Dead Men Scare Me Stupid (7 page)

He frowned.
“Maybe there is no connection.”

I shook my head.
“That would be pretty sloppy plotting. The critics would tear us to pieces.”

“What critics?
There are no critics here.” He glanced around to make sure.

“I mean, if this
was a detective story, this part wouldn’t make much sense.”

“It isn’t a
detective story.”

“No, but… oh,
never mind. Forget I mentioned it.”

I didn’t want to
tell him I would be writing all this down later. People tend to get stiff and
wooden in their actions, with stilted dialogue, when they know it’s being
recorded for posterity. I didn’t want to be stuck with a lot of crap dialogue
in my memoirs. The reading public can spot that sometimes. The critics too. And
the prize committees. I didn’t want to lose the Pulitzer Prize just because of
this guy. So I didn’t tell him I was going to be writing everything down. As it
turned out, Conklin’s dialogue was pretty stilted anyway. I figured I’d spiff
it up a little bit before I published it, but in the end I didn’t bother.

Finally we
reached a large room that had one single huge machine in the center of it.

“Meet Clarence,”
Conklin said proudly.

“Hello,
Clarence,” I said. I thought maybe I was expected to say more, so I added: “How
are you this fine May morning?”

“All right,
that’s enough talking to the machine,” said Conklin. “Impressive, isn’t it? Our
engineers tell me it uses 3% of the world’s oil.”

“It’s worth it
though, I bet.”

“Oh yes. The
government has been working to perfect a machine like this for many years –
since the republic was founded actually. The first unsuccessful prototype was
made in 1776 of ‘liberty wood’, belt buckles, and beaver bottoms, and was powered
by Hessians. It failed, of course. The design was too primitive. So another
prototype was built. Steam powered this time. Davy Crockett was sure it would
work. But it too failed. And so construction began on yet another model, which
ultimately failed as well – they had to rebuild the White House after that one.
And so on, down through the years.

“Now, after
diverting massive amounts of money from other programs – corn-based coinage,
and the vice-president-in-space program, to name but two examples…”

“I usually prefer
to have three examples,” I pointed out.

“…this facility
has finally managed to build a version of the machine that really works. It is
a machine that will erase you, Mr. Burly, from existence. Like you were never
born. We call it Clarence, after the evil angel in ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’.”

“Hello,
Clarence,” I said again.

At Conklin’s
direction, technicians started connecting wires from the machine to my body.

I pointed at
something on the machine. “Hey, are those long things teeth?”

“Yes, but don’t
be alarmed. They’re not functional. Strictly part of the design. And that’s not
real blood dripping off the teeth.”

“Good.” I heard a
low threatening noise coming from the machine. “Is it snarling?”

“I’ll turn the
volume down.”

“Thanks.”

The technicians
clipped wires onto my eyeballs and asshole.

“This seems kind
of dangerous,” I said nervously. “Shouldn’t we try it out on you first?”

“No, that won’t
be necessary. It’s perfectly safe. Now just relax, take a deep breath, and try
not to circulate your blood.”

As I took my deep
breath, and the final connections were being made between me and the Clarence
machine, a white haired exquisitely tailored gentleman smelling of money and
votes drifted in looking worried.

“We… uh… lost
Kansas,” he said.

“There are three
government agencies ahead of you,” snapped Conklin, as he fiddled with the
dials on the machine. “And I have to take care of this man before I do anything
else. You’ll have to wait over there.” He jerked a thumb at a waiting room on
the other side of the corridor that was already half-filled with worried
looking men.

“Neighboring
states are getting curious about the hole,” the man persisted.

“I’m busy right
now, Senator. Wait over there.”

“But…”

“Get over there,
buddy,” I said. “We’re taking care of me first.”

He hesitated,
then left, wringing his hands fretfully. The nerve of that guy, trying to cut
in front of the line like that.

