Death in Vegas

The man Ashbrook by name stopped not quite certain why. A yellow Cadillac passed in front of him and he knew why. Warm weather at a street-corner intersection said You are waiting for your crossing signal. It continued You have some blocks to go You can't even see it yet. It continued You must be patient so consider this a representation of your whole trip.

Ashbrook saw the hand turn into a walker. He looked both ways and crossed the street. He looked at the signs signifying the road he was walking along. The road was named Las Vegas Blvd S and he was going north on it. His mind was operating. He was actually there. He was gathering information. He could piece it all together later from the fragments. All he knew was he had to keep going, to make an appointment of some sort or another.

He had been advised to avoid thinking and that's the advice he was following.

He passed a fast food restaurant called Denny's. How's that for a name? Short for Dennis? Is Dennis a good name or a bad name?

He stopped to stop thinking.

There.

Then he thought about the recent past. He thought about a room at Caesars Palace and knew he had stayed there that night and he had awakened some hours before. He had gotten dressed in new clothes and before that, the night before, his last night, he'd arrived at the hotel's reception desk, the crowded hotel. Before that he'd been out front, seeing three young men in shorts and jackets drinking big cans of beer.

He remembered all this has happened at around ten.

There was an airplane trip from New Haven. Before that there was a job, an office, an office with books in it. Lots of books. Many of which he'd taught, if not read.

There were fifty-five years to think about. Maybe he was able to in aggregate recall a third of them. Minus the third spent sleeping ... about six years' worth of memories he could have gone over. Minus unpleasantness, which was maybe a conservative third, leaves six years of memories.

My entire life; I'm only six.

This did not cheer him, though. The matter he was avoiding thought about pressed on his mind. He had to look up, so he looked up.

Cars were passing by on his right. He didn't know anything about cars, believe it or not. He'd learned to drive one when he had been twenty-five because he had been forced to by, that one, that one he knew. A Chevette. The cars driving by were in good shape. But of course, it's the desert, nothing to corrode them out here in the desert. As long as they have water they're fine, lots of water needed out here. The great Hoover Dam was somewhere thereabouts. He was passing by a big white block of a place, the big word DRUGS in blue on the canopy. BEER LIQUOR WINE in red below. "Maybe I should buy some wine." Just a thought. That all could be taken care of later, if there was a need. He didn't know if she was a white wine drinker or a red wine drinker, after all. He knew she drank, though. Sometime too much, not very often, tho. He'd written back, Everyone I know is like that, including me.

Rly?

Just looking, at the time.

Just looking up. The sky was blue cloudless.

He'd looked at the Google map of Las Vegas. In fact, he had a section of it, printed out, folded in eight, and in his pocket. He didn't have to look at it, "tho."

He knew his excuse, though. "Maps are handy. Doesn't hurt to have one of the area."

He looked down at himself. His slacks were black, still with visible creases, and his black shoes were shiny. His dark socks he couldn't see but he knew they were there. His shirt was white and stainless, thank God. Dark blue sports blazer over it all. Looking like a million bucks.

Wow. I am, in fact, every inch the professor.

Or maybe I will be, in a year or two.

Why bother enumerating the objects to which he was attached?

He certainly didn't feel attached to very many.

He felt attached to maybe twenty things.

Attached to his jacket, shirt, pants, underwear, socks; attached to his wallet and attached to his twenty thousand dollars in cash, the coins in his pocket he was also attached to. But that was it, that was the whole of his (current) existence. Oh, and he was attached to the piece of paper in his pocket. The map with his destination circled.

I'll have to get rid of that soon.

He stopped, closed his eyes and opened them again. Everything was still there. The road—Las Vegas Blvd S—still there, still with its cars that were sometimes old. The dry weather. But that was in his mind. He had to see without his mind. He saw without his mind, and it was all colors and shapes. Secondary and primary sense perceptions. What about the sounds he was hearing, were they anything? This was more difficult to do without mind. Think! And everything was lost in that moment. He was himself again, walking north by northeast.

Thirsty.

Harry O's BBQ.

Of course.

Harry O's BBQ.

This place will be with me, in my mind, forever.

This place has meaning.

The black-haired man far behind the counter stubbed out his cigarette and came forward, and two hundred pounds of him. He looked at Ashbrook and nodded. Ashbrook looked at the refrigerator behind the counter.

"Could I have a Coke?"

The man opened the fridge and took out a Coke and put it on the counter.

"Buck fifty."

Ashbrook reached into his pocket and found two dollar bills, which he put on the counter.

"There."

The man took the two dollar bills and mashed open the cash register.

Ashbrook said, "Nice day."

The man said, "It's always like this. Never changes."

"Keeps the cars in good condition."

"What?"

"No snow. No rust."

"You from up north?"

"Yes. New England."

The man nodded. "Never thought of it. I guess the cars last pretty much forever here."

"If they're kept in good shape engine-wise."

"Nothing lasts forever. We should remember that."

"Yes. Well, good day."

"See ya."

Ashbrook left Harry O's BBQ, wondering if he had been talking to Harry O. He drank the Coke quickly and was rid of the can at the next streetcorner, along with the Google map. He knew the number he was aiming for. He knew who would be there, essentially, if by essence one means by name.

Now where was he? What number was he at?

The Tod Motor Hotel.

Can that really be the name?

A place to go die, obviously.

They probably don't know German.

"Death" Motor Hotel, Las Vegas Blvd N.

No number on the building.

But he hadn't passed it; he knew it was more than two blocks away or so.

What will she be wearing? Will she be in a wedding dress? Will I somehow know her on sight?

He was getting clammy.

Not cool.

As cool as.... As cool as the Mojave Desert.

He kept walking, thinking about other things. He was thinking about New Haven, and about the last time he was there ... which had only been yesterday! How quickly things can change. I was on the other side of the country. Another time zone even. It must be later there, four hours later, in fact.

Didn't matter anyway. Because time is a tautology. As is space.

This time only refers to other times. And this space only refers to other spaces.

But, but, but.

The words might run around like hamsters, but he knew where he was going. There was something absolute in it all.

But what?

He knew where he was going.

But wasn't it hot out here. Maybe he should have taken a cab or a bus.

