KLOKWERK

• “It’s just a matter of moral software.”
• Excerpt from: WEBSTER’S MACHINE.
•  
• Somewhere in the United States of America
• Halloween
• 9:13 PM

I didn’t know if I was dreaming or having a ‘60’s flash back or strapped to a chair in a CIA mind-fuck lab with electrodes sticking out of my ass, but I suddenly found myself standing in front of a huge, spooky house that would’ve scared the living shit out of Norman Bates. It was a rundown, three-story Gothic monstrosity in desperate need of repair. Everywhere I looked on the saggy, old woman of a building, there were broken shingles precariously hanging from the frame of the hotel like so much wrinkled, flabby flesh. As I gave the old broad the once over I spotted a weak light in a second floor window. I thought it might a night-light until it flickered. A candle? No one leaves a candle burning while they’re out, right? So I decided to investigate. Maybe whoever lives there has some answers? I started toward the fading façade and mounted the creaky front steps, walked to the front door, grabbed the marred, brass handle, pulled, and it whined open. I was immediately assaulted by this old, musty smell. I almost changed my mind about going in, but decided that answers were far more important that my nose’s repugnance for foul odors. So I headed in and gingerly cross the deserted, shabby lobby with it’s threadbare rugs and upholstered furniture that was from another time and place, and headed for the stairs just twenty feet right of the marred front desk. I carefully inched my way up the creaking stairs and stopped on the second landing and looked up and down the long hall of peeling paint, faded wallpaper and thread-bare throw-rugs until I spotted the candle light flickering under room 2-C. 

“There,” I mumbled to myself and started walking towards the door and hopefully to some answers why I’m here and who I am. As I gingerly come up to the door and was about to grab the knob when this feeling of foreboding suddenly came over. Not so much as a danger to me, but of something I was about to do. I didn’t understand why I was feeling that so I chalked it up to just the skittish feeling that comes over anybody in my situation. Presupposing anybody’s ever been in my situation that’s not a character on The Twilight Zone. As I was about to give the doorknob another I heard: “Come in,” when my fingertips were mere inches from the dull, brass orb. The voice sounded soothing to the ear, yet laced with a slight rattling of advanced age and too many years of drinking and smoking.  I open the door and stepped inside without closing the door behind. 

“Close the door my boy,” the white-glad, old man smiled while lighting a cigarette. He continued to smile as he beckoned me with a white-gloved hand that had rings of a garish design on every finger, including the thumb.” Have a seat. You could probably use a shot of the finest Tennessee has to offer.”

    “Then I am in Tennessee?”  I asked, desperate to at least know where I am. 

    “No.”

    I sighed in disappointment. It was not that I wanted to be Tennessee, it was just...well at least I would’ve known where I was.

     “I don’t drink,” I lied (or at least I think it was a lie), and remained standing by the ruined door. I felt my anger returning. “I just want to know where I am?”

    “Then come and pound a spike,” he said as he gesticulated towards my side of the table with a circular spin of his right index finger.

    “I don’t smoke,” I lied and I this time I was certain. I would have killed for one of those filthy Luckys lying so invitingly on the table. “Listen! I don’t want a drink. I don’t want a cigarette. I just want to..........”

    “That’s nonsense my boy,” he interrupted. “Every body smokes and drinks in Nugatory.”

    “Where?”

    “Nugatory. You are smack dab in the middle of downtown Nugatory.”

    “It’s an odd name for a town, don’t you think?”

    “Considering the state of the world......? No. Not really.”

    “What state am I in?”

    “Apparently in the state of confusion.”

    I suddenly yawned with the abruptness of a sneeze.

    “Take a seat. You appear to be fatigued,” he said with concern. “Lets see if we can unravel this puzzle that appears to be vexing you so.”

    I decided to at least take him up on his offer of a seat.  Besides, I figured I had nothing to lose, especially my heath since I didn’t sense any imminent danger from this old man, his immense size notwithstanding. With a degree of apprehension returning as well, I cautiously crunched my way over bits of wood and plaster to the chair and grabbed it by the backrest and slid it away from the table. It grumbled, then screeched as I dragged it two feet or so along the--------

 CLICK! 

RRRRRRR!

CLICK!

