Dyscountopia (15 page)

“You want to die.”

“I don’t!” the mayor proclaimed.
 
“But I’m not afraid of it!”

“Here,” Albert read.
 
“Take my gun…”

The mayor lowered his script.
 
“No.
 
No, no, no, no, no!
 
You have to say it with passion, Albert!
 
Here
, take my gun!
 
You see – then you thrust the gun at me, at once reluctant and unhesitating!
 
This is a battle of wills, Albert!
 
Two promethean giants locking horns!
 
Once again….”

“Here, take my….”

“Take what?
 
I don’t see it!
 
You aren’t offering me anything, Albert.”

Albert sighed.
 
“Here.”
 
He pulled the hard rubber revolver from his shoulder holster and offered it to the mayor as if it was a pepperoni pizza.
 
“Take my gun.
 
Don’t nibble on the barrel.
 
Pull the trigger.”

The mayor rolled his eyes.
 
“That won’t do at all.
 
Not at
all,
Albert.
 
You’ve got to get
inside
Sergeant Murtaugh.
 
You have to really understand his inner components.
 
You have to
be
him.
 
Think about it – you’ve just turned fifty, you been assigned a new partner whom you don’t care for and whom is quite possibly mentally ill.
 
He’s just jumped from the roof of a building with a prisoner – quite unorthodox – and you’re thinking,
I’m too old for this shit
.
 
Now, say it with me, Albert --
I’m too old for this shit.
”

“I really don’t….”

“Come on.
 
I’m too old for this shit.
”

“I don’t think….”

“
I’m too old for this shit.
”

“Couldn’t we just….”

“
I’m too old for this shit.
”

Albert sighed.
 
“I’m too old for this shit.”

“That’s it,” urged the mayor, sensing a breakthrough.
 
“Once again.
 
I’m too old for this shit.
”

“I’m too old for this shit.”

“I’m too old for this shit.”

“I’m too old for this shit.”

“Wonderful.
 
Wonderful!”
 
The mayor clapped his hands together.
 
“Bravo!
 
Now, once more from the top....”

“I have to use the bathroom,” said Albert.

The mayor frowned at him.
 
“Fine, whatever – just outside, the first tent on the left.
 
Hurry back, Albert.
 
Oh, and Albert.”
 
Albert halted in mid-retreat, glancing guiltily over his shoulder.
 
“Please don’t cross me, Albert.
 
You won’t like what happens if you do.”

Albert swallowed and nodded.
 
He exited stage-left, crossed out of the stifling circus tent and stalked swiftly across the compound, wiping the shoe polish from his face with the back of his jacket sleeve.
 
He stalked directly past the first tent on his left, approached the tire wall, scaled to the top of it, swung his legs over and jumped to freedom.

It took him the better part of the afternoon to re-locate Dr. Zayus’ hovel in the hustle and the bustle of Rooftown, and when he finally arrived there, he was very angry to say the least.
 
Dr. Zayus lay peacefully in his giant bean-bag, eyes glazed, a makeshift marijuana pipe constructed from a withered apple core lying smoking in his lap.
 
Albert kicked the side of the chair very hard several times, showering the Doctor in a Styrofoam flurry.
 
When the Doctor came to, he didn’t seem surprised at all to see the runaway slave hovering over him.

“Oh, Albert – did you forget something?
 
You’d better hurry back home.
 
The mayor will be worried sick.”

“You sunavabitch.”

“Hey, listen now.
 
Let’s not start name-calling.”

Albert gave the chair another sharp kick.
 
“You sold me into slavery!”

The Doctor cleared his throat.
 
“Well, now, technically Albert, you were a slave from the first moment I claimed you as salvage, back at the crash site.
 
Remember – I called dibs.
 
Don’t you remember?
 
Dibs!”
 
He shouted the word to simulate the original event.
 
“No, I suppose you were still unconscious.”

“Screw you.”

“Listen, Albert, I don’t make the rules, but rules are rules, and those are the rules.
 
I called dibs and you were mine and now you belong to Mayor McCheese.”

“What about your promise?” Albert protested “You promised to take me back inside Omega-Mart.”

“Well, I don’t have a transcript of the whole conversation or anything,” said the Doctor, creaking slowly to his feet.
 
“But that doesn’t sound like anything I’d say.
 
Now you’d better get out of here before Flamin’ Freddie comes looking for you.
 
You could get us both in a lot of trouble.”
 
He shooed Albert gently toward the exit.

Albert panicked.
 
He pulled the rubber gun from its holster and thrust it the Doctor’s face, putting on his best tough guy act.
 
I’m too old for this shit
, he shouted inside his brain.

The Doctor wrinkled his brow.
 
“What are you doing, Albert?”

“My name isn’t Albert,” Albert lied.
 
“My name is Sergeant Roger Murtaugh.”
 
He lifted a plastic badge for Zayus’ inspection.
 
“I didn’t really come from outer space.
 
I’ve been sent to the roof to investigate a… a crime.
 
You’re under arrest.
 
N-now, come with me.
 
Don’t make a scene.”

“Come on, Albert.
 
You’re embarrassing yourself.
 
I
saw
you come from outer space.
 
That’s not a real badge and you’re not a real cop.”

“That’s a real badge, I’m a real cop, and this is a real fuckin’ gun.”
 