Just then, a bus passed. Isn't that always the way? Of course he knew he thought of a bus because he had unconsciously heard it coming.

He wondered if there were any worthwhile art galleries in town because he saw a sign saying ART DISTRICT.

He thought about the place he was going to because he saw a drive-through chapel.

He thought about the callous on his foot because he looked down.

He didn't have that much further to go, Ashbrook.

The Mayor of Casterbridge. He wondered why he'd thought of that. Then he remembered, and a little malicious laugh came.

Las Vegas! Why don't we meet up in Las Vegas?

That could be arranged.

How far should we go?

Away from Vegas?

No, how should we meet there? I've never been there.

Could he see his destination yet? He thought maybe. It depended on what that was up there, now didn't it? It might be it, or it might not be.

As he walked on, ever towards the destination he had, nothing of the past in his mind, nothing but the urge of now, I'm much older than you,,, I don't care,,, he looked ahead, and he looked at the sky, he thought of his plot that only involved leaving one room and going to another room with a road in between. Isn't that plot? Forster said something like that.... No chance to look it up because it was just him and his clothes and his money walking with a picked-up pace along the road. The place had to be ahead, was it that place there? up there? He was getting there, if that was the place, or maybe it was getting to him. Is something getting to me? This plot is nearing its end.

He believed what he was seeing. He couldn't not believe it. Yes, it looked like the place. He saw the sign. LAS VEGAS LOVER'S CHAPEL. It was the place. How many steps did he have left to make? Not many at all, a limited number like the number of pages in your right hand as you read: a finite number.

He didn't know what lay in store for him.

He had to cross the Blvd. The wait seemed like forever but it couldn't have been forever because he found himself crossing the Blvd in a perfectly ordinary way. Then he had to wait for the lights to change again. He waited, then he was crossing the street again. She was right up there, in the building, near the front of it.

His feet took him up the steps of the chapel. The door was oak-colored but it probably wasn't oak. He pulled open the door and went inside.

A low hum of organ music, flowers in the air. He could see through the vestibule an altar with a big painting of the desert behind it. But where was she? He took a couple more steps inside; still nothing. The place appeared to be empty.

A noise from behind him made him turn. The door was opening. He saw a hand, then an arm, a foot, a dress, and a face. She looked at Ashbrook. Ashbrook smiled. The woman said, "Are you Ashbrook?" and Ashbrook nodded, seeing her for the first time, seeing how different she was, seeing how different she was from anything he'd ever seen before; satisfyingly different from the wife he'd left, murdered, behind him, way down the Blvd, at Caesars Palace.

First Draft

"I have arrived," says the renowned fashioniste M. HOUELLEBECQ with a pirouette of his left hand high in the air of the Trieste Restaurant, London, the third greatest metropolis in the world. He is fresh from a Trevi Fountain shoot, starring the lean and lovely FR. BRECHT, who is at the moment hanging like an ivy off the spruce of Houellebecq's arm. This succulent twosome are the last to arrive at this celebration of the final unification of artistic and cultural Europe.

"Bienvenue, Willkommen," cries the English host, the tall and stylish English novelist MR. BANKSY, fresh from his seventeen-country Eastern European tour during which he performed passages from his verse narrative entitled Yesterday's Futures in decrepit grand opera houses exclusively. Sitting beside him and smiling brightly is the Italian painter S. ECO looking fresh as the proverbial daisy. Across the table, uncorking something with a Russian label, is the star of stage and screen D. FERNÁNDEZ MADINABEITIA, fresh, always fresh, from the cutting room of his epic nineteen-part nouvelle entitled The World And How It Got That Way, parts three through seven opening this weekend at a cinema near you, and, overseeing with care the turning of the screw, Ireland's most beloved singing daughter MC, fresh from recieving the Nobel Prize for her latest LP.

Lastly was myself, a journalist, sitting slightly away from the table in deference.

"Bun fight!" cried Banksy, and quickly were grabbed farm rolls, stickies, mantous, and Bostons; across the room they arced as God intended them to arc and struck Houellebecq and Brecht who caught as many as they could to return them in if possible ever more Godly arcs. All were laughing, top of the world in so many ways, at their juvenile antics, and Death was a million miles away, busy with the masses and their hygienic noncare. A naturally nonjudgemental troupe of waiters alike in stature entered the room, gathered the yeasty morsels for the dustbin, placed two baskets of fresh hot butterful croissants at the table's two Vitruvian foci, and vanished soundlessly.

"Sit, my friends, sit!" shouted Mc as she boldly kicked out a chair then another chair.

Houellebecq and Brecht slinked to the table and sat and sighed with the breath of all the world's woes mintily fresh.

"Speak, speak! Tell us of your struggles," said Fernández Madinabeitia.

Adopting a touch of his mother argot, Houellebecq said, "The pigeons—damn them to hell!—refused to coöperate."

"A disaster!" shrieked Banksy.

"I'll say."

"So what did you do?"

"We set out great dishes of poison, waited for them to die, and swept them away. We'll use CGI to put them in again."

"In piquant poses."

"What else?"

Banksy discontinued the conversation and stood suddenly as if the conversation had not been taking place. "We are all present, I see. Time for the liquor course!" He took up a small gong perhaps six inches around (which I discovered later to be list priced at €2200) and rang it to cause a tone (not especially pleasing at first but which would as the night wore on would become not unattractive) beckoning four carts of absinthes, single malt scotches, centenarian wines, and ironic paper umbrellas to be pushed forth, which they were. The sextet fell upon these with abandon, spilling here and swilling there, with the occasional wretch of gaggy near-vomit as punctuation to their gasped  sentences.

Certainly they were decidedly intoxicated in under fifteen minutes, but did that stop them? No, they called for more exotic fare, and soon odd label-free bottles of brackish or thick or chunky stuff appeared, were opened, and consumed.

The animalism of the current European court—and its hangers-on—was appearing before my eyes in all its majestic glory. These elect citizens before me had the ear of the nations and the world, and they knew it and knew it good. Their appetites were the envied appetites; and if their appetites weren't the envied appetites, they were the appetites the lower orders were veritably forced to envy, for the lower orders neither had nor deserved anything else to envy. (I could speak in theoretical terms, but I trust you know the theory already.)