•  
• Somewhere in the United States of America
• Halloween
• 9:13 PM

I didn’t know if I was dreaming, having a ‘60’s flash back or strapped to a chair in a CIA mind-fuck lab with electrodes sticking out of my ass, but I suddenly found myself standing in front of a huge, spooky house that would’ve scared the living shit out of Norman Bates. It was a rundown, three-story Gothic-style monstrosity in desperate need of repair. Everywhere I looked on the saggy, old woman of a building there were broken and precariously hanging shutters and peeling paint. As my eyes continued to run along the gloomy dwelling, I spotted a huge, oblong plank, which was partially obscured by shadow, with the faded words: THE GANG BUSTED INN. It was hanging from rusted chains about a foot or two above the entrance. From this I deduced it was some sort of hotel. I suddenly shivered as I my eyes skipped along the old sign, then down to the brass-hooded, gas-burning flame that softly flickered above the entrance. The dim light, coupled with the full moon, cast eerie, criss-crossing finger-shadows that seemed to be choking the life out of the hotel and anything else they grabbed. I shivered again as my eyes followed the erratic architectural lines along the front porch to the neglected swing that gently swayed in the night breeze by chains that were in no better shape that the ones that held the hotel sign. I then shifted my gaze to the two, huge, skeletal trees stood ominously on either side of me. They leaned over the cobblestone pathway like angry sentinels warning me to come no farther. I shivered again then hugged myself as I wondered if I wasn’t coming down with something aside from this totally bizarre situation spooking me out. But, the night air was cold, and I didn’t know how long I was actually exposed to it. So I could’ve been actually coming down with the flu or some such annoying malady. My flesh goose-pimpled as I hugged myself even tighter. I then took a few steps backwards in order to determine if anybody was home. There was a flickering yellow light in the opened 2nd floor window above the entrance. I then swiveled my head to the left, then right to see if there were any other signs of life in this dismal berg. None of the houses adjacent to the hotel showed any signs of life. But I did spot what appeared to be the only source of light in this whole Goddamned town (aside from the full moon, the inadequate porch light and the 2nd story window): A single street lamp that flickered a yellow glow at least two blocks away. 

    Another gaslight?

    I quickly spun around and hurried to the end of the path and looked up and down the street. None of the houses on the other side, or as far I could see, had any lights on. I didn’t know what time it was, so it was either very late and everyone had hit the sack for the night or the whole town was deserted. I was hoping for the former of the two possibilities. But there was one little thing that leaned towards the latter: No cars! Not one. Not even a beat up old pick-up truck. 

    Now. With the presence of gaslights and the absence of motorized vehicles, not only was I wondering where I’ve ended up, but when!

    Time Travel?

    Time travel. What the fuck was I thinking. It’s wonderful fodder for storytellers such as H. G. Wells and Irwin Allen, but that’s all it was. Time travel. Geez. 

    Just as I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, it dawned on me that I didn’t know who I was? I couldn’t even remember what I looked like. I started to frantically pat down the jeans and denim jacket (that I just realized I was wearing) for a wallet or some sort of clue as to my identity, but only came up with a business card I plucked from the left breast pocket of the jacket. It read: Dr. Justidian Marz. Personal Advisor. The Gang Busted Inn. 13 Nugatory Way, Suite 2-C. I stared at the card for I don’t know how long trying to figure out if I was this Dr. Marz or was he the reason I was here?

    My legs and feet suddenly alerted me to their need for rest. They were killing me. I felt as if I had been walking forever.  And my crinkled nose reminded me that I also needed a nice, hot shower; my teeth felt like I had pancake mix on them and my stomach began to make those hollow go-ing go-ing sounds of hunger.

    “Ah shit,” I moaned. I was simply too tired, thirsty and hungry for any of this Stephen King shit! But still and all, I had to find out what was going on and my only clue was in The House of the Seven Gables here. 

    Probably in the room with the flickering light on the second floor. 

    Behind the door with 2-C tacked to its face.

    I slipped the card back into my pocket and began walking up the path while trying to remember something, anything that’d shed some light on this whole spooky situation. Maybe I could at least see what I looked like. I thought maybe there’d be a mirror in the old house, but thought better of the idea. I might turn out look like Ernest Borgnine and that’d certainly would add some nasty icing to this already bizarre cake.

    As I mentally blew on some tiny, glowing embers of recollection, I was suddenly gripped by fear that stopped me dead in my tracks. A fear so raw and primal, that it stripped me of my ability to think rationally, leaving me like some cave-dwelling thing cowering from its first experience with a blinding flash of lightning or a deafening clap of thunder. Tingling beads of sweat began to run down my face, back and chest like a thousand baby cockroaches scurrying to the safety of darkness after the flicking of a kitchen light switch. I began to shiver uncontrollably and I thought I was on the verge of convulsing. Suddenly my knees buckled, but I drew on all the inner strength I could muster to remain standing. I violently shook it off as I dry-scrubbed my face with both hands and took a deep greedy breath through my nose then blew it out my mouth as I ran the fingers of both hands through my short-cropped hair. It was sodden and spiked and itched as if a few of those roaches had headed north and found refuge on my scalp. I gazed down and noticed the thin layer of red dust on my clothing. And that my boots were encrusted with dried red mud.

    Red mud?

    Am I in Tennessee?

    Kentucky? 