“Now,” said
Conklin, after he had made a few last minute adjustments, “once I turn on the
machine it will read your life history down to the cellular level, then
methodically erase it, event by event.”

I frowned. “How
is that possible? That doesn’t seem possible to me.”

“It is.”

“Maybe you should
show me a schematic drawing of the machine and tell me how it works. You could
describe the physics involved and we could look over the blueprints while we
eat lunch. Then tomorrow, after we’ve had breakfast, and finished our jogging…”

He shook his
head. “There’s no time for all that, I’m afraid. I’m already behind schedule. Ready?”

“I guess,” I
said, in that childish tone I have when I don’t get what I want.

He twisted a dial
on the machine.

I began seeing my
life flashing before my eyes, backwards, with each event slowly fading away, as
if it had been exposed to too much sun. There went 2007 down the drain, then
2006. There went my detective career that had never really gotten off the
ground. And the three years I spent carrying cement blocks. And my six years of
high school. As each memory disappeared I felt my brain growing emptier, more
echo-y, and happier. It felt good not having those experiences anymore. Plus,
my mind could yodel now.

The procedure was
fairly painless, except for all the electricity coursing through me, and all
the loud horns blaring in my ears. And I’m not sure what the chisels were
digging at me for, but they sure hurt. Maybe that’s what they were for.

I felt my
fingerprints melt away and my wallet get thinner, as my driver’s license and
other identity papers disappeared. Finally, I felt my birthmark fade away. The
process was complete. I had never been born.

Conklin unhooked
me from the machine.

“That didn’t
hurt, did it?”

“Well, not too
much. My rear end is burnt black though. Will that clear up after awhile?”

Conklin frowned
and moved off to talk to the technicians who had helped wire me up. “No, I’ve
never heard of it either,” said one of them. Then they turned back to me with
reassuring smiles. “It will clear up in a couple of weeks,” said Conklin.

Despite
everything I’d been told about the Clarence machine, and the things I’d seen
flashing before my eyes, I didn’t really believe I had never been born. I
didn’t feel any different. And I didn’t look any different, except for all the
burn marks, the corncob pipe, and the different shirt.

“Your machine’s a
bust, Conklin,” I said, twirling my handlebar mustache. “Nothing has changed.”

“Oh no?”

He took me over
to the window. We watched 2000 men from a troopship trot by in front of the
facility.

“Hey, I thought
the men from that troopship were dead!” I said.

“None of the men
on that troopship died, because you weren’t there to get them killed.”

I stared at him
in horror. Quickly, I checked to see if the black eyes I usually have were
still there. They weren’t. My nose wasn’t bent in all four directions either.
It was like my face had never been punched at all. Then I knew it was true. I
had never been born. This was like some kind of Capraesque nightmare!

I was taken down
to a lower level and shoved into a cell. Conklin said they couldn’t let me go,
because I knew too much.

“Oh, come on!” I
scoffed. “I don’t know anything. Everybody knows that.”

“You know about
Clarence,” Conklin reminded me, “and the machine that makes evil men short, and
a number of other things we’d rather not have blabbed all over town at the
moment. Or ever. So I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us. It will be a long
one.”

“Well, I’m sure I
will enjoy my stay, enormously, but…”

“The guards will
push a piece of meat through your bars once a day.”

My cell door
clanged shut, and Conklin walked off.

I wondered when
the meat was coming. It sounded pretty good.

I was locked in
my cell pretty much 24 hours a day for the next couple of weeks. I complained
about that, but they asked me where I would keep a prisoner if I had one, and I
had to admit I guessed I’d keep him in a cell. And I’d probably leave him in
there most of the time. Just like they were doing to me. So I quit complaining
about that. I was off base there. But I felt I was justified in complaining
about my rear end. It hadn’t cleared up like they had said it would. It just
got blacker. And more swollen. I had to sit down the other way. On my face. And
that’s a very uncomfortable way to sit. You can’t see anything except the chair
seat. And all you can hear is people laughing. Never go to the government for
medical advice, that’s what I learned from that experience. Go to a doctor.