The troupe of waiters returned and rolled away the trays before pulling up the damp linen tablecloths to replace them with sparklingly clean coverings of bone and ivory white. The elites of this twenty-first century are nothing if not capable of holding their liquor. Indeed, it is rumoured that Eco was, as a matter of policy, always drunk from sun-up to sun-down and always drunk from sun-down to sun-up. Perhaps this 'lust for life' explains why they rose through the meritocracy ever closer and closer to the seats of almost monarchical power in the world; perhaps their boldness was attractive to power which sat, as always, beneath the sword of Damocles, fearful of the masses outside its door and across its moat, too many to kill with one volley, and besides, who when all was said and done would do all the work?

Ms leaned over to speak to Brecht. "Brecht, tell me. What is the latest thing in Rome?"

"You mean, clothier-wise?"

"No, I mean ... I don't know, I guess I mean philosophically."

"Oh, that," with a spice of scorn. "Well, the search for meaning continues apace."

"Fascinating! Such a perennial, this searching, is it not?"

"I have nothing but scorn for such attitudes."

"I understand Islam has much to offer. You know, the world turns as it does because Allah wills it to be so, and we must merely submit. To our riches and our decadence, say."

"My dear, that's a very nice way of saying it! I suppose it explains our rôle in the scheme of things."

Banksy clang-clang-clanged on his gong. "Time for the fish! Fish, fish, fish!"

The waiters appeared quickly and lay before all plates of the strangest fishes I had ever seen. Some had three eyes, others were something like Siamese twins, and one I recall appeared to be wearing lipstick and false eyelashes. Where did such finny freaks come from? Banksy much have scoured the seven seas for such prodigies.

At that moment he looked at me, noticed my attentions, and said, "Just you wait for the entree. Something special from Our Friend In Washington."

All took the fish in full hands and bit and gnawed away ravenously. The liquor had sharpened their appetites to match their teeth. Bones flew like feathers in a fever dream of a seraglio. The floor became as slick with oils as the sextet's clothing did, which they loosed or removed altogether and body parts glowed like a bodybuilder's. I daresay I thought for sure the orgy was going to be starting prematurely so did they shine!

Fernández Madinabeitia cried, "My God, what a feast! What can lay in store in the next two hours? Anybody mind if I go puke?"

Banksy said, "Go right ahead."

Brecht said, "I'm going for a shit myself."

Fernández Madinabeitia and Brecht stood up and arn-in-arm they left the room. The waiters appeared again and cleared away the mess and mopped the floor with soapy water, returning it to a pristine state. More trays of drinks appeared; simpler fare this time; wine and beer.

Eco said to me, "Sometimes we drink simply. Returns us to our roots."

I asked, "Oh? Are you of humble origins?"

He laughed. "Of course not! We're all children of politicians and diplomats. We got to the top through pure courtly nepotism. We're the new aristocracy, much like the old, save that none of us are sirs or dames. The revolt of the clerks, my boy! Sometimes we drink wine and beer because, why, our parents observed the same custom. And their parents in their turn. But eventually, going back five or six generations, there must have been some prole or another who drank such plebian stuff. Somewhere back in the back of beyond...."

Fernández Madinabeitia and Brecht came back and sat down. Time for salad was the time it was. The waiters came in with huge bowls filled with romaine lettuce, croutons dressed with parmesan cheese, lemon juice, olive oil, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, black pepper, hard-boiled eggs, ham, turkey, chicken, roast beef, tomatoes, cucumbers, avocados, onions, bacon, blue cheese, dried cherries, vinaigrette dressing, cranberries, apples, mandarin oranges, walnuts, and pecans. Each of the six was provided with a five-pronged fork and they dug in and dig in they did, shoving in into their mouths with precise and classy slobbery. Greasy belches perfumed the air to the chandeliers. It was quite an awesome sight; they appeared to be racing one another; and then they were finished. They wiped themselves off, leaned back, and conversed.

Mc said, "Oh look; there's someone else in the room," meaning me.

All turned to look.

Brecht said, "Who are you?"

I said, "I'm a writer, observing and making notes."

"What is your name?"

"I am Herman Koch."

"Would you like to join us? We can find another chair somewhere."

"I don't think I should. I'm trying to be objective."

All laughed at what turned out to be my naïveté.

"Surely you've got better things to worry about! Come, come, the first entree will be coming out any minute."

I shrugged, unwilling to explain that I was actually there not to write a newspaper account but rather a novel based upon them and their new class. (I believe now that it wouldn't have made a bit of difference; they knew they could have me squashed like a bug with a wave of the hand, and I knew, and they knew I knew. [REMEMBER TO CHANGE NAMES IN SECOND DRAFT.])

Before I could make up my mind, the first entree arrived: a huge roast hog. It was placed in the middle of the table, and Mc did the countdown: "Three. Two. One." Twelve hands fired forth to the hog and dug into it with greasy hands. Brecht clawed and ripped at the jowls and cheeks, Eco was wrist deep in its stomach, and Mc was yanking off a leg. They shoved the meat into their mouths as quickly as possible, to return to the dismemberment all the more quickly. Grunting and snorting were the order of the day.

The beast devoured, they turned to competitive eructions, and I daresay Ms won, at least in my opinion. (I swear I felt my molars rattle!)

The conversation, to use the term loosely, turned to a comparison of communism and fascism, trying to decide which was better. Fernández Madinabeitia averred that communism was superior since plunder is so much easier under a veil of hypocrisy; Mc countered that fascist plundering is better because the elites are supposed to be rich. Eco posited that communism might work if imposed colonially upon some distant island away from the prying eyes of middle class morality, and Brecht felt fascism might work equally well in such a place. Banksy noted that either ideology requires imperialism since their economies rely on ruthless rapine of natural resources; Houellebecq agreed with this, furthermore noting that by the time the natural resources were depleted, they would all be dead. This got a laugh of recognition from all involved.

A chair appeared, and I found myself sitting in it. I was asked about my work—or rather, about the concept of work—and I answered their questions as well as I could. Yes, I am a journalist; yes, I'm a colour journalist; no, I am not related to any émigrés; yes, I earn a salary. I was an exotic creature to them, and they tolerated me as a Manhattan cocktail party might tolerate a precocious little girl.