    I voraciously sucked down a few more of the much-needed gulps of air to fortify me before continuing up the path to the house. 

    I reluctantly mounted the first of the four worn, wooden steps that led to the porch, then made short work of the seven foot distance to the screen door and reached down to grab the tarnished handle. The very second I felt the cold metal beneath my hand, that suffocating dread returned, but ten times as intense. It pounced on me like some cold, hungry thing. Its weight forced me painfully to my knees. But I didn’t release my white-knuckled grasped on the screen door handle. I couldn’t. I irrationally thought if I were to let go, the cold, hungry thing would drag me off into the bushes and devour me whole.

    “Oh God! That was not good,” I muttered just above a hoarse whisper. I remained on my knees, still holding on to the handle. I simply could not get to my feet. My body felt as if someone had removed my skeleton and left this gelatinous mass feebly mumbling entreaties to an indifferent deity.

    “What in hell is happening to me?” I wondered aloud, then began to breathe deeply through my nose, then exhaled slowly through my mouth again until some functioning measure of control returned, or at least until I could feel my bones again.

    With great effort, I pulled myself to my feet. My legs were still a little wobbly. I took another deep breath, then pulled the screen door open and was greeted by a huge, marred mahogany door. I held the screen door opened with my right foot then grabbed the dull, brass doorknob, twisted and pushed my way into the shadow-cast lobby. The door creaked a warning. It said to get the hell out of town and don’t look back. To be on the safe side, I gingerly poked my head in first before committing myself to full entry. Based on the exterior of the hotel, the lobby was exactly as I expected it to appear: The lighting was gloomy and there were layers of dust everywhere; there was no sign of a clerk at the check-in desk that stood approximately 30 feet in front of me; no guests standing around in clumps of three or four passing the time with idle chit-chat; no one sitting about in the deteriorating, knock-off Art Deco style furniture reading the evening edition of The Ass-end of the World Gazette. Not even any telltale signs that anyone had ever graced these premises: No cigarette butts in ashtrays or empty cups of coffee. All I did detect the unpleasant odor of mildew and decay and years of neglect. All in all, the joint had all the cheeriness and warmth of a burial catacomb in a Roger Corman film. 

    I closed my eyes for a second or two and listened for any sounds of activity from the remainder of the hotel. But heard nothing. Not the murmuring of wall-muted voices of people entrenched in stimulating conversation. Not the jovial laughter of newlyweds on the first leg of their honeymoon. 

    Nothing. 

    Dead silence.

    I shivered from the unnatural hush.

    I noticed I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Shivering, I mean.

    I stepped inside and closed the door behind me and began looking around for an elevator or stairs. No elevator, but I did spot the bottom three steps of a flight of stairs poking around from a wall located 20 or so feet right of the front desk. 

    My body became tense with the anticipation of a possible attacked as I stealthily made short work of the distance that separated me from that bottom step. I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared. Just because I didn’t see or hear a soul, didn’t mean there wasn’t anybody here.

    Before I mounted the first step, I studied the winding staircase while intently listening.

    Nothing.

    I mounted the first carpeted step.

    It moaned the same warning the door did.

    Just as I raised my other foot, a Reed-thin man with a cadaverous face suddenly appeared at the top of the steps. His eyes were bloodshot and wild with insane intent; the front of his torn white shirt was stained with fresh blood. He had a fireman’s ax clasped tightly in his bony, necrotic hands. I was frozen in my tracks as he held me in his hypnotic gaze. Then without warning, he silently flew down the steps with the ax raised over his head. I tightly squeezed my eyes closed, raised my 

arms and prepared to block the first of many blows I was certain would follow, while frantically mumbling a prayer to that apathetic Supreme Being again. 

    But nothing happened.

    No skull splitting blow.

    No searing pain.

    Nothing.

    I opened one eye, expecting the worst, and peered between my forearms. 

    The madman was gone. Once I was satisfied he or it had truly vanished, I opened the other eye as I lowered my arms and fell against the wall. 

    “Whoa!” I exclaimed in a combination of relief and bewilderment. “What the fuck was that!?” I then turned and plopped my butt down on the third step and rested my elbows on my knees and allowed my head to fall forward. “What? I’m hallucinating now?” I asked no one in particular between gasping breaths.

    I began entertaining the notion of accepting the advice of the door and the step. The suffocating anxiety attack I experienced on the front porch was bad enough, but I draw the line on ax wielding hallucinations. 

    I sat erect and stretched. I then began to rapidly scratch my itchy scalp with the fingers of both hands. Once I was satisfied all the roaches were dead, I finger-combed my hair back, then dry-scrubbed my face. 

    With the completion of my nerve-settling ritual, I stood with shaky resolve, turned around and continued on my way up the stairs to the answers and whatever fate was waiting for me behind door number 2-C.

