It was around this time that I started to appear in Marcellus’ dreams. At first, I remained in the background, merely watching. Sometimes he would notice me, but I never called attention to myself. For a long time he assumed I was just a creation of his. Such is the nature of dreams. They are driven by emotion. Of course, I could have chosen to appear during the night or even in the light of a waking day. In the past that is, in fact, how we used to communicate with you. But matters have changed. Nowadays, appearing in what many call the real world seems to force you to confront the unsettling question of whether or not you are sane. You don't seem to mind if we speak in your dreams, though. Dreams are, after all, only dreams.
Marcellus used to have terrible dreams. He never spared himself any suffering. There was the torture and other unpleasantness, of course, but he went even further. He’s had dreams where he was chained to his friends, people he knew and loved in the waking world, but as a punishment, not for protection. He had to do whatever they said, and they were cruel to him. I’ve seen him strip himself of his diploma and return himself to high school. Yes, I remember a time when Marcellus dreamed that he was back in kindergarten, a full grown man among children. There he sat on a rubber mat playing with blocks. When he wanted to go to the toilet, he had to take the teacher by the hand.
There were also the demons. I know many people have dreams where they are chased by some hugely threatening presence. But for Marcellus, the chase never seemed to end, and rather than a dark and forbidding landscape, it always took place in the light of day, in familiar places. His friends and family sat calmly by drinking fizzy drinks. They watched him run past in terror, eyes bugging from his head, and clapped their hands.
Of course, Marcellus had other dreams that weren’t so terrible. For instance, there was recurring dream of the tree. Its branches were big and thick and gnarled. Each leaf was as large as a face and the bark soft to the touch, almost warm and furry. He climbed and climbed and no matter how far out on the branches he went, he never seemed to near the end. Sometimes he would drop off and fall tens of meters before landing comfortably on another one. There were other people climbing in the tree, too. They called out to him playfully when he caught sight of them. Marcellus never encountered them face to face, but they often left him notes. In that dream, I was the tree's face, a pair of eyes and ears and a nose embedded in the gnarled bark. It was inevitable that he would notice me. Once, he leaned close and stared perplexed into my eyes, grubby hands digging into my cheeks. He was about to say something. But someone passed by overhead and called out, and I lost him.
The dream I want to tell you about started in an aerodrome. Well, it started somewhere else in the way that dreams usually do (they never seem to have an actual beginning), but at some point the dreamline evolved in such a way that Marcellus was standing in an aerodrome. He was at the gate, ready to board. A crowd of people was present. All the seats were filled. Yet more people were standing, blocking the aisles, crammed in, hoping for a place on the next flight. Others were queued up at the desk, quarreling with the attendants. Marcellus was standing somewhere in the middle, dressed in a crisp, grey suit and carrying a briefcase. He had on glasses, the thin rims of which kept falling down his nose. A wide, curving glass window closed them in on one side. Outside should have been the launch pad, but for some reason the glass looked out on a disco instead. It was dark on the other side, but people dancing wildly could be seen among the flashing lights.
The people were all engaged in their various activities. Some had a newspaper or a magazine open in their laps. Others, mostly children, were hunched over their PA's, gripping them tightly, assaulting them with their thumbs. Others, mostly adults, were holding their PA’s casually in one hand against their mouths and speaking, or pressing them against an ear, straining to hear over everyone else, or tapping them with electronic pens. One woman had her children on a leash. In the corner, two young boys were wrestling with a Great Dane. There were other animals, too. Cats, parrots, even a bearded, young man carrying a huge, glass tank. Inside were some brightly colored fish, plastic plants, and a sunken ship, but no water.
All of them were looking at Marcellus, even the fish.
Behind the desk there was an animated black sign with bright, red, neon-looking letters. Words flashed across it.
An automated voice came over the loudspeaker. “Will Mr. Gyges please step forward into the security zone.”
Marcellus had to think quickly. “I’m not dressed properly,” he squeaked, looking down at his crisp dress shoes and then shooting a glance through the glass. It was true. But he also knew that somewhere inside that briefcase, among other, unspecified items, was a microchip with over three million in credits stashed on it. He wasn’t entirely sure where it had come from, but he knew he shouldn't have it. If he stepped into the security zone, they’d find it and start asking questions. He certainly had no answers.
At once the words flashing on the sign became clear. “HAND IT OVER.”
“Does anyone have suitable clothing they would like to lend Mr. Gyges?” the automated voice asked. Automated voices are supposed to lack emotion. After all, they are computer generated. But Marcellus couldn’t help but sense impatience in this one.
At once a slew of people began burrowing through their hand baggage. A young girl near him pulled out a pink, ballerina dress with lots of fluff. “Mommy, can I give this to the poor man?” she asked the woman sitting next to her.