Albert tried to cock the hammer, but the gun was all one big piece of rubber.

The Doctor scowled.
 
“Alright, now, Albert.
 
I’ve tried to be patient.
 
But I’m going to have to ask you politely to fuck off.”

Albert hit him over the head with the gun.

“Ow!
 
You fucker.”

Albert hit him again.

“Alright, alright!
 
Stop!
 
Stop!” the Doctor protested.

“Sit down!” Albert waved him toward the chair with the barrel of the fake pistol.
 
“Now,” he said, with deadly earnest.
 
“You’re going to tell me how to get back down there, like you promised.
 
Where’s the secret passageway?

The Doctor shrugged.
 
“Search me.”

“What?!”
 
Albert pressed the gun to his forehead.
 
“You said you knew where it was!”

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did.
 
You said --.”

“I said that I could
find
a way back inside,” lied the Doctor.
 
“And I can.
 
I just need a little help from a friend.”

“No way!
 
No more of your friends!”

“Relax, Albert.
 
This is a different kind of friend.
 
This is The Amazing Bobo.”

“Who?”

“The Amazing Bobo.”

“Who’s that?”

 
“Someone who knows how to get things done.”
 
The Doctor brushed the gun aside and lifted the shower curtain door.
 
“Now look -- I think I can convince him to help.
 
But we’re gonna need some bananas.”

****

A day in the life of Victor Wyzack, floor manager of Toyland, Alpha Quad, Grid 717 went something like this – every morning of the week, Monday through Friday, he sprang out of bed at exactly 6:30 a.m.
 
He showered for four and one-half minutes, just long enough to scrub his armpits and nether regions vigorously with generous portions of soap, rinse, shampoo, then rinse again.
 
He spent the next seven minutes brushing his teeth, combing his hair, and shaving.
 
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness” was one of his many favorite clichés, and in his mind God, though elderly and dressed in old-fashioned white robes, was quite a dapper fellow in that His teeth sparkled, His breath was fresh, and He never had a hair out of place.

Inside Victor’s closet there hung an array of long-sleeved, button-front, stiff collared shirts in all colors of the Omega-Mart spectrum from the deepest plum to the most brilliant violet.
 
Each day, he matched one of these with a pair of pressed khaki pants (always the same spotless shade of khaki) and topped it all off with the Ollie the Omega-Mart Otter tie that he saw as his signature, a symbol of his commitment to the company that had given him so much.

Victor made a large production of inspecting himself in the mirror at every possible angle, ensuring that he was put-together enough to earn the admiration of men and the secret lust of young, slim, pretty women age 18 to 24 (preferably Hispanic, as it had often occurred to him, for reasons unknown, that these were the most chaste of all races of women and therefore the most suited to wifery), but not so put-together as to be mistaken for a homosexual.

Victor was staunch in his determination to not “look gay”, and in his belief that, while all God’s creatures were deserving of compassion, God would almost certainly damn all homosexuals to hell for eternity, which goes a long way in explaining his genuine fear of someday discovering that he, himself, had developed a sudden attraction to men.
 
He assuaged these fears by repeatedly telling himself that that kind of thing didn’t happen that way, but in truth he had no idea how that kind of thing happened, and so routinely (some might say compulsively) tested himself by clandestinely glancing at other men’s groin areas and/or posterior regions to see if that did anything for him.
 
He was proud to report that, so far, one hundred percent of the time it had not.
 
But he always remained vigilant, lest the gay bug sneak up on him and take him from behind.

Breakfast came next and was always cereal.
 
Victor was particularly fond of sugary cereals, with tiny shaped marshmallows, and made it his duty to try any new brand that he found on the shelf, pedaled by whatever brash, over-caffeinated cartoon animal was currently appearing on Saturday morning TV.
 
He ceaselessly compared and contrasted the different qualities of each product, feeling obliged to do so as an informed consumer, seemingly oblivious to the fact that many would see his affinity for cereal as, at best, juvenile, and, at worst, a little “gay”.

Out the door by 7:00 a.m., after adding that one final necessary trapping to his accoutrements.
 
The Omega-Mart vest, that same purple uniform worn by billions of loyal soldiers, but pinned to his pocket a unique badge of honor that set him apart, like a sergeant’s stripes, revealing his place in the world.

“Victor Wyzack”, it declared.
 
“Floor Manager.
 
Toyland.
 
Alpha.”
 
And the unspoken subtext, “I’m not the most important person in the world, but I’m getting there.”

He believed this as surely as he knew the sun would rise (a fact that he indeed had little proof for).
 
His sole direction had been, and only would be, up and when he reached the top he would only ascend further, to the very gates of heaven, and Saint Peter would meet him with a handshake, and possibly a cigar, saying, “Good job, son.
 
You made it.”

This, of course, was nothing that Victor had ever put into words, but it always lingered in the back of his mind, driving him to succeed.
 
He was special; just a little better than everyone else.

And though he didn’t talk about them, these feelings manifested themselves in a thousand unmistakable ways, from the way he purposely seemed to only half pay attention to the words of those he deemed subordinate, to the occasional short motivational pep-talks he would give others on “being a team player” or “giving it your all”.
 
And though it was important that he remained above the masses, it was also imperative that he occasionally descend to their level, to prove himself a “man of the people”.