    The image of a Monty Hall from hell suddenly popped into my mind.

    When I reached the second floor landing, it wasn’t necessary for me to hunt the room down, there it was, right in front of me. A big black door with 2-C sloppily painted in fire engine red on the top panel.

    But in lieu of moving forward, I just stood there staring at that inky-black, foreboding portal that obscured my view of the answers I needed. And a few nasty secrets I was certain I could do without.

    After a few minutes of my wasted attempt at procrastinating, I decided it was time to get this over with, but the signals my brain were sending to my right foot seemed to be getting lost along my neural pathways. I could not move, yet I was compelled to enter that odious chamber. In addition to my identity and why I was here, I felt there was something else. Some task, hidden from my consciousness that I had to perform. But each time I took a little dip in my Deep Purple Sea of Memory to salvage what that something might be, the sharks of nondisclosure would come and chase me away. 

    I was steeped in a pit of enigma: I needed to enter that room for the answers I felt I’d find there, then on the other hand, alarms were flashing in my head warning me to stay away.

     I didn’t know what to do.

    While I weighed the problem in my head, I began to study the peeling wallpaper with its disturbing checker-board pattern; then down at the various shapes formed by the numerous stains that marred the faded, use-frayed and neglected gray carpeting that lay beneath my boots. I reluctantly returned my attention to that damned, loathsome door, then to anything else in the hallway. To the moth banging against the windowpane at the left-end of the hall. The fly that alighted on the door just below the 2. As my gaze strayed from the fly and I began to study every contour and line of that lackluster hallway, I searched the various pockets of my denim jacket for the pack of Newport I expected to find, but came up empty. The peculiar thing was, I couldn’t remember ever being a smoker. Suddenly, I heard coughing from behind the door. Actually, it was closer to deep, body rattling hacking. The kind one would hear from a two-pack-a-day non-filtered Camel smoker in the morning, just before they had that first cup of black coffee. There was something disturbingly familiar about that cough, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it. As a result, my compulsion and apprehension were slowly giving way to curiosity. 

    I traversed the distance between where I stood and the door in three long strides. I gazed down at the tarnished brass doorknob, then up at the 2-C then back down at the doorknob. I took a deep breath before reaching down to grab it. But just as my fingertips were about to make contact, the brass globe suddenly metamorphosed into a huge, hissing cobra head with burning red eyes, glistening fangs and a bright blue extended tongue. 

    “WHOA!” I exclaimed and reflexively pulled back my hand while leaping backwards into the air, nearly toppling down the stairs when I landed. I stood there trembling with a mixture of fear and rage and confusion. I looked over to the knob to discover that’s all it was: Just a doorknob. No fangs. No hissing. No hateful red eyes. No nasty blue tongue. Just a fucking doorknob.

    “THAT’S IT! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!” I bellowed then rushed to the door at full speed and threw my body against it and it burst inward in a explosion of wood splinters and shards of paint and plaster. As I stood in the dark room, just beyond the threshold,  rubbing my sore shoulder and my chest heaving in anger, I detected the familiar scent of Bay Rum. It wafted its way to my nostrils on a lazy, cool, breeze. I closed my eyes and was nearly swooned by the aroma. For a split second, I was 7 years old again and was magically teleported to the warmth and security of my Grandfather’s lap. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and we were watching football in the living room of my parents’ home. All my fear and anger suddenly melted away. I was suddenly blanketed by a sweet, warm, carefree thoughts of a happy child. My denim jacket and jeans seemed to be miraculously transformed into a woolen suit of amour that possessed the durability of steel and the nurturing tenderness of a mother’s embrace. Even my shoulder stopped throbbing and legs and feet no longer ached.

    I confidently opened my eyes. 

    As my vision cleared, the image of a big, old man began to take on recognizable shape: He was dressed in a loose-fitting white cotton suit. He was seated at a wooden table with three matching chairs of a simple, Country design. The old man was seated in the chair facing me, the second, and the third an old overcoat draped over it. The left sleeve appeared to have a small, black egg-shaped stain on it.

    The old man sat there smiling up at me. His eyes were warm and inviting and his cheeks were rosy and robust. On top of this pleasant facial arrangement sat a full-head snow-white hair.

    The room was dark save for the area the old man was sitting. An ancient, hooded, brass, gas-burning lamp, that hung from the ceiling and  provided roughly a five foot circle of yellow, flickering light. 