A brief fruit course arrived; I suppose it weighed under two hundred pounds all told. I partook lightly of this exotica; many of the fruits, I was later told by Mc, have no English names. Juices ran down their fronts and more clothing was removed and stickiness reigned supreme.

[THEIR TABLE TALK WAS VERY DULL IN FACT. I WAS TAKEN ABACK BY THEIR GENERAL DULLNESS. IF I PROCEED WITH MORE DRAFTS AND FLESH THIS OUT AS A NOVEL, I'LL HAVE TO RECAST IT TO MAKE IT ... ALLEGORICAL, SAY. I'LL GIVE THEM ALLEGORICAL NAMES, AND THEY'LL ILLUSTRATE SOMETHING ... ALLEGORICAL. BUT NOW I AM ONLY CONCERNED WITH HONEST REPORTAGE.]

The plates were taken away, the cloth was taken away, the soaked clothes were taken away. Mc, bare-chested, took that moment to announce, "People. Look." She took her left breast in her hands and squeezed it. A trickle of milk fell forth.

Brecht cried, "Oh, hon, you're pregnant!"

Mc smiled widely. "It's a fact."

"How wonderful for you! When?"

"Four months."

Glasses came up with whatever they had in them and clanked. Another person to set the world aright. Another neo-aristocrat to show others what living is all about. Another joy, another joy to get drunk, do all kinds of drugs, and revel generally.

Banksy clanged his little gong. "I have a little speech to make before the main course, the second entree, is brought in. (And a very special entree it is inded!) Ahem.I would like to thank you all for coming—next stop is Belgium, I believe, in two weeks—but today you are my guests. Even our lower-class friend the writer! We are the elite of the elites, greater than all politicians even though we 'serve' them, because we have no standards to hypocritically ignore. We are nothing but dirty gluttons—hear, hear!—who, in the dialectic of things, are actually the masters of the politicians. We make them rise and we make them fall, and we get all the gravy from it. So: here's to the politicians who have made all this possible!"

The table raised a ruckus, for they had never heard anything so eloquently expressed. The buzz dipped down, and the questions without answers began.

"What can it be this time?"

"What have we never had before?" came the question as an answer.

"I have heard stories, are they true?"

"Whose stories are you referring to?"

"Come on, Banksy, give it to us straight!"

"It's a gift from Washington."

"Oh my. Not from him again!"

"Another dog?"

"No, this is on a whole other level."

"All his gifts."

"I suppose the half-breed wants to be one of us!"

"Otherwise why—"

Banksy gonged his gong. "Gentlemen, bring it in."

The kitchen doors opened and two waiters entered with the largest silver platter I had ever seen between them. They managed to lay it down dead centre of the table. The lid was taken off and there, steaming and untrussed, was a roasted child.

Mc cried, "Oh my goodness, what have we here?"

Banksy cried, "It's a three-year-old from a West Virginia hollow."

Brecht cried, "I don't think I've ever eaten such a thing before!"

Houellebecq said, "It looks roasted to a tee."

Eco commented, "This is truly a night to remember."

Fernández Madinabeitia said nothing, and merely licked his chops.

So tenderly cooked was the boy that when Brecht took his arm and pulled, it came away cleanly yet juicily as a breath of steam came hissing out. Houellebecq, on the other side of the table, took the other arm, and it came away in a selfsame way. Banksy cried, "Stop, let us be civilized for once!" He produced a large carving knife and fork, leaned over, and cut the child down his sternum. "Who wants some white meat?" Eco, Fernández Madinabeitia, and myself put up hands. Soon our plates were filled. Mc and Banksy himself took legs, and we ate. The meat was tender and sweet and not quite what I expected. With belches and joy we gobbled up the child until naught but bones remained.

More conversation ensued [WHICH I CAN MAKE UP IN THE SECOND DRAFT].

But it was getting quite late and I didn't want to stay for the full-force orgy, so there and then I took my leave. With the sextet's rousing sing-song of "Gibble gobble, gibble gobble, one of us, one of us," I left the restaurant, caught a cab, and now I am in my hotel room, writing this.

I am a made man.

My Ability

The woman whose name I believe is Consuela wheels me offstage as the band plays the sleazy Spanish-sounding song whose name I never learned and into the room of my keeping, feeding, pissing, shitting, and sleeping. It's a small, filthy room, with just a pine table on which always sits a  plastic five-litre bag of dark bean-mash with a hose screwed onto its mouth, and under the table a different plastic five-litre container in which the dark bean-mash goes after it has passed through my alimentary canal, leaving behind along its journey whatever nourishment my digestive system sees fit to absorb. It's curious to see a life chiselled down to its bare essentials; I wonder if my keepers Consuela and the stage manager have ever pondered the existential starkness of it all and discussed it—but I doubt it, because it's a horrifying thing, a life reduced to this, and so I believe I am the only one to have had these thoughts, thoughts as solitary and isolated as I am from everything one could possibly imagine constituent to being alive. Oh, and there's also a jug of water, always room temperature (which is always ninety degrees or more Fahrenheit) and a siphon with a bent neck. The other part of my world consists of three performances spaced from one another by about an hour and a half onstage facing the house with its hundred eyes, that is to say whenever my vision is not occluded by the flesh of Consuela's back as it writhes back and forth and up and down when my eyes—two-thirds of what must be called my essential and active life—can turn to see the walls of the theatre each with six lamps formerly gas but now electric or electric lamps made to look like they had once been gas lamps. During these thrice-a-day performances (not even a day off for Christmas which could be this very day for all I know), which last maybe fifteen minutes, the audience who have each paid between five centavos and two pesos (depending on if it's the first, second, or third performance), behaves differently. The first show pays the most, partly because the performers are freshest and partly because there are more gringos in attendance, and is most quiet. The band furthermore is playing top-notchedly because they're not too too drunk yet. The second audience is rowdier and pays slightly more. (I saw the entrance-board on my first day here as I was wheeled in the only entrance.) By the time I'm rolled onstage for the third performance there's almost always a cockfight going on in the rear orchestra.

