’re in the elevator. Going down. He can see her in the shiny steel door. The freaking music is making his ears bleed. Aside from looking sad, it doesn’t seem to bother her.

“Let me explain something to you. This god music, whatever it is? I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’ve got to hear it.”

“No I don’t. Why don’t you hear it?”

“I can’t hear it,” she says.

“Can’t. As-in won’t.”

“Can’t as-in me. Brain. Wiring. Sorry.”

“You literally can’t hear it?”

“No. Madthing, I. Hear the godvoices. The music? Mad all the way.”

“That’s why you’re in the mirror.”

“Battleship. Sunk.”

“That’s great, kid. You can’t hear the music. I get it. Well, I can’t either, OK? No freaking way. Like it or not, I’m staying in this elevator.”

He gets one last glimpse of her sad face in the steel doors. Then they open.

And he walks out of the elevator.

Into a hotel lobby, completely deserted. Throbbing music from somewhere, louder now. Jeff follows the bass heartbeat. Trying not to, but his legs aren’t taking orders right now. Keeps walking towards that music. Sees an open stairwell, red. Sign on a stand in front of it. BAR. Arrow pointing down.

Jeff goes down the stairs,

Emerges in a basement bar.

Seedy, low-rent. Sprayed-black urethane ceiling. Stage with musical instruments. Vintage speakers and gear. No band, so recorded music. Two old-school microphones. The music cuts off. Spot hits the stage.

Two shining beings emerge from the blackness, walk up to the microphones. Each takes one. Stands there. Just the two of them.

Chiseled features, perfect hair. Ridiculous muscles, perfect teeth.

Two rock gods, for want of a better term

Or, just plain gods.

One is Apollo, one is Pan. That’s obvious. But Jeff has no idea who’s who. No obvious clues like God #A is holding a flute, God #B is holding a lyre. No. Just those mics, yeah. This is going to be a sing-off. And I’m …

The sound system booms. DJ voice.

“Jeff! Thanks for coming, my man—and what an honor and privilege it is. Your reputation for honesty proceeds you!”

Precedes, dumbass.

“Well, OK, looks like the gang’s all here. OK, I guess it’s that time. Hey, Jeff  if you could please the seat of honor, we’d all like to get started.”

Spotlight reveals a seat at a table dead center, not too close to the stage, not too far. Good acoustic separation, yeah. Red table cloth. Little foldy thing on top. RESERVED FOR JUDGE.

If I guess wrong, I’m going to wind up with donkey’s ears or turned inside-out and buried alive in a cornfield.

Some freaking honor.

 “OK, Jeff. First contestant, chosen at random…”

The spotlight turns to the god at stage left.

 “Just give us your honest opinion, Jeff, that’s all we ask.”

He smiles.

Kiss my ass. That’s all I ask.

A B# chord plays from the speakers. 

The rhythm line cuts in like a jackhammer.

And the god begins to sing.

Time Capsule

It took them several weeks, but they finally did it. The team of scientists, perhaps the last team of scientists on earth, unearthed the capsule from 20 meters below the hard desert floor. A steel cylinder, shiny once, caked with sand now. It looked like a giant, filthy suppository. But the sight made the scientists very happy. Understandable, considering the energy expended to dig it out. A painstaking excavation yielding nothing but pain for day after day. Reasonable hypothesis: We’re risking our lives to dig a giant hole in the desert. But the capsule was there. The ancient paper map had been accurate, if unclear. Reasonable hypothesis: We have it now. Our years of search have ended. The time capsule is ours at last! Their fingers bled, but they didn’t notice. The scientists cheered—until the arrows silenced them. They didn’t even have time to dust the damn thing off.

A band of ugly-looking white guys looked down over the edge of the big, square hole. Laughing, joking, really proud of themselves for shooting a bunch of starving old scientists in the back. (Time capsule? We know about it too. Thanks for digging it up, weaklings!) They had a good laugh, then started walking down the ramp.

These characters called themselves, “The Hard Men of Pure Blood.” In our time, we call them “assholes.” They dressed in a motley of grey fabric and ancient military crap, all stitched up with swastikas, skulls and SS emblems. Their idea of Nazi uniforms.

They studied the capsule. Big metal thing, crud-caked, pretty much nothing to see here, but the High Man said it was important, so they roared approval. Then had their cringing, castrated slaves put it on the cart that the scientists had helpfully provided and roll it up the ramp. Ordinarily, they’d desecrate the scientists’ bodies, but time was really a factor.

Later that night, the High Man would speak. (Actually, kind of a short guy. The dude in the incredibly rare genuine Nazi helmet.) He stood on a rock above a crackling fire. The Slightly Less High Men were gathered in a circle in front of the fire—Ah! My uniform’s on fire!—just a little too damn close. Was this a bereckoned insult? Does he scorn our purity of blood? The Low Slobs got the cheap seats; Women in the sex hole; Slaves in the place of torment, etc. Such is the natural order.

