Dr. Identity Read online

  Bing Dingaling paused. The volley of questions had been served in one giant breath. Fatigued and dizzy, he placed his elbows on his knees, leaned over, and breathed deeply into a wrinkled up paper bag. The camera slowly zoomed in on the wife-thing, pining for a responseggggher mouth creaked open, slowly, very slowly, and fixed itself into a frozen, silent scream. The camera moved closerggggcloser and closergggguntil the most prominent feature on the skyscreen was her epiglottis, glistening like an udder dipped in honey. Tattooed onto the body of the epiglottis was an intricate zebra pattern reminiscent of a pattern produced by Blackie Colecovision, this week’s wealthiest fashion designer. Some of the viewers wondered if the tattoo was permanent or temporary and if the pattern was authentic or counterfeit. One viewer wondered if she was born that way…

  The camera snapped back to its original position.

  Bing Dingaling had regained composure, although his eyebrows looked like roadkill. He sensed the anomalies and quickly smoothed them out. “Aren’t we Mrs. Chatty Chatty Bang Bang-thing,” he baritoned, and pressed his nose. A short, metallic laugh track sounded off. Dingaling laughed with it, locking round, wide eyes with the camera, which zoomed in on himggggand froze. The laugh track squeaked silent. Bing Dingaling’s open mouth collapsed into a pleasant smile. The smile was recognizably Wolfsschanzian, a vintage piece worth more than his Critchlow flybike. He also owned a Wolfsschanzian frown, but he hardly ever used it, even when he wasn’t on camera; not only was the frown invaluable, his permit had expired and he kept forgetting to renew it. The minimum penalty for sporting an expired, patented facial gesture was twenty minutes in a rainforest: more than enough time to die.

  “Critics have been debating the stimulus for this understandably distraught wife-thing’s bitter half,” the newsman whirred. “Most popular is the belief that his actions are a psychosomatic reaction to being a plaquedemic, the most despised profession in the postcapitalist universe aside from the door-to-door salesman, which, following the downfall of linguistic cyberspace, has come back into prominence. It is also believed that this reaction was exacerbated by the fact that Dr. ——— is a mediocre plaquedemic who is not only hated by ordinary people but by his colleagues as well. Plaquedemics gauge their absurdist worth based upon the publication of literary criticism and theory. If they don’t publish a certain quantity of articles, essays or books in venues that are deemed appropriate by their parliament, the Ministry of Stoutfellow, they are encouraged to be shamed, berated, and more or less treated like turds by their co-workers. As is well-known, teaching skills ceased to be a plaquedemic requirement long ago. The plaquedemic doesn’t need to know how to teach, only to write publishable criticism on irrelevant issues that nobody has the intellectual capacity to read, process, interpret and apply to daily life. Dr. ———’s track record is a sad affair. He has published next to nothing. What little he has published appeared in journals that the Ministry of Stoutfellow declared ‘far less than noteworthy.’ I happened to read one of these publications. It was an article called ‘The Post(post)/post-post+postmodern Icklyophobe: Ultra/counterhypernihilism in Fiona Birdwater‘s megaanti-micronovel, The Ypsilanti Factor.’ God only knows what this goddamned essay is about. God only knows what any goddamned plaquedemic essay is about. Nonetheless even I could tell that Dr. ———’s writing was far below Stoutfellow standards. That said, I have gas. I have to use the toilet. Be back in a flash. Excuse me.”

  Abruptly Bing Dingaling stood and waltzed offscreen, leaving the wife-thing there to endure the fervent stare of the camera. She didn’t endure it well. Her agitated face seemed to be falling apart and rebuilding itself at the same time. The camera quickly became bored with this physiognomic spectacle and zoomed into her breastsggggwhich spilled onto her blouse like overturned buckets of mud.

  Viewers in the flyways squinted at the skyscreen, unsure of the authenticity of the breasts…

  Eventually the scene cut to a schizercial. A pyrotechnic tableau of subliminal image-bursts permeated the skyscreen and downloaded themselves into viewers’ unconsciouses, all of them competing for pole position on the mental racetrack of consumer desire.