I don't know who the other performers are because I'm never turned in a direction by which could see them. But I can hear and from the sounds of it it's a variety show. Right now, by the sounds of the slow mysterious music, I'd guess ... oh, whatever could I guess? What could possibly top my act which used to be ultimate but is now merely penultimate? What kind of degradation could the audience of Aunt Paul's (for such was the name I saw once upon a time posted on the entrance-board) be witnessing right now? A woman fucking a mammal or a reptile? Some kind of sadistic murder and dismemberment? I am sitting, left alone, with a dirty white-washed wall in front of me, with cracks I have memorized and could draw from memory (if only I could draw! he-he) or describe but I will not describe them. A bare light bulb is over my head, warning my white hair, accentuating the cracks in the wall, and buzzing with the wrong voltage or no grounding. I hear, out in the house, some applause, and I wait to know if it's the end of the performance or the end of the show ... no, there's the band, so it was the former ... the band plays up to a crescendo, and the applause comes up again, scattered now because all the men (probably; I have heard women once in a while, at early shows), are sated and ready to go to the next amusement out in the dusty street I've seen but once and then in the middle of the night, and they are standing and stretching and noisily unsticking their feet from the cummy floor. Show's over folks, hope you come again, aie-aie-aie muchas gracias amigo, Consuela will take tips if you have them to offer, let's hear it for the band, what part did you like most, what part should we cut out? tell your friends.

Someone—Consuela—has come into the room. I have a terrific sense of smell, not because of my situation—not like it allegedly is with blind people because I am not blind—but because I have to rely on my senses for all information and because it is my sole connection to the world: I receive information, but emit none—well, except for thrice a night. (Maybe that joke is a little too convoluted....) Consuela is a very pretty girl, with long jet-black hair and a nice natural body (probably only because she can't afford much more than perfumes), and she puts her hands on my shoulders with something like affection. Her fingers drum across my collarbones like other fingers once drummed across my collarbones, fingers from a long time ago seemingly and from a far place away absolutely....

In the East Wing of the castle, with dawn three hours off, my Queen's maidservant, named Bethany plus a last name I never learned, put her hands on my shoulders and looked deep in my eyes to giggle, You know this is not something we can let anyone ever find out about, and I swallowed thickly, I the King swallowed as I nodded past my better judgement. Beth's hands caressed my chest as I caressed hers with trembling guilty hands and as a noise came from the southeast hallway, a steady, knowing tread, a tread known to me intimately: it was the Queen approaching. Quick, I whispered, follow me quickly, and we fled to the northwest passage, knowing both she had discovered our tryst—but how? through Delores? through Evangeline? These names meant nothing to Beth, but I knew them very well. Hand in hand towards the North Wing we went, the stakes being her dismissal and my disgrace, barefoot and quiet, Beth pulled by me, the King, not ashamed at all but rather seeking to avoid the complications and arguments I would have to use to justify myself. We stopped in the North Wing to listen. We heard from the direction we'd come some feet moving quickly, but that was not all: we heard a quiet conversation that went: Your majesty! Evangeline! Why are you here? I couldn't sleep. Are you disturbed by something? My husband is not in his chamber, so here I came. Oh? and I panicked for it was my wife and my first mistress walking toward Beth and myself; I took Beth in hand, and we moved silently though quickly down the southwest passage. My Queen and Evangeline knew about one other, but they knew nothing of hot Beth. We stopped finally in the West Wing—the Wing of Sunset so it was called—where I trembled wondering how I could get out of this one. Surely since my Queen and Evangeline knew about one another I could deceive them about Beth as I had once deceived each about each other; I could say (somewhat as I had said once upon a time when the Queen had discovered me with Evangeline in a linen closet) I was helping with chores (as I had said once upon a time), but I looked about the Wing of Sunset and saw nothing needing any chore whatever and before I could cogitate further I heard a new sound—I heard feet coming down the East Passage, the so-called Passage of Stone that led from the circular staircase to the Wong of Sunset—the telltale footfall of Dolores; and still I could hear the Queen and Evangeline coming closer. I grabbed Beth and off we went, through the southwest corner and into the South Wing, not much to speak of, cobwebs and a preposterously huge window that would let in lots of light once dawn rose; and I heard: Dolores! Why are you here? Er, um. Don't tell me that.... Yes, it's true. He's been cheating on us, too? Er, um. What a worm! What a priap! He must pay, he must pay! and then there were six feet, six arms, and three gates of wonder, coming at Beth and me down the southwest corridor. I was at the end of my rope; to have a wife and a mistress, and a second mistress discovered by the wife and the mistress as being a mistress, all bearing down on me as I was with a fourth woman about whom nothing was known by the aforementioned three, was more than mortal could bear. The great window beckoned; it wasn't such a great drop; and I climbed out and hung practically by my fingernails, waiting for the storm to pass. I heard my Queen, Dolores, and Evangeline talking excitedly with Beth. And they talked. And they talked. And they talked.

I could hold on no longer—I let go, expecting to land with only minor injuries. Physics thought otherwise: he put a protruding brick under my left arm and I flipped to the right, and continued until I was heading down headfirst. Understand this was a matter of four seconds' work—in just four seconds, my entire life changed. Headfirst I hit the ground, and  knew no more.

I have been told I was incapacitated for two weeks, to which I responded: nothing. I was almost entirely immobilized, as a prisoner inside my own skin. In a bed, comprehending everything though saying nothing, I heard them deciding to do what they did to me. At first it was believed I would recover, but when that did not happen for months, the arguments changed. My people were getting anxious having not seen me for so long, treaties went unsigned, the winter stores were unattended to. (Another topic of conversation—and amusement—was the extraordinary and unusual nature of the part—other than my eyes—that was still operating normally, indeed hyper-normally. I think this had impact on my destiny.) Meetings were held elsewhere, though, solving this constitutional crisis, and though I know nothing of the hows and the whys—though I'm certain my brother has something to do with it—I don't even know if they announced my death or honoured a funeral—one evening five men in black masks came and spirited me away. I was loaded onto an airplane which travelled a great distance and I was unloaded, still at night, onto a grass runway with music coming from a distance, and I was rolled toward the music which turned out to be coming from a place of red and green electric lights. I was rolled into this street that was quiet—perhaps it was almost dawn—except for music from one building—the Aunt Paul, you know—and into this building I was rolled. The manager guided my guides to put me into the very room where I am right now, and so I have remained for who knows how long—three months, four months?—and now I have Consuela's hands on my shoulders.