“What will I do with my briefcase?” Marcellus protested.
More words flashed across the sign. “YOU CAN’T MAKE THE BRIEFCASE DISAPPEAR,” it told him.
Marcellus, shrugging, squeezed the briefcase, and as he expected it shrank to the size of a peanut.
A line of people was now presenting him with various articles of clothing, none of which seemed likely to fit him.
“TAKE THE GREEN PANTS,” the sign suggested to him.
“Do they have any tabs?” Marcellus asked as he pulled off his pants. “I can only dance if I’m on something,” he explained.
The automated voice answered him. “Tabs will be handed out free of charge once you are inside.”
As he was reaching for the green pants, someone pulled them away. In fact, all the clothing they were offering disappeared. Even his grey suit was nowhere to be found.
“How can I enter the security zone if I’m not wearing the green pants?” Marcellus complained bitterly, standing completely naked and not the least bit ashamed.
The voice on the loudspeaker answered him again. “You’ll only sweat in there if you’re wearing the green pants.”
Marcellus saw the logic in that.
The sign flashed at him again. “TWO PLUS TWO IS FOUR.”
That’s true. He had forgotten about that.
In his hands he was holding two, peanut-sized briefcases. Damn! he thought to himself. Which is the one with the money in it?
“Where’s the toilet?” he asked an elderly gentleman wearing an old-fashioned hat with a narrow brim.
The elderly man told him.
“I’m going for a splash,” he told the people behind the desk. But actually he was thinking he would look inside the briefcases. Maybe they both contained a microchip.
“Please hurry, Mr. Gyges,” the automated voice exhorted him. “You might loose your turn.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Marcellus said, already retreating from the glass and the crowd and the desk and the sign with words flashing at his back. “DON’T FORGET TO FLUSH.”
Now the scenery was changing. He didn’t seem to be in an aerodrome anymore. He was wearing clothes again, although not the grey suit. The peanut sized briefcases were gone. What a relief! They had only caused him incessant worrying anyway.
The glasses slid down his nose. When he reached to push them up, he noticed they were gone, too.
He was walking in a forest, still looking for the toilet. It must be somewhere up ahead. The thought was still present in his mind that he would have to get back quickly if he wanted to get his turn in the security zone. He never imagined the security zone could be so much fun! He had heard horrible stories about what people had to go through before they could get on a ship. No one told him there was a party first.
Looking around through the tall trees, he wasn’t sure he was going the right way. But when he turned to go back he saw following him the woman with her children on a leash and the man with the fish tank. The woman had grown a bit fatter and the leash had acquired several arms. The kids at the end of them were running in circles around her. Somehow, to Marcellus’ eyes she looked like a huge octopus.
The young man with the fish tank was wearing Marcellus’ glasses.
“Hey!” Marcellus called out. “I need those!” He stopped in his tracks and waited for the young man to catch up.
“What for?” I called back.
“How else am I going to find the toilet?”
“What do you want the toilet for anyway?” I asked, coming to a stop in front of him. The octopus woman passed us off to the left. She was making strange snorting noises.
Marcellus seemed about to respond but recalled he didn’t have the peanut-sized briefcases anymore.
“Can I put this down now?” I asked.
“Why are you asking me?”
“It’s your dream.”
A strange look passed over his face.
To my relief, the huge fish tank with the brightly colored fish was suddenly out of my hands and lying next to a nearby tree. There was water in it now. The fish seemed inordinately pleased. “You never know when you’re dreaming,” I told him.
“I know you from somewhere,” Marcellus remarked casually.
“You want to sit under a tree? It’s nice here. You did a good job.”
Marcellus looked around at the scenery as if noticing it for the first time. The trees were tall, the trunks narrow, the branches thin and very high up. The air was warm and the ground covered by a thick carpet of yellow and red leaves. There was a pleasant breeze. Somewhere high above the sun was shining.
I sat down next to the fish tank. After a moment, Marcellus joined me.
“I think the octopus woman is going to get to the toilet before I do and then I’ll have to wait,” Marcellus remarked sullenly. “Did you see all those children she had with her?”
“Forget about her. I’m glad we're finally talking.”
He looked at me quizzically. “Why didn’t you ever say anything before?”
“You had to talk to me first. That’s the way it works.”
“What works?”
“I’m an angel, Marcellus.”
“Oh,” Marcellus said sullenly. He was still thinking about the toilet.
I smiled. “Not a very impressive one, perhaps.”
“Where are your wings?” he asked, reaching for the glasses.
I took them off my face and handed them to him. “Angels don't have wings,” I told him.
“Oh,” Marcellus said again and put the glasses on. “They always paint them like that.”
