Dyscountopia (27 page)

“Honey, it’s me!”

Clackety-clack.
 
Clackety-clack
.

“Honey?”
 
Albert made his way slowly toward the back room.
 
“Honey?”

There was a sharp knock at the front door.
 

Albert froze.
 
A loud thunderclap rocked his eardrums.
 
The door sprang off its hinges and clattered against the opposite wall.

The Lifter Pacification Team poured into Albert’s apartment with Sergeant Alexander boldly in the lead.
 
After a brief search of the premises, they discovered Albert cowering under the cushions of his futon, squeezing his eyes shut and mumbling to himself, “
There’s no place like home.
 
There’s no place like home.
”
 

Rather than chance any more attempts at evasion, all seven members of the team fired their glue guns at once, covering Albert in a searing hot layer of ooze that stuck him firmly to the blue, flower-printed upholstery.
 
After an efficient but unhurried beating in which the officers were careful not to damage Albert’s head, the futon was whisked up with the perpetrator still attached and carried out the door.
 
Over all, the visit lasted only 37 seconds, and the only evidence of their ever being there was a door lying off its hinges and a bare spot on the carpet where the futon had been.
 
What followed was a certain melancholy silence that could only be described as anti-climactic, peppered with the whispers of Mrs. Zim’s fingers on a keyboard.

Clackety-clack.
 
Clackety-clack
.

 

****

 

Albert awoke to the sound of swarming bees and the uncomfortable pricking of a tiny jackhammer against his skull.
 
He tried to move his head but couldn’t, tried to move his arms but couldn’t.
 
He was lying on his back.
 
Fluorescent light flooded his vision, outlined by shadowy figures.
 
Something was about to happen to him – maybe was already happening.
 
Something bad.

 
“Is your name Albert Zim?”

“Are you aware that you’re trespassing on Omega-Mart property, Mr. Zim?”

“Did you steal a
Model 742 Duffy Little Big Man Dirt Bike, Mr. Zim?”

“Do you know the difference between right and wrong, Mr. Zim?”
“Yes”, said Albert.

“Yes”, said Albert.

“Yes”, said Albert.

“I don’t think so,” said Albert.

Each question was asked by a different voice, but they all seemed to come from the same mouth.
 
The answers didn’t matter.
 
The interrogation was only a formality.

Albert tried to focus on the inquisitors.
 
“Where am I?”
 

Something dripped into his right eye and he knew that it was his own blood.
 
Someone mopped his forehead with a towel.
 
He squirmed.

“Hold still, Mr. Zim.
 
If you wiggle too much, it won’t look right.
 
We’re almost finished.”
 
The voice was cool, focused, detached, the voice of an artist working his craft.
 

 
Albert swallowed.
 
“Is it going to be ‘bike’ or ‘bicycle’?”

“Don’t want to spoil it.
 
Just wait and see.”
 

Albert waited, mesmerized by the light and by the buzzing.

“Alright, Mr. Zim.
 
Take a look.”
 
The buzzing stopped and was replaced by a soft whirring as the back of Albert’s chair elevated him to a sitting position.
 
The light dimmed and he was able to see the men standing around him.

There were four of them, in dark purple suits with dark purple ties and pale, blank faces, huddled together in a small white room.
 
A fifth man, thin and young wearing a baggy white lab coat that hung from his bony shoulders, smiled at Albert as he freed his right wrist from the Velcro strap that bound it to the chair.
 
He handed Albert a plastic mirror.

Albert gently grasped the mirror and examined the young man’s handiwork.
 
“The others were in bold print.”

The artist beamed.
 
“I’m experimenting with fonts.
 
Do you like it?”

Albert nodded.
 
It was ghastly.
 
“I guess I’m going back to the roof.”

One of the men in the purple suits cleared his throat.
 
“There’s just the little matter of the confession, Mr. Zim.”
 
The man’s tone was as empty as his expression, suggesting that any and all means of extracting said confession might be possible.

“Okay,” Albert replied softly.
 
“I confess.”

The purple man smiled, even as his colleagues remained expressionless.
 
“Thank you, Mr. Zim.
 
You wouldn’t believe how many ridiculous excuses we hear in our line of work.
 
Frankly, we find it insulting.
 
Why, we once had a dentist from F Quad who lifted a roll of toilet paper; not a whole package, just one roll –
 
tore it right out of the plastic, do you believe that?
 
Well, he
said
that the public restrooms were out of stock, but a close inspection of the stalls revealed that
….”