Her soft hands which were rough months ago because of I suspected dishwashing are almost gentle on me, as if her hands knew it was because of me that they had become soft and smooth and they were thanking me for moving them slightly up in the world. Her hands move down to my chest and tickle my nipples and then I realize it's almost time for the next performance, time to once again be rolled out onto the stage and amuse the most decadent and depraved tourists and the locals who enjoy a good freak show. Consuela's hands are on my stomach now and I can also feel her breasts thinly veiled moving back and forth and up and down against the back of my head and I wish I could stop this from happening again but I cannot do anything about it, it's going to happen in almost precisely the same way. There's applause out there, and the band is starting to play the song—I wonder if there's some witty pun connecting the song and what's to come?—that introduces our performance. The two-thirds of me that are my eyes can't see downwards enough to see how she is preparing me for the act but I can feel everything she is doing to me and I find it horrible that she is preparing me to be used as a theatrical prop—and nothing else—and that I cannot but respond to the caresses she's making on my forevermore naked body. I can smell the sick-sweet tequila on her breath and hear her aspirating and I am wondering for the nth time if she is actually aroused by this or if she unseen lubricates herself during the entr'acte with something that smells plasticky—or is it just the smell of the stage or my half-armed wheelchair? It's impossible to tell because I can tell nothing—I cannot investigate the world very much, I can't test any guess about my surroundings, I'm helpless.

Her hands are off me now, and I am being wheeled backwards, out the door of the enclosure and then about and to the right and I pass the manager who is looking down at me, examining and approving of my trick. The red curtain opens, and I am facing the crowd for the second—or is it the third?—time that evening. All eyes are on my trick. Now Consuela will strip to the music, and then she will rape me.

How can I prevent it? how can I change this physiological response that I am freakishly cursed with? No matter what I do, no matter how I try to direct my mind when her hands are on me, there's nothing to be done about it. Also, after all, the day I fail to perform properly is the day I am wholly discarded. I don't know if that would be good or bad....

With the music I have heard hundreds of times already, a lazy and sloppy stroll (must be intentional since they never get better at it), Consuela lifts her gown over her head with her back to the audience, and she cups her breasts and turns around. I can smell something like ozone in the air and I wonder if it's just me in the first sign of a stroke. She moves around behind me as there's some whistling and a shout from the back of the place, out near the cock fight ring. She's come in front of me now—she took off her panties while she was behind me. She is right in front of me, and she spreads her legs and reaches between them as she shimmies backwards, reaching for the hard cock in my lap on which she will impale herself. There's another shout and it's as if suddenly the room is full of smoke. Consuela stops her movements and it's like I'm a dog salivating at a bell. When? The smoke is acrid and the whole panicked audience is on the move, moving away, toward the fire almost strangely, toward the exit. They are shouting now and a woman is screaming. For the first time I'm not bothered by linguistic differences because they aren't using any language but the sounds of terror. Consuela is gone; she's joined the crowd trying to get out and she looks nice naked for the very first time. They are all crying out, they're crying out. Call me Hop-Frog. I wish I had a mirror in front of my eyes. They're all screaming for, as seems to be the case, all the exits are blocked; I remember that this often happens in cheap venues to prevent sneak-ins. The flames are licking up the curtains at the back and the ceiling is being licked by the flames. The smoke is thick but not too thick; I can see people with blood all over and I can see people lying still on the ground. I wonder where Consuela is, because I am still hard, rock hard. Shouldn't she be here for one last thrill? Come, Consuela, come and rape me one more time; or, if you're not in the mood for it, bring me a mirror I can look into, because I want to see my laughing eyes.

The Plagiarism

Mr. Aaron Connor, having been instructed to enter the Dean's office by his black-haired slim secretary, entered the Dean's office expecting to see the Dean sitting behind the great dark desk that, as it turned out, was the room's sole authoritative marker, for the room was conspicuously lacking the one thing that would have made it significantly different from any other room in the great college: namely, the Dean himself. Mr. Connor had been in the room only once before, three months prior, when he had gladly signed five checks for his son, four for lodging and one for tuition. He walked to the desk and looked over the objects upon it, noting especially once again the metal model Volkswagen, and he was able then to look it over with more attention than he'd been able to three months before. The model was packed with some colourful things such that there appeared to be zero empty space within. He picked it up and saw inside it some faces looking out: little model people of some sort. He carefully opened the driver-side door, noting that the model was quite sturdily built, and as he opened it a plastic figure fell out onto the desk: it was a model of a clown in an almost impossible pose, though smiling widely. Something else unusual, though: the clown was wearing a red armband. With a swastika on it. He looked inside again: yes, it was packed with clowns in a very clever arrangement, all, seemingly, wearing swastika armbands. He counted the faces looking out the windows and counted twenty. Twenty little clowns stuffed in a little Volkswagen. Mr. Connor had never seen anything quite so ingenious.

He was still holding the model plaything when a door to his left--a door he'd not noticed before--opened, and in came the Dean of the college. The Dean was wearing a dark blue suit, a pleated white shirt, and a tie patterned with red, blue, and green balloons on a beige background. The Dean himself was about fifty-five years of age, or so he appeared. He could have been a decade older for all that Mr. Cooper knew. (By the way, Mr. Cooper himself was dressed in a suit too. A charcoal grey suit: his office-wear at the plastics factory. He had come straight from there to the college when he'd been summoned, an hour and a half earlier.)

The Dean said in a tenor used to obedience, "That's a very delicate object; please put it down."

Mr. Cooper gently set the car down. "One of the, ah, clowns fell out." He picked up the clown and exhibited it as if the Dean had never seen it before.

The Dean took the clown and the car of clowns and, as he re-placed the errant clown he said, "It was made in Germany seventy years ago. It's been with the college since its foundation."

"Like a mascot."

"Yes. It's one of our mascots. We have two others."

"They're all Nazi clowns in that car, you know."

"It's something of its time. Our establishment is entirely non-political." The Dean sat down and gently placed the car on his desk. "Please, have a seat."