“Only people who haven't seen angels would do that, Marcellus. Look at me.”
And he did. His eyes, peering through the glasses, turned my way, but what he saw wasn’t the bearded, young man who had been carrying the fish tank.
The eyes widened. Marcellus gasped. Instinctively, he drew back and banged his head against the tree trunk. The glasses were jarred and fell from his face.
Marcellus looked at me again. It was just the young man. He looked at the glasses lying innocently on the ground, half-buried in the leaves.
“I don’t think you’ll be needing these anymore,” I told him. I reached out and picked them up, folded them, and tucked them neatly into a pocket.
“Pretty cool,” Marcellus breathed. Now when he looked at me I could tell he wasn’t thinking about the toilet anymore.
“I need to talk to you, Marcellus,” I told him.
“What about?”
“You are going to become powerful.”
Marcellus’ face instantly brightened. “Really?” he asked. He seemed like a small child who had been told he wouldn’t have to go to school anymore.
“Yes, Marcellus. You have the ring.”
Marcellus fell silent. His eyes turned away.
“You thought you could hide it from me?”
He shrugged. “The ring will make me powerful?”
“You know it will! But what I mean is that you will be the most powerful person in the world.”
“President of the United States?”
I nodded.
A greedy grin spread over his face. “I knew it!” he exclaimed, slapping his knee.
“You will have half the world at your command, Marcellus. It will be your greatest challenge.”
“Why not all of it?” he asked petulantly.
I shrugged. “That’s the way it will be.”
“You can see the future?”
“There is no future,” I told him.
“No future?”
“There are only possibilities. There is no past, either. Only actualities.”
Marcellus sneered at me. “What a load of crap.” He thought for a moment. “Why will it be a challenge?”
“Because having power always is. It's a challenge for your soul. What do you want with all this power, Marcellus?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Does it matter?”
I didn’t answer. I decided to grow bigger. Slowly at first but then more quickly, I grew and expanded. Marcellus had to scamper out of the way to avoid being crushed. I grew so big the tree behind me was pushed over and crashed to the ground.
“Everybody wants power!” he shouted up in the way of an excuse.
Still, I didn’t answer. I just kept growing. Now Marcellus had to run. At first he tried to shout something up at me, but I was growing so quickly that eventually all he could do was concentrate on pumping his legs as fast as he could. In the background and all around him he could hear the trees falling.
On the way, he passed the octopus woman with her eight children on a leash. Marcellus was going to warn her, shout to her that she should pay attention to what was going on around her, but just as he was about to open his mouth he fell to the ground.
Cringing, he closed his eyes tight and waited to be crushed. But the moment never came. When he opened them again, he found himself staring at the ceiling above his bed.
Samuel Judas Epstein was not happy with his pulled pork sandwich. He thought it was lacking gusto. Or whatever it is they call it down in Texas. “Goddamn it,” he cursed and threw his napkin on the floor. “Betty!” he roared. “Goddamn it, Betty!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and pushed his chair back.
Betty appeared from the east entrance, dressed in a cute, little maid's outfit. “What is it, Red?” she asked matter-of-factly, pointing her perky little breasts at him.
“This here pork sandwich don’t taste right. I wanted me a good, old fashioned, Maryland pulled pork sandwich, straight down the line, just like I asked. But what I got here – ” he shoved the plate away from him. “I mean, it looks like a Maryland pulled pork sandwich. Damn it, it even smells like one! Course, just cause a chicken got wings don’t mean it can fly.” Epstein snorted and banged his fist on the side of the plate. It flew in the air, spilling its contents all over the table and the floor. When it landed, the plate didn’t break, but it spent some time rolling about before finally deciding on a good spot to settle.
Betty and Epstein both watched until the plate ceased twirling. “Should I clean that up, Red?” Betty asked, methodically whipping a fresh cloth out from one of the many pockets of her apron.
“I want me a Maryland pork pulled sandwich and to hell with that flux on a hot plate!”
Betty returned the cloth to its proper place and promptly withdrew.
Samuel Judas Epstein, President of the United States, Father of the Country, Lord of the Americas, Protector of the Northern Provinces, etc, etc – in short, the most powerful human being in the world – was a dwarfish, red-haired, gruff looking fellow who grew up on a farm in Texas. Of course, he didn’t look like a Jew. He had a fat, round face, a big beard, green eyes, and flapping ears. He didn’t sound like a Jew, either. I think you’ve heard him speaking. But his mother was a Jew, and that made him one, too.