  Three and a half minutes later the schizercial faded back into Dr. ———’s cubapt. The wife-thing exhibited the same frenetic expression as before. Bing Dingaling’s head was buried underneath her dress. Kneeling on the couch, his ass waved back and forth as he attended to her private part.

  Sensing the camera’s gaze, he pulled his head into the open and sat upright. “Nope,” he said tersely, smoothing back his hair, “I didn’t lose my lunchbox down there after all.” He pressed his nose. The laugh track blared, silenced…Dingaling grinned. “Now then, Mrs. ———, we were discussing the degraded condition of the plaquedemic, e.g., your husband, yes?” He pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and dabbed the corners of his wet lips. He tossed the handkerchief over his shoulder. “You mentioned something about your husband being an embarrassment to Stoutfellowhood, not to mention mankind, if I’m not mistaken. Am I mistaken?” Dingaling glanced at the wife-thing expectantly.

  The wife-thing’s eyes rolled back into her head. She burped and said something inaudible before slumping onto the armrest of the couch.

  Dingaling looked at the camera. “Many critics have debated whether or not Dr. ——— and his technological extension Dr. Identity would have turned out to be such sons of bitches if the professor had lived up to the caliber of his mentor, the illustrious Dr. Hugo Saxony Hamsalad, winner of two Pulitzer Prizes, one for a greeting card, the other for a grocery list. Upon hearing the news of his protégé’s fall from disgrace, Dr. Hamsalad was said to be as ‘bereft’ as he was ‘beguiled.’”

  The camera flashcut to a close-up headshot of Dr. Hamsalad. His face was severely gaunt but somehow strong, like a bodybuilding cancer patient. Mal vogue pince-nez sat on the bulb of his nose. Bushy handlebar sideburns dwarfed the ruff of silver hair on his forehead. “I am as bereft as I am beguiled,” the professor said in a machinic staccato. “I knew my protégé was a bad egg all along. I remember one occasion in particular. The young scoundrel was—”

  A giant hook curled around Dr. Hamsalad’s neck and yanked him off camera.

  Back to Dingaling. “Spoken like a true plaquedemic. Thank you, sir.” He cleared a ball of phlegm from his throat and spit it out. He smiled. “As I was saying, Dr. ——— is a no-good fiend. The acts of ultraviolence he and his ’gänger have committed belong to the Schizoverse, not to the real world. He is obviously a deeply disturbed human being. More than a few pundits have argued that the reason for such reckless behavior is that Dr. ——— actually believes he is inhabiting the Schizoverse. Others argue that he is an evil-intentioned alien disguised as a human. Some say he is a professional Norman Bates impersonator with a mean-on. Your thoughts, Mrs. ———?” Dingaling leaned over and knocked on her temple with the microphone.

  The wife-thing snorted awake. She glanced stupidly around the room and ordered a chocolate chip mint-flavored ice cream cone in a little girl’s voice. Dingaling pushed out his lips. The wife-thing stood up, fainted, and fell backwards over the couch with a crash of pots and pans.

  Dingaling glanced over the couch, then back at the camera. “Whatever Dr. ———’s condition, his behavior clearly stems from some kind of prepubescent trauma. A biography of his early life is currently being written. It is expected to be published later this week. Film rights have been secured as well. On board so far are Stanley Ashenbach as Dr. Identity, John Jacob Jingleheimer Rabinowitz as Dr. ———, Sindie Switch as his wife-thing, Daria Crazyeight as his white trash mistress, and Bavarian Frank and Magdelene Underoos as his bleached white trash parent-things. I have been asked to play the role of myself. The film is tentatively being called The Dystopian Duo. Look for it in theaters the week after next. Back to you, Dominique.”

  “Munnk ooo erkl furdrib nurf,” Anchorman Erstwhile mumbled. He set aside a Ten Story sandwich and quickly chewed and swallowed t
he gigantic bite in his mouth. He belched. “Pardon me. Thank you, Bing. Stay tuned to FOXXX Channel 7,934 for the most up-to-date information on Bliptown’s Warlords of Wickedness. We leave you with a look at the Winkenweirder camp, where the celebrity’s people have been mourning his death like rockstars. I’m Dominique Erstwhile.”