Mr. Cooper sat down. It was then that he noticed the Dean had a manila folder. "I'll try to be brief. I know you're a busy man."

"Yes. In fact I have an important meeting in an hour and a half."

The Dean smiled. "Then I'll be brief. I'm sure you've guessed this concerns your son, Bob."

"Yes, I guessed that. Is something wrong? Has he been injured?"

"No, he hasn't been injured. He's perfectly fine."

"Oh," said Mr. Cooper as a nervous warmth climbed up his back. "Then I suppose ... he's in trouble somehow."

The Dean opened the folder and said, "Your son, Bob, I'm sure you're aware we took him on here as a tribute to your creative work."

"Yes."

"Your work has benefited our college immensely, right from the start of your career, with your graduate paper, I believe that was in 1975."

"Yes. Gaussian Topographies in the Manufacture of Red Rubber Nose Polymers."

"Magnificent work. We took on your son because of your work. We ignored his decidedly mediocre artistic record and accepted him."

"How is he doing, anyway?"

The Dean sighed and took from the folder, holding it from a corner as if it was a smelly sport-sock, a six-page assignment and shoved it quickly across the desk. "See for yourself."

Mr. Cooper looked over the document. It was a school assignment. Something mathematical called, "Solution of the Single Solid State Problem in Boson Density." Mr. Cooper could not make head nor tail of it, but he did notice that his son's name was at the top of it and that on the last place was written in red: See me.

Mr. Cooper said, "This looks brilliant."

"It is brilliant. Too brilliant."

Mr. Cooper thought for a moment then said, "I suppose so."

The Dean shook his head slowly. "Yes, too brilliant for your son. Especially considering this." The Dean took another paper from the folder and held it forth with pride. Mr. Cooper took it and saw that it was almost exactly the same as his son's paper except for its authorship--one Stanley Clange--and the last page's mark: A++!!!

Mr. Cooper cried irrationally, "This can't be right, what the implication is."

"It's meaning is crystal clear to me," said the Dean forcefully. "Stanley Clange is truly one of our prize students. He's a marvel. He's first in maquillage, he's first in dégringole, he's a marvel at le ballon--though the grades are not in I expect him coming first for I have seen his marvellous giraffes--and he's second only to Smythe in fleur des eau. When this 'incident' came to light, I was completely in agreement with their grader, Floobly the Brain."

Mr. Cooper was still looking over the papers. "But, excuse me, but, what course are these from?"

"Introduction to Particle Physics."

"That seems a very odd course for a clown college to offer."

"It's a STEM course. By including it in the curriculum we qualify. For federal funding, you see."

"I see."

"It's tailored to be a 'bird' course."

"Yes."

"But some, like Stanley, apply themselves and show extraordinary talent."

"It certainly looks that way."

"While your son Bob is a stupid plagiarist."

Mr. Cooper was dumbfounded for a moment. "That's a very bold statement."

The Dean leaned back lordily. "I can't express it much otherwise. A plagiarist stupid enough to think we wouldn't see right through it."

"Have you confronted him?"

"I thought it best to talk to you first. You see, expulsion is a serious punishment, and there's no punishment for plagiarism but expulsion."

Mr. Cooper put two and two together. "Is it that you want me present for his expulsion?"

The Dean smiled. "It gets it all over with at once. I certainly don't want the poor dunce to take his own life. You'll be here for him."

"So you want me to just sit here?"

"We'll see what happens." He picked up the telephone and pressed four buttons. "Yes, Jingles, could you please locate Bob Cooper and have him come to my office asap. Thank you." He hung up and took the two documents from Mr. Cooper. "So, do you have any wonders coming our way out of you R&D? Any new red noses?"

Mr. Cooper was relieved to not have to think about his son's sin. "We think we've pretty much exhausted red nose technologies for the present. However, I can tell you about something we're pretty excited about."

"Do tell."

"We're working on gigantic shoes."

"Really?"

"We're working on a nanotech application that would allow the shoe to form itself around the foot and temporarily harden, allowing a perfect fit every time."

"How wonderful! You wouldn't believe the problems we have with proper clown shoes here. They're included in the tuition so naturally we have to have dozens and dozens on hand at all times, and we always have eight or nine pair left over, plus we always have to special order one or two pair, from Venezuela of all places."

"I suppose Venezuela needs more clown shoes per capita. Because everyone's busy emulating Chavez."

The Dean frowned. "A clown college doesn't approve the mockery of great statesmen."

"Oh, sorry. It's just that--" and the conversation would have delved into ideological territory had not the door gone knock-knock.

The Dean called out, "Come in."

The door opened and in came Bob Cooper. Bob Cooper was eighteen years old, of medium stature and medium weight. His face was covered quite splotchily with white greatpaint and his left eye was encircled with running mascara. He was wearing one of his father's patented clown noses, the apple of his daddy's eye. He saw the scene: the Dean, and his father. He pulled the red rubber globe from his nose and stuffed it in his pocket. He said, with proper clown college protocol, "You wanted to see me, Dean? Hello, father."

Mr. Cooper said, "Hello, son."

The Dean said, "Come in, lad. Come in and relax."

Bob moved his feet apart and put his hands behind his back like he'd seen in military movies.

"No, lad, I mean it. Come in, have a seat. We need to clear up something, something we're all quite puzzled about."

Bob crept catlike to a chair beside his father--moving it away slightly, in proximal politesse--and sat down, alert.

The Dean said, "This is about your elective in particle physics."

Bob started sweating.

The Dean continued, "Here, look. How can you explain this?"

Bob took the two papers offered to him and appeared to examine them. He was sweating more. Finally he put them down and said, "They do seem quite similar."

The Dean raised his voice gently to be clear. "Similar? They're almost exactly the same! Even down to the way the formulas are laid out. Can you give us an explanation that's not the obvious one, the obvious one being that you took Stanley's paper--or you bribed Stanley in some way, possibly an indecent way--and copied it with some slight alterations? Can you give us some other explanation for this one-in-a-million coincidence?"

Bob sat rigidly. "I cannot."

"So by that are you saying that the natural, normal explanation for things is the correct explanation?"

"I'm not saying that at all, because it's not true."