Epstein was alone only a few moments before the Dutchman slipped in through the west entrance, pressing a notebook tightly against his chest. The Dutchman was tall and lean, lanky like a pile of sticks. He had light, Aryan features, wavy hair, and a condescending, know-it-all attitude towards the rest of the world. He wore round, wire-rim glasses. The eyes behind were glassy and withdrawn. He looked like an accountant, or someone you could buy insurance from.
“Where have you been?” Epstein exclaimed. “Get over here!” Epstein drew out a chair and patted the seat with thick, stubby fingers. His own chair was cushioned with soft, purple velvet and had exceptionally long legs. Otherwise, hardly more than his head would have been visible above the tabletop.
The Dutchman scuttled over to the long, rectangular, neatly polished wooden table, on the way glancing briefly at the mess on the floor. He chose a chair two seats away from Epstein, dug a pencil out of the notebook’s binder, and started scribbling.
“Still puny feeling?”
The Dutchman handed him a card. Epstein glanced at it and threw it to the floor. “Soon you’ll be feeling fit as a fiddle.” He scowled. “I hope.” They had conducted a scan of the Dutchman's brain. Technically, there was nothing wrong. Every connection that should be firing was crackling away. Then, more loudly: “Tell me about those kids in Casper.”
The Dutchman handed him another card. This one was laminated.
Epstein studied it a moment. Flipping it over and studying the back side, he muttered absently, “You get these specially made or something?” When he finished scanning the card, he breathed out in dissatisfaction. “Is that all you could dig up?” He rubbed his bottom lip. “They talk like it makes people do whatever you say. Laws knows I could use something like that.”
The Dutchman leaned forward and pointed with his pencil at tiny writing near the bottom of the card.
“What's that?” Epstein rasped, peering intently. “Oh, yes, well, I'm not surprised. But if you can think of any other reason you're tongue's tied, tell me now.” He leaned back and winked. “You're German. You only believe in what you can put your two hands on or deposit in a bank account. But my time on this Earth has taught me that – well, you can never believe in anything too much. Or too little.”
The Dutchman scribbled furiously and thrust another card at him.
Epstein, pushing the one he had been holding aside, plucked the new one from pasty, bony fingers. “If you say so. Still, German, Dutch – it's the same as fatty pork and bacon if you ask me.” Noting the tightly pressed lips and the deepening scowl, Epstein burst out laughing, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Lighten up, Dutchie! Can't you ever stop being so darned serious? I'm just having a little fun! I know perfectly well that the Netherlands and Germany are two different provinces somewhere on the North Sea.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of one of the walls. “Harvey tells me they pay their tribute in cheese, pickles, and automobiles and they pay it on time, to the hour of the day. Anyway, see what else you can find in the intel. If that plug-ugly Chief Justice is hell-bent on getting his grubby little dick beaters on that ring, I want it, too, whatever it does or doesn't do. In the meantime, make sure those kids stay right where they are in Casper now that we know where they all are! What else you got in that stack of cards?”
The Dutchman's scowl lightened, although it never left his face entirely. He fished around in his notebook and handed him another card. Epstein dropped the one he had been holding to the floor. “What's this? Ah, the daily brief!” He smacked his lips enthusiastically. “Let's see, what have we here?” His eyes flitted across the list of names and the brief comments that accompanied them. As he did so, the smile began to fade, a process that accelerated as he continued towards the bottom. “This is all bad news, Dutchie,” he growled and looked up. “Doesn't stand up next to yesterday's brief.” The green eyes narrowed slightly. “Care to explain it?”
The Dutchman betrayed not even the slightest hint of fear. Of all his servants, he was the only one who had never lost his composure in front of him, and there was a good reason for it. The only threat to Epstein's position aside from a frenzied mob and the military (considerable in themselves) came from the intelligence services. They had a proven knack for assassinating Presidents they didn't like, as Murrough's unfortunate son quickly discovered.
The Dutchman scribbled for a moment in his notebook and pointed.
Epstein grunted. “I don't buy it. The FBI and the CIA hate republicanism almost as much as I do. They know darn well they can't hold a myriad of committee heads in thrall, but a single man –” He snorted loudly. “Now that's a bird of a different feather, ain't it?” He studied the card a few moments longer, tapping it impatiently with one of his stubby fingers. “Gessus is getting too comfortable,” he concluded. “He popped out of his mamma's belly first, but Gessus ought to take a page from his little brother's book. The House has never been so obedient! It's Gessus' responsibility to keep these troublemakers in line! I haven't had a Senator injected in – what? – ten years at least. Now it turns out I've got a few wolves mixed up in that flock of sheep.”