  Long range telescopic view of a sprawling rooftop estate. The family and friends of the movie star darted in and out of doors, in and out of windows, in and out of pools like headless chickens. Piles of empty bottles and hypodermic needles everywhere. Some mourners sobbed uncontrollably. Some were passed out. Some were naked and on all fours, growling and howling and clawing at the air. A buzzing cumulonimbus cloud of Papanazi in jetpacks and propeller hats loomed above the estate. Every few seconds one of them dove down from the cloud to get a closer shot of the spectacle of grief.

  09

  IN THE HALL OF THE MOUNTAIN KINGS – 3RD PERSON

  Mr. Horace Q. Whackbottom was late again. He had been seeing his third string mistress’ ’gänger on the sly. Nothing got him off in bed like a good old-fashioned dirty mouth, and the android’s mouth was much dirtier than its owner’s. Sometimes his mistress sent the ’gänger to visit him in her stead, and vice versa. No problem. But she had no idea it had been sneaking away without permission to fool around with her patron for almost a year now. It wasn’t the ’gänger’s fault. One night Mr. Whackbottom reprogrammed it to desire him in extremis. A sexogenetically enhanced older gentleman, he met her at least once a day in random places: public toilets, janitor’s closets, stock rooms, tanning booths, vidphone booths, walk-in cryogenic freeze chambers, treetops, jumping gyms…Today he had scheduled it to meet him in an out-of-the-way revolving door located in the basement of his office spacescraper, but the android didn’t show up. The door was a sentient, always-be-turning apparatus, and as he stepped in slow circles around its mirrored base, he implored it to talk dirty to him.

  “Profanity is not part of my lexicon,” the door replied.

  Mr. Whackbottom raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I can rectify that problem.”

  “Please, sir. Behave yourself.”

  “Lick my asshole.”

  Finally Mr. Whackbottom stepped out of the door. He had been waiting and revolving for over twenty minutes. Woozy, his vision spotted. He tipped over and passed out.

  He woke up. Stood up. Repositioned his bald spot, restacked his chins, glanced at his watch. “Shit.” The meeting began in ten minutes. Hardly enough time to get ready. His antediluvian ’gänger was constantly under repair and he had been late four times this quarter. He couldn’t remember which punishment a fifth offense merited: invective, Indian burn, or disembowelment…

  He broke into a fastwalk, weaving and dodging the foot traffic of the slideways as he made his way towards the nearest launch pad. He tired out quickly and paused to catch his breath.

  He was hungry. There was no time to be hungry.

  Was there ever time for anything?

  At the end of the block was a Bulimia Booth. He allowed the slideway to take him to it and ordered the day’s special from a glowbot: synthetic imperial parrot deep-fried in human tears. The tears were fresh, cried by a group of orphans hanging upside down by their toes. The orphans were repeatedly spanked by a series of misshapen iron hands, and a consequential steady flow of tears leaked into the rusty fry basin beneath them.

  By the time he arrived to the launch pad, Mr. Whackbottom had wolfed down the parrot, skeleton and all, and threw it up onto the Voltron hairdo of an endomorph. The hairdo exploded into separate pantherlike parts when the vomit struck it. Growling, the parts galloped down the stranger’s arms, back and legs and disappeared into a sewer grate.

  Mr. Whackbottom excused himself, handed the endomorph a blank check, and told him to buy a new hairdo. “Should you choose to buy more than a new hairdo,” he added, “I shall summarily see to it that you and your immediate and extended family are swiftly infected by a Biblical plague. Good day, citizen.”

  Recognizing his face, the endomorph respectfully thanked the man and skulked away…

  Mr. Whackbottom stepped onto the launch pad. He sucked in the overhang of his belly and pushed a button on his utility belt.

  Goose bumps sprouted onto his flesh. The smell of absinthe ripped through his nasal passage…His body demolecularized into an iridescent, electric cloud of marbles. The cloud drifted into a flow-go, and 6.78 seconds later he stood on a plank outside a mirrored window, half a mile above the highest flyway in the district. Molarized now, he tightened the nub of his tie and tucked in his shirt as the window slid open and accommodated him.

