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Authors: D. Harlan Wilson
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up with me.”
“You also don’t have a graduate degree,” Dale noted. “A man can’t do anything without a graduate degree these days. If you misbehave, they kill you in some cities without one, or at least feed you to a rainforest. Happened to a friend of mine in Synthesizer City. Eddie Horkheimer was his name. Papanazi said the Law caught him philosophizing in public without a Ph.D. They catapulted him over the city walls and a fucking three-headed dinosaur mutilated and devoured him before he even hit the ground. Papanazi caught the whole thing. No shit. I think I might even have a clip of it lying around here somewhere.” He began to dig through the piles of debris that littered his cubapt.
Achtung 66.799 took a swig of Foggy Foggy Dew. The drink billowed into his mouth. “I once knew a guy named Eddie who shaved the hair off of his body and it grew back the wrong way. The hair grew backwards, I mean, inside of his body. Except for his face and scalp. I remember his chest and back was so bushy he looked like a porcupine or something. It was the first time he’d shaved his whole body. Maybe the hairs did it out of revenge. They felt betrayed and weren’t expecting to be offed. Maybe he had some kind of subcutaneous condition. Whatever the reason, eventually the little bastards got so long they strangled and suffocated all of his muscles and internal organs. Once he realized what was going on, he tried to have them surgically removed, but they were too long and there were too many of them. Eddie’s autopsy showed that before he died he was really just a scarecrow, stuffed from neck to ankle in wet black hay. Talk about ingrown hairs.”
Dale looked at him. “Is that true?”
“Does it matter?” Achtung 66.799 hit his bottle until it was empty. “The point is I don’t want to end up like a goddamn scarecrow.”
“What’s a scarecrow got to do with your situation?”
Achtung 66.799 thought about the question. “I don’t know what it has to do with me. It’s just that getting killed by your hair is lousy. That’s all. And I feel lousy. I always feel lousy.”
“Maybe you need a new hobby.” Dale returned to his search for the clip of Eddie Horkheimer’s execution.
“I don’t need a new hobby. I need a lobotomy. I’m sick of thinking about things. All day long, all I do is think about things. My brain’s like a Tasmanian devil in overdrive. And I’m too impulsive. Something pops into my head and I act on it without thinking it through first. I can’t hold down a job, no matter what it is. I don’t have any money, not matter how much I try to save. I never get laid. I’m lonely. I’m ugly. Nobody loves me. I have no prospects or talent. What I’m trying to say is I’m no good. I’m nothing. Oddly enough I’m not suicidal. Still, my life is a stand up routine. What am I gonna do? I can’t afford to be out of work for another hour.”
Dale hated throwing pity parties. They made him uncomfortable to the point of hysteria. So he pretended that his friend wasn’t there. He glanced around his cubapt with a confused expression, as if he might have heard somebody say something but wasn’t sure.
“Dale?” said Achtung 66.799.
Dale opened up a window and stuck out his head. “Who said that? How do you know my name? Answer me!”
Before leaving, Achtung 66.799 filled up a test tube with Sea Monkey powder, added the appropriate chemicals, watched the creatures sprout into existence, and fried them over the Bunsen burner.
Depression. His body hung limply from his jetpack on the flight home. He couldn’t remember feeling worse. Maybe he was suicidal after all. Killing himself would certainly solve his problems. He would be doing the jampacked world a favor, ridding it of an excess body. Plus he would ease his parents’ consciences; in the wake of his death, they no longer had to worry about him being an irretrievable failure. All he had to do was unbuckle his jetpack and he would
“You also don’t have a graduate degree,” Dale noted. “A man can’t do anything without a graduate degree these days. If you misbehave, they kill you in some cities without one, or at least feed you to a rainforest. Happened to a friend of mine in Synthesizer City. Eddie Horkheimer was his name. Papanazi said the Law caught him philosophizing in public without a Ph.D. They catapulted him over the city walls and a fucking three-headed dinosaur mutilated and devoured him before he even hit the ground. Papanazi caught the whole thing. No shit. I think I might even have a clip of it lying around here somewhere.” He began to dig through the piles of debris that littered his cubapt.
Achtung 66.799 took a swig of Foggy Foggy Dew. The drink billowed into his mouth. “I once knew a guy named Eddie who shaved the hair off of his body and it grew back the wrong way. The hair grew backwards, I mean, inside of his body. Except for his face and scalp. I remember his chest and back was so bushy he looked like a porcupine or something. It was the first time he’d shaved his whole body. Maybe the hairs did it out of revenge. They felt betrayed and weren’t expecting to be offed. Maybe he had some kind of subcutaneous condition. Whatever the reason, eventually the little bastards got so long they strangled and suffocated all of his muscles and internal organs. Once he realized what was going on, he tried to have them surgically removed, but they were too long and there were too many of them. Eddie’s autopsy showed that before he died he was really just a scarecrow, stuffed from neck to ankle in wet black hay. Talk about ingrown hairs.”
Dale looked at him. “Is that true?”
“Does it matter?” Achtung 66.799 hit his bottle until it was empty. “The point is I don’t want to end up like a goddamn scarecrow.”
“What’s a scarecrow got to do with your situation?”
Achtung 66.799 thought about the question. “I don’t know what it has to do with me. It’s just that getting killed by your hair is lousy. That’s all. And I feel lousy. I always feel lousy.”
“Maybe you need a new hobby.” Dale returned to his search for the clip of Eddie Horkheimer’s execution.
“I don’t need a new hobby. I need a lobotomy. I’m sick of thinking about things. All day long, all I do is think about things. My brain’s like a Tasmanian devil in overdrive. And I’m too impulsive. Something pops into my head and I act on it without thinking it through first. I can’t hold down a job, no matter what it is. I don’t have any money, not matter how much I try to save. I never get laid. I’m lonely. I’m ugly. Nobody loves me. I have no prospects or talent. What I’m trying to say is I’m no good. I’m nothing. Oddly enough I’m not suicidal. Still, my life is a stand up routine. What am I gonna do? I can’t afford to be out of work for another hour.”
Dale hated throwing pity parties. They made him uncomfortable to the point of hysteria. So he pretended that his friend wasn’t there. He glanced around his cubapt with a confused expression, as if he might have heard somebody say something but wasn’t sure.
“Dale?” said Achtung 66.799.
Dale opened up a window and stuck out his head. “Who said that? How do you know my name? Answer me!”
Before leaving, Achtung 66.799 filled up a test tube with Sea Monkey powder, added the appropriate chemicals, watched the creatures sprout into existence, and fried them over the Bunsen burner.
Depression. His body hung limply from his jetpack on the flight home. He couldn’t remember feeling worse. Maybe he was suicidal after all. Killing himself would certainly solve his problems. He would be doing the jampacked world a favor, ridding it of an excess body. Plus he would ease his parents’ consciences; in the wake of his death, they no longer had to worry about him being an irretrievable failure. All he had to do was unbuckle his jetpack and he would
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