There were other
prisoners in the cell block, but I didn’t socialize with them much. Most of
them weren’t very interesting to talk to because their minds had been
reprogrammed so many times they were just walking error messages. So I never
found out what they were in there for. They probably didn’t even know
themselves anymore. I did manage to play a few videogames on one of them, but
after awhile the guards told me to quit it.

Then one morning
my cell block suddenly came alive with frenzied activity: everything was
hurriedly scrubbed down and hosed off, including your correspondent; the guards
changed into friendlier looking uniforms; and all the prisoners were given
party hats. And after a government art director came through, eyed me for a
moment, then crossed my legs and put a martini in my hand, I figured something
was up. And I was right. The news media was coming.

The facility had
always had to deal with occasional visits by newsmen and other busybodies who
wanted to know what was going on behind all the barbed wire. Nobody puts boring
stuff behind barbed wire, it was felt. Stringing the wire is too much work, for
one thing. And there’s the expense of buying the wire. “What’s the big secret?”
people would ask. And, of course, there was no honest way to answer that
question without revealing the secret. So the government said nothing.

There were rumors
that awful experiments were being conducted in the facility, and that people
were being wrongfully imprisoned in there. That was close enough to what was
actually going on to make the government very careful about how visitors were
dealt with. Refusal to let the news media visit would result in bad publicity,
and just lead to more visits, as contradictory as that might seem. Letting them
see what was actually going on would be bad too. Since it was all so evil. So
they granted them admittance periodically, but only let them see what they
wanted them to see.

Everywhere the
newsmen went on their carefully guided tours, they saw nothing but nice things:
bright airy research centers with handsome scientists looking at test tubes
(upside down, but never mind); beautiful atriums where scientists could relax
and reflect on all the good they were doing Mankind, and how legal their
experiments were; and cheery day care centers where Junior Scientists could
romp and play.

Everything looked
so nice and innocent, it was a little confusing to the visitors.

“So… why is all
this nice activity behind barbed wire and armed guards?” they would ask.

“Let’s look over
here,” the tour guide would say, changing the subject so deftly it was hardly
noticeable. And everyone would look over in that new direction, their questions
forgotten, at least for the moment.

But the media
wasn’t always completely taken in by these performances. Sometimes they would
catch a glimpse of something evil and smelly behind a door, or a cardboard
cutout of a perfectly proportioned scientist would fall over revealing the real
hunchback scientist behind it. Sometimes things just didn’t feel right. So,
despite all the government’s efforts, suspicions were aroused.

On this
particular Visiting Day, one news organization, the Central City Cable News
Channel, had decided to discover the truth – to, once and for all, get to the
bottom of what was going on inside the secret government facility.

While the rest of
their news team was taking the tour and obediently asking all the right
questions from the list provided, and taking all the right pictures from all
the right marks on the floor, and buying all the right items from the gift
shop, one member of the team slipped away unseen and made his way down to the
lower level of the facility, where I was. This area, when it was shown to
visitors at all, was portrayed as a kind of Fun Zone, where scientists and
researchers had parties and really let their hair down after a hard day’s work.
If someone asked about the cells, the answer usually was: “Let’s look over here”.

I first became
aware that an unauthorized and unescorted visitor was snooping around my cell
block when my guard got his head bashed in with a microphone, and keys rattled
in the lock of my cell door.

“My name’s
Johnson,” the reporter said breathlessly as he struggled with the lock. “I
don’t know what’s been going on in here, but I’m going to find out. Now, once I
let you out, remember to…”

At this point he
had gotten the door open and I had hit him with a chair, so I didn’t get to
hear the rest of what he had to say. Grabbing his credentials and his security
clearance badge, and outfitting myself with his blazer, oversized capped teeth,
and false two foot hair, and putting my party hat on his head so the guards
would forever think he was me, I made my escape.