Mr. Nazi Helmet had memorized his speech, of course. Reading was for slaves.

Silence, making 'em sweat. Big tense moment. Crowd on the edge of their rocks.

The High Man cleared his throat and hollered. The Hard Men shouted back at him. A call-and-response ensued in that charming, pseudo-Germanic gibberish the Hard Men of Pure Blood were famous for.

“Speak I now of past and pain. All here know of firefeeding. Suchlike us made world of willing. Hail to Hard Men, dead yet living!”

“Hail to Hard Men, dead yet living!”

“Hard Men waste the world of weakness. Hail our Fathers!”

“Hail our Fathers!”

“World of weakness, Fathers hated. Menlikewomen, softweak all. Power also Fathers knew! Wield of kenning Fathers held. Pastways weak yet pastmind strong! Such hardlightkenning shone near all Godhidcunningdarkclefts, even “uncleftbeholding of firststuffs,” as writ, even also force to fly rock through air, carve rune to mindghost (or thinkthing spark to capture ken), even writing deep to lifeseedrune to formchange beasts, plants, even mankin, as willing was. Burning weak would burn such kenning. Fathers knew! Yet fire freed they, and kenning hid in suchlike wielding. “Time Capsule” called, where secrets hid—but now our hands do hold!"

He does that Nazi salute thing. Never gets old, huh?

“Hail!”

“Hail!”

“Hail to Fathers! Hail to Hard Men!”

“Hail to Fathers! Hail to Hard Men!”

OK, OK, sorry about the Nordic word salad. In case you’re lost, the alpha male in the feldgrau garb is saying the "Fathers" (the macho jerks who used to run the world) started a nuclear war to wipe out the weak sisters. They figured that, despite the devastation, a few incredibly strong warriors—their "Children”— would survive and breed. Based on that assumption, these so-called "Fathers" put the secrets of their technology in various time capsules, buried the capsules for their "Children" to find, and then proceeded to burn up the world. There's also a lame explanation why some weaklings survived and a shitload of repetition. Let's just skip to the end of this wretched exercise.

“Fathers freed the fire cleansing. Fire fed on hard men willing. For we, their Children, Fathers died!”

“For we their Children, Fathers died!”

“Kneel we now to Fathers’ fury! Gift to Children shall be opened. Open now the gift of kenning. Hail our Fathers! Hail say all!”

“Hail say all!”

OK, OK. Now that the speech was out of the way, The High Man proceeded to open the time capsule. (Such honor was not for slaves!) Or began the process. A slave had showed him a diagram. Something called a “wrench.” Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey. Thus the slave had spoken before his death. Now it was time. The High Man got to work.

There were bright red letters …

DANGER! RADIOACTIVE MATERIAL!

Once you got the dust off, it was plain to see. If you could read.

Bolt by bolt, the High Man cranked. And cranked.

This was going to take a long time.

Happy Groundhog Day

James Joyce's "Finnegans Wake" posited a cyclic theory of history. I.e.: we live in a dream that endlessly circles back on itself and bites its own tail. Ironically, Joyce's birthday was February 2. Groundhog Day.

While we're on the subject, most literary critics aren't science fiction writers. With FW, they get into the weeds, get lost in the maze, all dazzled by the formal structure and elaborate, overworked multilingual bibble-babble. The one thing they don't do is take the damn thing seriously. On its own terms. As a theory of history.

Seeing as how I am a science fiction writer, I'm happy to spell it out.

The theory is --

The human race, originally, was a single collective mind -- i.e. Finnegan. Each individual mind is networked to the whole via -- what else? -- telepathy. OK, like the Borg. Each individual got marching orders from the collective intelligence in the form of the voice of God -- as Julian Jaynes pointed out. But it's not the right brain talking to the left brain. It's the whole system talking to its parts. There's an intelligence on the other side of the voice. Someone is speaking. 

This worked great until the emergence of cities and civilization. Things got complicated -- to the point it crashed the system. All the individual minds got cut off -- became suddenly disconnected, alone. This explains our traumatic memory of the Fall, of the Tower of Babel and the confusion of tongues. And the need to invent Authority Figures in the sky telling us what to do.

Finnegan is now dreaming. History is his dream. It only seems to be going forward, but it's really the same schtick going round and round. Like Hollywood, Finnegan's only got a few stock formulas. His dream keeps repeating these basic stories, but mixes them up so they appear new. ("Die Hard" today, "Cliffhanger" tomorrow.) These vignettes are staged by a small cast of actors -- the fragments of Finnegan's mind. (We only think there are billions of people. In reality, there's the King, the Warrior, the Lover, the Joker, etc.) History's basically like a rotating rep company. A small troupe doing a handful of plays.

The show goes on, until human civilization gets so complex and interconnected that the process of fragmentation starts to reverse. Finnegan -- the collective mind behind the dream -- starts waking up again. Like the dreaming Red King in Alice in Wonderland, that's curtains for the rest of us. So, we keep trying to put him back to sleep. But the show's almost over.