The Dutchman pointed helpfully to a different page in his notebook. After a moment, Epstein started shaking his head. “That dog won't hunt, Dutchie. This is a freemocracy, not Communism or a Fascist dictatorship! It's the details that set us apart. Now look, I understand you're trying to be helpful, and I appreciate it, I really do, but no indiscriminate, mass executions, and that's final.” He paused. “Right. So everyone on that list – Senators, their dependents, the ones frequenting these un-American, clandestine meetings in the wee hours of the night – how many?”
The Dutchman pointed and pointed again. Epstein whistled. “It's more than I thought. And that's just the ones you know about.” Epstein leaned back and thumped his fist on the table. “Round them up, Dutchie! Do it cautiously, do it quietly, but by Jingo I want all of those unreconstructed taken care of. When the war’s over, I don’t want to hear about no demonstrations, no strikes, no blocked aerodromes, no none of that crap. It'd be like going back to the old days.”
The Dutchman pursed his lips a moment before jotting down a question.
“I’ll let you worry about that,” Epstein told him dismissively. “Declare them mods and call in Population Control if you have to. Coordinate with Tina. Don’t make a mess of it. What else?”
The Dutchman showed him.
“The President of Poland? Planning on making a trip all the way here, to personally apply for an interview?” Epstein scowled. “Harvey tells me they have a Prime Minister over there!” Epstein pounded his fist on the table for emphasis.
The Dutchman nodded vigorously and wrote something down.
“Don’t apologize,” Epstein said sternly as he read it. “If I’m wrong it’s your duty to correct me. But what do I need to see the President of Poland for? He got advanced propulsion systems?”
The Dutchman shook his head.
“He got water? Wheat?”
Again, the Dutchman shook his head.
“Then let him waste someone else’s time! Harvey'll deal with him. Tell him there’s a war on in case he didn't know it and we need more – what in Laws name do they make over there anyway?” A brief pause. “Vodka? Anything else?” Another pause. “Civilian aircraft.” Epstein thought for a moment. “Have Harvey tell him if he wants to keep on being President of Poland he'll stop stirring up trouble where there's none wanted. We're keeping the Russians off his back. Look what happened to the rest of Eastern Europe! Tell Harvey to tell him he ought to be thankful. If he wants – hell, I'll tell Harvey myself. What else?”
The Dutchman handed him another card.
“That’s more than last month.” Epstein shook his head. “Gosh darn it, I hate it when our boys have to shoot those people. Ain’t got no water down in Mexico. I understand that. Hell, they ain’t got no water in Europe either now the glaciers over the Alps done melted, but they don’t try and sneak in here on rafts like a pack of sea rats, do they?” Epstein tapped a pudgy, hairy finger on the table. “Word of this get out?”
The Dutchman shook his head.
“Keep it that way! Arrest the witnesses. And let’s see if we can’t shore up those fences. I don’t want any more of them darned critters squirming through. Use the sharpshooters if you have to. And get President Alicante on the vid. Patch her through to Tina. She's got to stop these people from their side, understand? Alright then. Anything else?”
The Dutchman shoved another card in front of him. This one was laminated as well.
“The moon,” Epstein read, picking up the card and dropping the last one to the floor. “By all the bells of Jezebel, why didn't you mention this earlier? This is big as all hell and half of Texas! It says here they're mining on our side of the line!”
The Dutchman urgently scratched his notebook with his pencil and showed what he had written to his boss.
Epstein shook his head patiently. “It’s not just about the copper, Dutchie. It's the principle of the matter! If we let the Chinese get away with this, mark my words, the Russians will follow. Before you know it, we’ll be squeezed out of the best spots.”
The Dutchman pointed again. Epstein looked and smiled. “Yeah, just like we did to the Indians. Are they still up there? Gave ‘em a real Texas licking is what we did.” Epstein chuckled softly to himself. The laughter quickly faded, though, and when he spoke next his voice had lowered a notch. “Too bad Margolis is dead. I need him now more than ever. Dependable! Reliable! Not a treasonous bone in his body. You ever figure out what happened to him?”
The Dutchman shook his head.
“Puts me in an awful bind. Munib is the obvious choice, but he's on his way to Teheran, which is good for me because I won't have to make any excuses about not sending him. Whoever is master of the moon is master here on earth, and I certainly don't want that to be Munib. He's too popular. And I don't trust him! I reckon I'll have to send one of the other generals.” Epstein, stroking his beard absently, leaned back and started thinking aloud. “Steiner is in Belize. Sokolawski would be perfect, but he's tied up near Helicarnassus somewhere. You know, every time he's faced Mancini in a pitched battle he's won, but that Mancini, he's like foot fungus, he just keeps coming back. The Mediterranean Union is lucky to have him. He's the only man of quality they have. Course, we can't match their naval strength. That's the real problem. I'm getting off track, aren't I?” Suddenly he began to shout. “I refuse to be humbugged a second time by a bunch of straight-haired rice-eaters! Bunch of knucks. Every last one of ‘em! Ever meet one you could trust?”