    My eyes involuntarily darted about the remainder of the room and I saw it had a bare open window to the left. I correctly deduced it was the window I saw from outside. The cool night breeze filled the room with a strangely comforting chill as the light of the full moon splashed wan pools onto the marred, hardwood floor.  Immediately to the left of the bottle and brochure, was a shot glass with traces of the amber liquid that formed a tiny pool at its bottom. To the right of the bottle, a non-filtered cigarette smoldered in a glass ashtray. It was destined to join its nineteen brothers that had already met their snubbed-out fate. Plumes of blue smoke made their leisurely escape towards the ceiling, only to be captured by the awaiting darkness.  Just right of the ashtray, an empty pack of Lucky Strike lay flat with an old pockmarked silver Zippo lighter lying by its side. To the right of the lighter, a fresh pack with its cellophane seal still intact. On the table opposite the old man  rested another bottle with the government tax strip unbroken. To its right, an unused shot glass. 

    I assumed the set up was for me.

    It would appear I had been expected. 

    But how?

    “It wasn’t locked,” the old man informed me with an accent I could not readily identify. His voice was rich and deep. I heard that warning again. I then released my hold and came around and sat down, but I didn’t pull up to the table. I wanted to maintain a little distance between this stranger and myself. 

    “Where am I?” I asked, as the last liquid cockroach ran down the length of my nose, dangled from the tip for a scant second before dropping to my awaiting lap below.

    “We’ve already gone over this. You’re in the township of Nugatory,” he patiently informed me as his eyes followed the progress of the droplet, then said: “May I suggest you remove your jacket. Evidently it’s too warm in here for you” 

    “No!” I blurted out.  “It’s comfortable. It’s just that I’m somewhat anxious.”

    “Anxious?” he repeated. “About what?”

    “Not knowing who or where I am tends to do the trick. I’m funny that way,” I said, but in reality, I honestly couldn’t recall if I were actually funny that way or not.

    “Well. We’ve established where. Now. Have you checked your person for any identification?” he asked in a grandfatherly manner that I found both comforting and disturbing.

    I nodded. “Nothing,” I told him, then placed my hand on the left breast pocket of my jacket then patted it. “Well, nothing except for a business card with this room number printed on it.” 

    I reached into the pocket and pulled free the object in question, then stretched out my arm over the table. He in turn, leaned forward, reached out and relieved me of the small white rectangle and compared with a similar card he had pulled from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

    “They appear to be identical,” he said after a cursory perusal, then returned it to me.

    “Then you are this Dr. Justidian Marz,” it was more of a statement than a question, as I waved the card at shoulder height.

    “The one and only,” he boasted. “And you?”

    “I don’t know,” I confessed as I absent-mindedly slipped the card back into my pocket.

    “No matter,” he dismissed with a flick of his wrist. “Identities tend to prevent us from discovering who we truly are, anyway. Would you be a different person had your name been Ralph in lieu of whatever?”

    “A rose by any other name, huh?”

    “Exactly!”

    “But I still would like to know where I am.”

    “I’ve already told you, twice. You’re in the Township of Nugatory.  Your amnesia appears to be effecting your short term memory as well.” 

    “And where exactly is Nugatory?”

    He frowned, then sighed before answering. “Why...Here. All around you. As far as your legs can carry and your eyes can see......It’s all Nugatory, my boy.”

    “What’s the time and date?” I asked, changing the subject. It suddenly didn’t matter where I was anymore.

    “What time and date would you care for it to be?”

    I sighed while dry-scrubbing my face with my right hand, then fixed the old man with a fatigued stare. “Could you at least give me a straight answer to that question?”

    “As you wish. Tuesday the 15th of March,” he told me as he extended his right arm to reveal his wristwatch, and then peered down at it. “And it’s exactly 2:03 am.”

    “It’s fortunate for you that your name is not Caesar.”

    “Why? Would you have been my Brutus?” he asked as he eyed me suspiciously. 

    “You’re the town GP or shrink?” I suddenly asked, needing to change the subject again.

    “My no. My field is Order and Chaos and their Application,” he said, as he reached inside his jacket and pulled free a business card, then halted the gesture once he remembered I was already in possession of one, and returned it to its resting place.     

    “How can you apply both Order and Chaos?” I asked while frowning. “Wouldn’t they cancel each other out?”

    “Nooooo. They have been friends and lovers since before recorded time. Without one, the other wouldn’t exist. Like Good and Evil. God and Satan. Cheating spouses and divorce lawyers.”

    I couldn’t help but smile. “What do you do here besides waxing the obscure, smoking cigarettes and drinking bourbon?”

    “I’m what you would call the town’s advisor. Uh....Father Confessor, if you will.”

    Jesus, I thought, if this nutbox was the town guidance counselor, then these people, if any, were in more trouble than the attendees of a sentiency seminar chaired by an autistic. “So. You’re sort of a philosophical shrink without the drugs?”

    “You could say that,” he conceded and held up his full shot glass then downed it. 

    “Interesting.”

    “Now,” he said as he filled his shot glass then brought it to his lips and emptied its contents with lip-smacking relish then placed the empty glass back on the table. “What’s your name?”