The Dean wiped his face. "Bob, please, help us here. How did they come to be so similar?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Well, do you know of someone who can? It's just us here in this room, and apparently the explanation lies somewhere beyond it. Who can help us with this?"

Bob gulped. So much sweat, it was positively disgusting. He was trying to say something. He opened his mouth, than closed it again. His eyes closed, and he gasped out, "Stanley."

The Dean asked, "What about Stanley?"

Bob answered, "He's the only one who can tell you anything." He looked utterly deflated. Really.

The Dean picked up the phone and said, "Jingles, find Stanley Clange and send him in here," and hung up quickly. To Bob he said, "So, Stanley can tell us something?"

Bob said, "Maybe. It's up to him. Hello, Dad."

Mr. Cooper touched his son's shoulder gently. "Hello, Son. Don't be afraid. Things might still work out."

Bob's tears--for little tears there were--were making a mess of his maquillage in excess of the complete mess his lousy appliqué technique had caused in the first place. He smiled wanly and quietly said, "Yeah."

The Dean said, "Boy, I want you to know that when I expel you, that is to say in the next couple minutes, I want you to know that it doesn't mean the end of you. You have only wasted a few months of your life after all. There's other professions."

Bob managed to say, "Yes, but ... this was my dream."

"Well, so much for that. You'll have to go in for something else."

"My dream. My dream."

A knock at the door interrupted this tender shattered-dream scene and the Dean called out, "Come in."

The door flew open and crashed against the wall and in came something dynamic, comical, and exciting, yet possessed of sympathy and pathos. He was wearing a battered black hat and a dingy black cotton cloak and torn trousers and his face was made up 'sad-clown' and he danced into the room, his partner being a sad, wilted daisy. The Dean, Mr. Cooper, and Bob all thought they could hear a violin strain weeping though the performance was entirely silent. The clown swept his hand gently over the flower as if to revive it, but it didn't revive, and he sank into a corner sadly and tableaux.

Mr. Cooper applauded quietly.

The clown--Stanley Clange, of course--stood quickly and bowed graciously.

The Dean flatly said, "Master Clange, I want to ask you about your sub-atomic physics paper."

Stanley broke character and got up and bowed professionally. He smiled so sweetly.

The Dean said, "Your physics paper."

At that point Stanley became a normal person just like you and me. He said, "My physics paper?"

"Particle physics. You got a magnificent mark. Your teacher says it beyond anything he's ever read."

"That's good," said Stanley flatly. "So what's the matter?"

"It's quite simple. Cooper here stole it from you almost word for word."

Bob was looking down. The expression he presented to the floor was shame.

Stanley laughed. "Oh boy, you got it all wrong!"

The Dean leaned back. "What do you mean?"

Stanley laughed again, so professionally that everyone in the room--even Bob--had to smile. "He didn't steal it from me."

"No?"

"No! I took his paper, mixed up some of the words, and handed it in! Ha-ha-ha!"

The Dean chuckled. "You can't do something like that, my boy. It's against every academic code since, well, since for a very long time."

"Really? That makes no sense to me. It's not the same words, is it?"

"No; but it's not your ideas either."

"Does that matter?"

"Yes it does. You're being a thief."

"So what? Do you think I make up my routines? I'm imitating others. Those who've come before me. It's known as artistic tradition."

(Remember, everyone is smiling here.)

The Dean said, "It's just not done in academic courses."

"Hey, daddy-o, it's just some bird course, you know."

"Maybe so."

"Bosons for Bozos, we all call it."

"I've heard that. But no, you can't do it. I'm going to have to reduce your mark. I'm going to give you ... a sixty-five."

"What?"

"Sixty-six."

"But it's just science! It's just, like, not creative! You know, this ... scientifistical stuff, it's a bad thing!"

"Enough."

"We're taught that every day in all the other courses!"

"I said enough."

Stanley threw two left fingers under his nose, made a Roman salute with his left arm, and cried, "Yah vole!"

The Dean laughed until tears came to his eyes. "Okay, my boy, enough is enough! get back to class, get out of here, you knucklehead!"

Stanley turned smartly and goose-stepped out.

The Dean got a grip on himself. "Isn't he just too Chaplineque? Brilliant, brilliant!"

Mr. Cooper said, "Let me get this straight. You're not going to expel him?"

"Of course I'm not! I told you, he's one of our best students. It wouldn't be fair."

"Fair, to whom?"

"Don't bother me with details. Just let it be know that in addition to being brilliant, he's a member of the Negaw-zaaga'igani Nitam-Anishinaabe tribe, he's ambidextrous, and I understand he's starting to recover memories. For federal funding, you see. It simply wouldn't be fair, and that should be enough for you." Then he turned to Bob. "You, on the other hand, are most definitely expelled."

Bob cried, "Me? Why me?"

The Dean said, "It's because you're not good enough in your other classes, and because I say so."

Mr. Cooper said, "Now that's not fair, not fair at all."

"Fairness is what I say it is. Pack your things and leave. I'll refund you your tuition and the balance of your room and board. Good afternoon."

"I think you're making a mistake."

"I am not. Look at it this way. Your son belongs with ... scientists. Not with us. I know it's humiliating, but facts are facts. Good day."

Mr. Cooper and his downtrodden son left the Dean's office and went to the latter's dorm where they packed up all his belongings.

Mr. Cooper said, "I think this is for the best. I mean, it appears you're a brilliant physicist."

Bob sighed. "I know, I know. But still."

Everything was packed in the boxes they'd come in. All was ready to go.

"Son, you're going into science now. I know you're disappointed, but there are opportunities there, too."

"You think so?"

"Look at me. I rose from the working class because of my engineering skills. Now I am rich, and free."

"Money doesn't buy freedom."

Mr. Cooper took his son by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

"Yes, it does."

Bob pulled away and looked at the dorm walls. Harlequin posters, old Lautrec pictures, Chaplin. Mr. Cooper said, "You want to create happiness in the world? Build something someone wants."

Bob shrugged. "Let me think it over. I'm not at all clear on any of this. Goodbye, clowns!"

"Let's go get something to eat. Maybe some ice cream."

"Oh God that sounds horrible. Well, I'll tag along anyway. Who knows?"