The Dutchman scribbled a name down.
Epstein grunted when he saw it. “He’s the worst of all. Which reminds me – ” He lowered his voice again, because the door to the east entrance suddenly opened. Betty came in bearing a steaming plate. “Oh, it’s just Betty,” Epstein said reassuringly in plain tones.
“That’s right, just Betty,” she repeated, walking towards him. She was wearing an oven mitt.
Epstein smiled. “You know I love you, Betty,” he told her slyly.
“You ought to, Red.” Betty set the plate down next to him. “Be careful, it’s hot.”
“I want to apologize.”
“What for?” she asked, eyes twinkling appreciatively.
“What I said a few minutes ago. It ain’t right. Cussing in the presence of a lady.”
Betty rolled her eyes. “Red, there’s nothing you could say I haven’t heard already.”
“Well, it ain’t right,” Epstein repeated earnestly. “Having a hissy-fit because the food’s off. Makes me a big old yahoo is what it does. And in the presence of a lady.”
Betty flushed and batted her eyebrows at him. “Don’t embarrass me in front of the Dutchman here. Anyway, I’m not so soft as all that. Maybe you think all I’m fit for is serving food and cleaning up after you.”
“Now Betty –”
“Let me finish, Red. I’m educated. It’s not for lack of brains I’m stuck wearing this apron. And if I had a few hundred million, I guarantee I’d be your ambassador to Brazil instead of chief dog robber.” She winked at the Dutchman.
“Chief dog robber?” Epstein repeated, confused. Then: “Are you insinuating people pay me – ”
“What I’m insinuating, Red, is I’ve been around a while. What is it you say? This ain’t my first rodeo.”
Epstein beamed with pride. “That’s my girl,” he whispered.
“You’re wife wants to see you,” Betty told him, removing the oven mitt and heading for the door. When Epstein didn’t say anything, she stopped and turned. “What should I tell her?”
“You mean she’s here?”
Betty nodded.
Epstein looked like he wanted to curse, but he threw a glance at Betty and bit his lip. “Okay, fine!” he hollered. “Give us five minutes.”
Betty turned and left.
“That girl is so pretty I’d pay twenty credits to sleep with her brother.” Epstein murmured under his breath, still staring at the doorway. “See that ass, Dutchie?”
The Dutchman pushed a card in his direction.
Epstein glanced at it. “Guess you’re not an ass man,” he grated. “Fine, fine, like you say, back to business. Where were we at?”
The Dutchman pointed.
“Right! Xiling, that sorry cat-snatcher. Crooked as a dog’s hind leg! He’s got something up his sleeve. You had that girl bugged after you interrogated her?”
The Dutchman nodded vigorously. He gestured vaguely towards his head.
“Ah, the newest technology,” Epstein said approvingly. “So we’ll hear and see everything she does?”
The Dutchman indicated yes and no.
“Well, which is it?” Epstein rasped impatiently.
The Dutchman scribbled for a moment.
“I see,” he said when he looked at the card. It fell to the floor where it joined the growing pile. “Point is, we’ll know what they’re fixing to do. And when they’re fixing to do it! Which is more than I can say about Xiling!” He threw a mean glance in the Dutchman's direction. “What’d you say her name is?”
The Dutchman flipped to an earlier page in his notebook and showed him.
Epstein shook his head. “It don’t take a genius to spot a goat in a flock a sheep. Those kids don’t have the tarned chip, do they?”
The Dutchman shook his head.
“None of ‘em?”
The Dutchman shook his head again.
“What did I send you to Venezuela for?” Epstein exclaimed. “To trade beads with the natives?”
The Dutchman explained.
“Humph. You got to stay on top of these things, Dutchie. That’s what I pay you for!”
The Dutchman apologized and told him it wouldn’t happen again.
“Okay then.” Epstein glanced at the notebook. “Says here her name is Maya Sanchez, but now the database reads Sheila Holloway. What’s that all about?”
The Dutchman shrugged.
“I’ll tell you what it’s about. Xiling got somebody to swap the records! That’s what. And they’re moving around, I see. Buying groceries, going to the sim. Got ID cards. Where’d they come from?”
The Dutchman didn’t respond.
“I'll tell you. Xiling again. And he don’t give two figs about nobody except himself. No reason for him to go out of his way like this now he has the chip back. I know you ain't inclined to believe it, but those Justices over at Supreme are stranger than cat stew. Maybe there really is something to this ring.”
At that moment, the door at the west entrance opened. Looking up, Epstein saw his wife standing in the doorway. He grimaced and swallowed. “Time to skedaddle,” he murmured to the Dutchman and gestured with his fingers.