    “The answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked,” I reminded him.

    “And that was.......?”

    “I. Don’t. Know.” 

    Dr. Marz was silent for a moment or two as he was studying me and I could only assume he was mulling over the plausibility of my answer.

    “Curiouser and curiouser,” he finally uttered. “Then what brings you to our quaint little hamlet?”

    “I don’t know that either,” I replied.

    “You don’t know?” he incredulously asked.

    “Haven’t a clue,” I credibly replied. “Other than your card.”

    “Then why are you here?” he asked as he poured himself another shot and brought it up to chest-level. “Are you here to see me?”

    “I’m afraid.......” I trailed off with a shrug and a slight shake of my perplexed head.

    “Evidently, you’ve either suffered some sort of cranial trauma that has rendered your memory inoperable or you laboring under the assumption that the only purpose my brain serves is to keep my skull from collapsing,” he said in an accusatory tone.

    “I don’t know what you mean,” I lied.

    “Genuine amnesia or I’m a gullible, drooling, old fool,” he said sternly. 

    “Well Doctor, since I don’t really know you that well, I’m gonna havta go with the amnesia.”

    “That’s a unique talent of which you possess,” he commented, while continuing to hold the full shot glass.

    “What?”

    “The ability of tact and insult all in the same breath.”

    I shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

    “Can you at least recall by what means you arrived?” 

    “I don’t know. I guess I walked judging from the shape of my legs and feet. And from the grungy condition of my boots and clothing, it had to be a good distance. But from where? I couldn’t tell you.”

    “They certainly do appear to a little worse for wear, hmm?,” he agreed after peering under the table. He then finally threw down the bourbon. “That’s all? You don’t remember anything else?”

    “No. My memory seems to start with me standing in front of this hotel staring down at your card,” I told him then knitted my brow into a question mark.

    “You want to ask something?”

    “Well, yes,” I said. But given my present circumstances, I was a little embarrassed even thinking about a something so trivial. But then again, this is the Township of Nugatory, now isn’t it?

    “Well?” he gently prodded.

    “Who named this hotel?” 

    “’The Gang Busted Inn’? “

    I nodded. 

    “Well. Back in the 30’s, this establishment was frequented by such personalities as John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow and other individuals of similar repute. Well, the then hotel manager, Mortimer Nevins would ask, the then desk clerk, Willie Barnes why the suites were bulging with criminals? Willie would promptly reply: ‘Don’t look at me! The gang busted in!’”

    “I guess it kinda stuck, huh?”

    “Like bubblegum to your shoe on a Dog Day afternoon.”

    “Criminals still don’t...ahh.......you know..?”

    “Oh, no,” he began to assured me, as he reached for the fresh pack of cigarettes, then changed his mind and leaned back. “Not since Melvin Purvis and his associates tracked them down and either arrested or outright killed them.” 

    “Melvin who?” I asked, not having the slightest inkling as to whom he referred.    

    “Purvis. Why he was the most decorated FBI agent in bureau history. Not as widely known as that show-boater Ness of course, but that does not detract from the man’s considerable accomplishments in the way of hunting down the 10 most wanted and promptly dispatching them.”

    “You sound like a fan.”

    “Not of Purvis, per se, but of his effectiveness. His lack of foot-dragging when it came to dealing with the criminal element. Of course he didn’t have to contend with the political restraints by which present day law enforcement is bound.”

    “The adversarial judicial system is politically self-serving. The due-process of law has actually become an neglected incidental,” I pointed out, but I hadn’t the slightest idea where that opinion came from. I then added, much to my bewilderment: “It would appear that Juris Prudence has lost, or maybe given away, a great deal of her sagacity.”

    “How astute,” he praised, obviously impressed. “How very astute.”

    “It was nothing,” I said, but I was actually very impressed with myself.

    “Your Stanford-Binet\Weschler must be high.”

    “I wouldn’t know. I don’t recall ever being tested,” I said. “But of course, I don’t recall much of anything.”

    “Be that as it may, I would love to subject that impressive mind of yours to a series of exhaustive tests,” he told me. “Including my own E and SQ exams.”

    “What’re those?”

    “Emotional, and Sociological Quotients,” he clarified. “By the way, by what name would you care to be called? After all, I must call you something, hmm?”

    “Joe!” I blurted out without hesitation. It was either my actual name or one I liked. I hadn’t a clue which.

    “Joe,” he repeated slowly as if savoring the last morsel of a fine meal.  “I like it. Monosyllabic and simply.”

    “And what do I call you?” I asked. 

    “You may call me what everyone else does,” he said then fell silent.

    I waited a few moments. “Well?”

    “The Doctor !” he exclaimed. “Forgive me. As my mortality comes into focus, my mind loses a tad of its own focus. Everyone in Nugatory calls me The Doctor.”