His companions dealt him sideways glances, and the man’s monologue evaporated into silence.
 
He cleared his throat again.
 
“Yes, well, if you could just sign here….”

Albert took the single piece of paper with his one free hand and placed it against his thigh, then accepted an offered pen.
 
He examined the document.

 

I,
ALBERT ZIM
, hereby fully and freely confess to the following crimes perpetrated against Omega-Mart property and/or personnel (circle all that apply):

trespassing

failure to produce a valid thumb-print

assault on a Guardian

resisting arrest

damage to fruits and/or vegetables belonging to the Omega-Mart Corporation

theft of a Model 742 Duffy Little Big Man Dirt Bike

destruction of a Model 742 Duffy Little Big Man Dirt Bike

assault on an LPT officer

theft of a JetCo 715 Re-chargeable Uni-scooter

destruction of a JetCo 715 Re-chargeable Uni-scooter

theft of a Z-Class 38C Turbo-matic Ride-able Wax-O-Maton
  

murder

Signature: ________________________

Date: ____________________________

 

Some helpful soul had already circled each entry for Albert and penned in the day’s date.
 
All that remained was for Albert to sign.

Albert squinted at the tiny print.
 
“Murder?”

“Right,” said the purple man.
 
“The murder of Victor Wyzack, your colleague.”

Albert shook his head.
 
“I didn’t do that – the shuttle did.”

The purple man looked perplexed.
 
His companions grew visibly tense.
 
“Well, it’s already been circled, Mr. Zim.
 
There’s nothing we can do about it now.
 
See?”
 
He pointed to the entry in question.
 
“Circled”.

Albert reached out with a shaky hand, awkwardly trying to steady the paper against his leg with his elbow.
 
He began to sign his name.

The door burst open.

The pen clattered to the floor.

A small, angry young woman entered the room, striding purposefully toward Albert with astoundingly heavy footfalls.
 
She wore a glue gun slung ominously over her shoulder, and her gray uniform bore the insignia of an LPT officer.
 
Another LPT officer, a man-shaped glacier, entered behind her.

“Welcome, Sergeant,” the purple man greeted her uncomfortably.
 
“So glad you could join us.
 
Mr. Zim was being most cooperative.”

“Get out.”

“But Sergeant, Mr. Zim was just about to sign the conf--.”

“Get out.”

The big officer glared down at the men around him, driving the order home.

“Oh, I see,” the purple man stammered.
 
He nodded to Albert.
 
“Have a pleasant day, Mr. Zim.”
 
He exited the room with his four doppelgangers in tow.
 
The young tattooist shuffled out behind them, peering curiously over his shoulder.

The Sergeant regarded Albert as if he was a cockroach, ready to be crushed under her boot heel.
 
“You, too,” she ordered.

This came to Albert as a huge relief.
 
He was just wondering how to unstrap himself from the chair when it occurred to him, to his immense disappointment, that she wasn’t talking to him at all but to the big man behind her.

The big man opened his mouth to protest, then quickly shut it again.
 
He glanced reluctantly at Albert, then turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Albert was alone with the Sergeant.

She regarded him coldly, quietly looming over him with her massive presence.
 
Seconds ticked by with Albert looking in every direction but at the young woman’s face.
 
Then, slowly, he hazarded a glance upward.

He smiled in recognition.
 
“Hey.
 
You’re my neighbor.”

The woman punched him hard.
 
In the face.
 

Albert heard the crack of his nose as it burst into a shower of red.
 
His eyes filled with tears and stars.
 
He gagged on his own blood.
 
He tried to swallow, and felt a tooth slide down the back of his throat.
 
She punched him again.

“Stop!” he tried to shout, but only a bloody gurgle drew forth.
 
“Stop!”

But she didn’t stop.
 
She hit him again, and again and again in the face.
 
He struggled vainly to protect himself with his one free arm as she landed blows with equal force from right and left, apparently ambidextrous.
 
And then, just as Albert felt himself blissfully begin to lose consciousness, the beating ceased.

Albert dared to lower his arm, blinking through the pain.
 
A frail, emaciated figure stood limp-armed before him, her pale white knuckles covered in Albert’s blood mingled with her own, wearing the same gray uniform with the same LPT insignia as the Sergeant just a moment before, but no longer with the menacing Sergeant inside -- only a sad, lonely young girl.

Her eyes brimmed with tears.
 
“I’m like you,” she whispered miserably.