  In the upper tier of the Dumdum Tower, the tallest structure not only in Bliptown but in the entire Amerikan Midwest, were the offices, board rooms, meeting halls, sandwich shops, haberdasheries and whorehouses of the city’s governing powers.

  Five minutes ago, the congressman-things slipped on their respective nooses, kicked out the rocking chairs from beneath their feet, and hung themselves from the rafters of The Bronchial Theater. Ninety percent of the attendants were ’gängers. They dangled from the ceiling on interminable lengths of rope. Their thick, blubbery necks ensured that they wouldn’t lose their breath, let alone crack their neckbones.

  In the background, a technosubrealist rendition of German composer Edvard Grieg’s creeping, rumbling Peer Gynt Suite No. 1, Fourth Movement, dimly played…and replayed…and replayed…

  The congressman-things dangled in a broad circle and surrounded a small driftdisc. The driftdisc itself was surrounded by a red velvet curtain that, like the ropes, stretched twenty or so stories up to the ceiling.

  The curtain opened 180 degrees and exposed Euclid Auchboom, ’gänger of Bartholomew Expletive, Speaker of the Theater, distinguished gentleman, and senior senior senior congressman-thing. It stared at the audience with wide white eyes, then tapped the side of its throat, producing a drawn-out metallic squink. The human congressmen-things wrinkled their noses.

  “Here here,” announced Euclid Auchboom. “This session of the Theater of the Perturbed will now come to order, the honorable Representative Gr. Euclid Auchboom, Representative of Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-Thing Bartholomew Expletive, presiding.”

  The blank-faced attendants lifted their right hands and snapped their fingers. They lowered their hands.

  Gr. Auchboom nodded its obese head. “First on our agenda today is the matter of Representative Mr. Senior Senior Senior Distinguished Gentleman Congressman-thing Expletive’s feelings. Since he took on a hermaphrodite as a mistress, he has been the butt of more than a few vulgar jokes. Not only does he feel badly when his colleagues make fun of him, he finds the act of joke-telling altogether distasteful. In his eyes, beings who tell jokes on a regular basis do so in an attempt to compensate for some flaw in their emotional disposition. They cannot bear the straight-faced drama of life and must attempt to animate it with humor. This is a weakness of character that also makes the revered, noteworthy and highly esteemed congressman-thing in question feel badly. I have been asked to tell you all that this unorthodox behavior will cease immediately. I won’t name names, gentlemen, but the guilty parties know who they are.” The ’gänger stared irritably at the guilty parties, one by one. “Questions?”

  Silence except for the dry creak of swinging ropes…

  “Fine. The matter is closed. Next on the agenda concerns the matter of my feelings. Specifically, I am referring to a nasty remark made about me by a congressman-thing who…”

  As Gr. Auchboom continued, Mr. Horace Q. Whackbottom attempted to sneak into the theater. He deftly pushed open the giant, bronze Florentine doors of The Bronchial Theater’s entrance and crawled in on his knees. He moved literally at a snail’s pace for half a minute, grew impatient and picked up speed. His patience further diminished and he got to his feet and began to tip-toe towards his noose, slowly at first, then faster and faster, until he was dashing like an overweight bal
lerina across a stage.

  All of the congressmen-things observed Mr. Whackbottom the moment he entered the doors. They continued to observe him with curious, mildly disgusted expressions as he attempted to be furtive. Even Gr. Auchboom, who was on the brink of tears because it suspected nobody took it seriously or wanted to be its friend, stopped speaking and fixed its gaze on the malefactor. Mr. Whackbottom didn’t notice. His eyes were on the prize now, and he had blocked out the external world. Just a few more steps, he told himself, and I’ll be hanging high and dry…

  “Congressman-thing Whackbottom!” Gr. Auchboom shouted.

  Freeze-frame…He glanced up at the assembly. Smiled. “Greetings, gentle colleagues. Apologies, apologies.”

  Mr. Whackbottom had been wrong about the punishment for this instance of tardiness. It was neither a tongue-lashing nor an Indian burn. Nor was it a mere disembowelment. It was all of these things at once.