The Dutchman calmly put his pencil back in the notebook, stood up, and scampered towards the door. But the long, dark, graceful shape occupying it didn’t move. He stood awkwardly to the side, waiting for a chance to slip past.
Epstein would have crossed himself had he been a Catholic. “Hi, honey,” he croaked, and forced a smile.
Jennifer had a clean, shaved pussy with a line of hair across the top like a little hat over her clitoris. He loved to lick it and play with it before he fucked it. But truth be told, it pleased him far more than it did Jennifer, and they both knew it. She groaned and cried out when she was expected to, but it was never very convincingly. Afterwards, they would lie in the rumpled bed, smoking cigarettes, and Jennifer would fix up her hair. On this particular day, Marcellus lay staring up at the ceiling, feeling peaceful and alert. “I was thinking,” he said suddenly, reaching out an arm and ashing his butt, “when we get to Washington, you can be my chief political adviser.”
Jennifer, sat leaning on a heap of pillows, a clip hanging out of her mouth. She wanted to reply, but it would have fallen and got lost in the bed somewhere.
“You hear me?”
Somehow, she managed to pull the pin from her mouth without letting all her hair down. “Yeah, thanks, Markie.” She smiled at him reassuringly.
“Too bad that TV ad didn’t go over so well,” Marcellus remarked, taking a heavy drag off his cigarette.
Jennifer perked up. That had been her idea. “Well,” she replied quickly, “we didn’t know you can't use the ring that way.”
“Made me look ridiculous is what it did,” Marcellus told her. Suddenly, he laughed. “So what? There’s nobody in this fucking state. We’ll ride around Casper in a van with a loudspeaker and tell everyone to vote for me. How much time we got?”
“A month,” Jennifer told him, retrieving her cigarette from the ashtray at her side. The filter was coated with a thin layer of lipstick.
“That’s plenty,” he told himself, staring back up at the ceiling. He lay quietly for a while.
Jennifer stopped playing with her hair and picked up glossy magazine.
“What am I running as again?”
“What, dear?” Jennifer mumbled, sounding distracted as she flipped through the pages.
“What party do I belong to?” he repeated, his voice growing slightly steely.
Jennifer looked up from the magazine, blinking her eyelashes at him disarmingly. “Democrat.”
“Oh,” he said and returned his attention to the ceiling. “Does it matter?”
“Not really. But the Democrats have a majority.”
“What am I running for again? Representative? I forgot.”
“Senator. Remember what I told you? We'll only have to cover Casper and the rest of the state as well.” Softening up a bit, she leaned over and put a hand on his chest. “Why all the questions, Markie?” she purred. “Everything’s going to be fine. Just leave it to me.”
“I am, Jen,” Marcellus replied, putting out his cigarette. “I’m just curious.”
She leaned over and kissed him. After that they didn’t speak anymore.
Next to the bed was the door to the bathroom. Crammed inside between the close, white walls and the glaring light were Jango, Maya, and Icarus. Icarus was kneeling by the door leading to Marcellus’ room, head pressed against it. Maya, wearing a white sweater with a large collar, was standing behind him, arms folded. Jango, feeling claustrophobic, was next to her, leaning on the counter. He looked decidedly grumpy. The long strands of his thinning hair hung unimpeded around his neck. Another door, this one open, beckoned to him. Through it could be seen the hallway. Behind them all gaped the mirror. Because of it, Jango felt as if there were not three but six people in the tiny room.
“What are they saying now?” Maya pressed, tapping a foot impatiently on the floor.
Icarus listened a moment longer. Then he leaned back and looked up. “Nothing. I don’t know, I think they’re – ” But he let the sentence hang.
“You think they’re what?”
“You know,” Icarus replied sheepishly and blushed.
Jango chuckled. “You're getting off on it, you little fucker.”
Icarus stood up and brushed off his black pants.
“I don’t like it,” Maya said decisively to no one in particular.
“You don’t like what?” Icarus asked.
“I don’t like her being in there. I don’t trust her.”
“You think she’ll turn him against us?”
Jango snorted. “Not me. We go way back, Marcellus and me.”
Maya glanced at Icarus, who was trying to stifle a smile. “What?” she asked.
“You ever see a movie called Miller’s Crossing?” he asked.
“A movie?” Jango frowned.
“Yeah, it’s old shit.”
Jango shrugged. “What of it?”
“Never mind. Anyway, the point is, if she’s smart enough and she’s in a position to do it, she could fuck us all. That’s a fact.”
“Jennifer’s not that smart,” Maya retorted.
“I’m just saying.”
An uncomfortable silence followed.