    “Like who,” I said.

    “Who?” he asked, his face failed to conceal his confusion.

    “Doctor Who. It was a British Sci-Fi series that ran on the Tele practically forever. He was a time traveler sailing the temporal seas in a vessel called a Tardis. The supporting characters called him The Doctor,” I really didn’t have a clue as to how I knew all this.

    “Please forgive my lack of knowledge on the subject,” he offered contritely, then pursed his lips. “I’ve never been much of a Sci-Fi fan.”

    “No need to apologize,” I offered. “It’s understandable.”

    “It is?” he said, suddenly vexed. “So you fully comprehend what it is to wither with age and eventually grow feeble and die, do you?”

    “Yes. In a way. My Grandfather,” I said without hesitation, as my eyes began to sting and the pit of my stomach painfully hitched, knotted and burned. “He was once a vibrant and active man, such as yourself, whom I loved, probably more than my own parents, and I had to watch as his mind was ravaged by Alzheimer’s and his body by lung cancer right up to the moment of his death. Between the accelerated senility, the hacking and the chemotherapy....Well.....Uh......God, this hurts. He didn’t even recognize me as I held his hand when he closed his eyes for the last time.”

    “Would you have been happier if you had died with him?”

    “No. I guess not,” I said with a shrug without being absolutely certain. My mind, without warning, suddenly plunged into that Deep Purple Sea of Memory again in an attempt to salvage further recollections. I watched, with my Mind’s Eye, as bits of my past floated to the surface: I saw the smiling, cherry-cheeked face of my Grandfather bob in the purple water. I closed The Eye and listened to one of his never ending supply of funny stories he would tell me when he saw I was down in the dumps; I felt the warmth of his barrel chest against my cheek as I sat in his lap; I could hear his infectious and blustering laughter that would fill my parents’ living room as easily as a football stadium. Then the darkness came and brought bitter sadness along for company. I was 8 and staring into an oblong shiny black box with a shrunken, pallid little stranger lying within. The sweet, sickly stench of a kaleidoscopic array of flowers filled the funeral home and my nostrils until my skull threatened to burst..........  

    “Are you okay, Joe?” Marz asked, freeing me from my bitter\sweet reverie.

    “Pardon?”

    “Are you okay?” he asked again. “You appeared to have left me for a second or two.”

    “No. I’m fine,” I assured him as the desire for a drink and a cigarette became overwhelming.

    “What was your Grandfather’s name, by the way?” he suddenly asked.

    But in lieu of immediately answering, I stared into the darkness just above his shock of white hair, trying to clear the images from my mind. I then slid my chair closer to the table and shifted my gaze to the bourbon bottle. I stared at it for I don’t know how long before I slowly and deliberately reached for it, broke the seal and poured myself a shot, then placed the bottle back down on the table. But before I brought the shot glass to my lips, I asked, “May I have one of your cigarettes?”

    “On the table,” he said as he gestured.

    I looked down, and much to my surprise, spotted the familiar turquoise and white design of my own brand. Why didn’t I notice the pack before? And how did he know? I reached over and retrieved the cigarettes, pulled free the cellophane strip, thumbed back the lid, removed the protective-foil and availed myself of one of the white cylinders. With the cigarette dangling between my lips I waited for The Doctor to join me, and as if on cue, he retrieved his Luckys from the table and performed a similar opening ritual. He then tapped the top of the packet on his left index finger until three of the white cylinders made an appearance. He brought the pack to his mouth and clamped down on the cigarette that extended the farthest with his lined lips, then slowly leaned forward and dropped the pack on the table and grabbed his lighter. 

    I watched the Doctor and was disturbed by his eerie resemblance to my Grampa Joe. 

    Grampa Joe!?

    “Thank you,” I said with sincere appreciation.

    “You’re very welcome,” he said as he flipped the cover of the lighter with his thumb, then flicked the wheel with the same thumb. On the third try the flame burst to life and he extended the lighter in my direction. I leaned forward until the tip of my cigarette made contact with the flame and I began puffing. I inhaled deeply as I sat back in the chair. The smoke was as welcome as a lover after a long absence. I then tilted my face skyward and exhaled a great plume of powder-gray smoke into the awaiting darkness. 

    “Thank you.  I needed that,” I gratefully conveyed as I reached down for the shot glass filled with the Tennessee-distilled Ambrosia and held it high in a traditional toasting gesture. “And for this.” 

    “Anytime, my boy. Anytime,” he said, smiling, as his lighted his own cigarette, leaned back. “To Nugatory!”

    I smiled and nodded, then brought the shot glass to my lips and tilted my head back and the bourbon entered my mouth. I allowed the amber liquid to linger on my tongue and float over my teeth before I swallowed and felt that sweet burning in my chest as it made its way down to my empty stomach. 