Icarus finally broke it. “You really think she’s got some angle?”
Maya sighed. “No. And if she does, she won't be able to pull it off. But she’s got pillow talk, which means we have to be careful.”
“You’re afraid of pillow talk?” Icarus said incredulously, looking confused.
“It’s easier to work a guy just after he’s cum,” Maya explained.
“Work him?”
“Yeah, you know.” Maya shrugged. “Well, maybe you don’t.” She exchanged an amused smile with Jango.
The day before they had all gone down to Pathfinder reservoir in Jango’s truck, hauling a speedboat. None of them owned the speedboat. They had driven around Casper until they found one they liked and then Marcellus knocked on the door and told the owner he was going to lend it to them for the day.
They had intended to discuss election strategy. Jennifer spent most of the ride babbling on about Republicans and Democrats and trying to explain the differences between the two. No one else could get a word in. Of course, once they got on the water, all Jango and Marcellus wanted to do was race up and down the lake in the boat. They found some waterskis inside. Neither of them had ever been on skis before, but it didn't really matter. They drove the boat wildly in zig-zags, toppling each other into the water and switching turns at the wheel. They had a blast. Jennifer sat in the back of the boat, pouting. No one was listening to her. Even worse, her hair and makeup were being spoiled by the incessant spray. At one point she wanted to be let off, but Jango made it clear that if she wanted to reach the shoreline, she’d have to swim.
They tried to get Icarus to give it a shot, too. But Icarus was afraid. He wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Maya, though, was willing. Jango drove. He started out slowly. Marcellus kept yelling back to her, asking if she was alright. She was fine. In fact, she was giggling. Then Jango started easing the boat faster, until suddenly she stumbled and fell face first in the water. It looked like a hard fall. They circled around to her, but when they pulled her into the boat, face red and sore, she laughed and eagerly asked to go again.
“So what are we going to do about it?” Icarus asked.
“Do about what?” Maya replied, frowning.
“Jennifer!”
“We could kill her,” Jango suggested blithely.
Icarus made a face at him. “Ha ha ha.” But Jango wasn’t smiling.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Maya told him.
“Maybe it will work itself out,” Icarus said.
Maya shook her head. “He was after her for months and she just toyed with him. Now he’s got the ring and she changed her tune. She’s not going to end it.”
“He could end it.”
Maya made a face. “Maybe.”
“We could encourage him.”
“How?”
Jango spoke up. “That’s easy. The only reason she’s in there is because he wanted her so long. After a while he’ll get bored. All we have to do is make sure there’s somebody tasty around.”
“Who?” Icarus asked.
“I don’t know who!” Jango snapped.
“I was just asking.”
“Yeah, well, stop asking.”
At that moment, the door to Marcellus’ room swung open. Jennifer, naked and drawing on a cigarette, stood in the doorway. She shrieked when she saw them and slammed it shut again.
“Great,” Maya muttered to herself.
“She’s got a nice body,” Jango observed dryly.
“It’s the head attached to it that’s the problem,” Icarus replied.
The door swung open again. Jennifer had thrown on Marcellus’ shorts and a T-shirt. “Goddamnit, Icarus!” she screeched, advancing on him. “I knew it! I told Markie but he wouldn’t believe me. You think I can’t hear you moving around in here?”
Icarus, looking sheepishly around, gestured imploringly at Maya and Jango. “Christ, Jen. I’m not the only one in here!”
Jennifer advanced further. Icarus backed towards the hallway door. “Don’t try and blame it on them.”
Jango grinned. “It was his idea,” he said, tucking a thumb behind his shiny belt buckle.
“I knew it!” Jennifer hollered accusingly as Icarus fled. She stood in the doorway, drawing heavily on her cigarette, watching him go. It was only when Jango put a hand on her shoulder and moved her brusquely aside that she returned to her senses.
Maya was eyeing Jennifer critically, arms still folded and standing in the center of the bathroom.
Jennifer forced a smile. “See what I have to put up with?” she quipped.
“Mark doesn’t care about what went on in here?” Maya asked, moving towards the bedroom.
In a flash, Jennifer maneuvered herself into the doorway and blocked her.
Maya, annoyed, stopped short. “What’s the matter?” she demanded, tossing back her long, straight hair and putting her hands on her hips.
“Markie’s sleeping,” Jennifer told her coolly.
“You shouldn’t smoke so much,” Maya told her plainly.
Jennifer raised her eyebrows. “Oh?” she said, pulling on the cigarette. Maya watched silently as the ember at its end glowed harshly.
“We aren’t anything like each other, are we?” Jennifer asked, nonchalantly blowing smoke in Maya’s face.
“No, we aren’t,” Maya replied, recoiling bitterly.
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.