    Marz and I placed our glasses back on the table simultaneously, but it was I who first refilled our respective glasses and threw down another shot. I was already experiencing the warm, welcomed embrace of the alcohol. My skinned glowed and my scalp stopped itching and began to tingle. 

    “Joseph!” I finally answered The Doctor’s all but forgotten question. And for some reason, I was angry. No! It was beyond simple anger. Rage! But not the rage of an adult, but that of a child. A hurt and confused 8-year-old little boy.

    “But family and friends called him Joe, didn’t they?” he asked as he refilled his glass.

    I nodded in the affirmative as I availed myself another deep pull from my cigarette.

    “It would appear that your amnesia possesses a quirky selective quality,” he theorized then pulled deeply on his cigarette, inhaled, then exhaled a stream of smoke towards the table. “Then we have a base on which to build now, don’t we?”

    “I suppose so,” I said while wondering why this total stranger would care enough to want to help me regain my memory.

    “You were angry a moment ago, weren’t you?” Marz asked from behind a cloud of smoke.

    “Yes,” I confessed, then grabbed the bottle and took a long pull from its neck in lieu of using the shot glass. “And.... I’m...still angry,” I admitted between burning gasps.

    “Were you angry at your Grandfather for leaving you?”

    “NO!” I bellowed as I slammed the bottle down on the table. “AT MY PARENTS FOR LETTING HIM SHRIVEL UP AND DIE!”

    I fell silent with embarrassment for my outburst. I sheepishly stared down at my hands as I rubbed them together. Meanwhile, The Doctor studied me with a compassionate eye. He neither puffed on the cigarette dangling from his lips nor poured himself another drink; he just sat and studied. I could almost feel my Grandfather gazing at me from behind those sympathetic eyes of a stranger.

    “Sorry,” I whispered.

    “Apologies are not needed between friends,” he said, then tilted his head slightly to the right and smiled.

    I didn’t know how to respond to his last statement. Consequently, I did not. I simply moved on to another topic as if those words had never ventured past his lips. I didn’t know why his offering of friendship moved me, I just know that it did.

    “What’s the population of this town?” I asked then reached over and helped myself to another cigarette. The joviality drained from The Doctor’s face as if someone had pulled a plug from the back of his skull. He sat and studied me once again, but count since no one actually resides in Nugatory.”

    “Of course people live here.”

    “No. Not really. Try, if you will, to picture this place as sort of the waiting area in a bus depot or at an airport.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    “Every arrival is merely a respite until they continue on to their actual destination.”

    “So the sole purpose of coming here is to take a breather, then you’re off again.”

     “Not by design. Nugatory is a place that you unintentionally end up until you can determine where your actual destination will be.”

    “No one has set down any roots?” I incredulously asked. “No one owns any homes or businesses here?” 

    “I didn’t say that.”

    “Then what are you saying?” 

    “What I’m saying is that the aforementioned roots do not run deep. The outward signs of permanence are an illusion and the amount of time spent here is irrelevant.”

    “It’s very confusing.” 

     “Only if your need does not coincide with the purpose for which this town was designed and maintained.”

    “Hold on,” I said while attempting to make head or tails of what he was attempting to explain. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight: The plan was to create a permanent town for temporary people.” 

    “By George! I think he’s got it!” Marz exclaimed in his best Rex Harrison impression.    

    “Don’t you think that’s a little......ah...nuts?” 

    “Not when you’re one of the people for whom this little hamlet was constructed,” he pointed out with a beaming smile.

    “But didn’t you say that they couldn’t survive in the outside world?”

    “No. I don’t recall saying that. But it is an interesting point you’ve brought up. There lies the dichotomy that exists in us all.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    “Haven’t you performed some task that every bit of logic or instinct of preservation or what have you, strongly dictated an opposite course of action should be taken?”

    “Matter of fact,” I began as I stabbed a thumb over my right shoulder and forced a smile. “Coming into this hotel and busting through that door immediately comes to mind.”

    “Then there you have it,” he said obviously pleased by my confirmation, then reached for another cigarette. “Look. We are finite beings, are we not?”

    “I suppose so.”

    “We’re allotted...What? 80 some-odd years on this retched little dung ball...?”

    “That’s a given. What’s your point?” I asked, even though I had an inkling of where he was going with this.

    “Then we’re all temporary,” he said. “Permanence is an illusion. A pretentious method to ensure some self-deluding semblance of permanence and immortality. Everyone on this planet should collectively snatch up their personal lexicons and white-out the words: Eternity; forever; permanent; everlasting.....Well, you get the gist.”

    “In that case,” I chimed in. “Since we’re not exactly a peaceful species and not particularly bright either, that 10% of the brain thing and all, we may as well blue pencil: Perfection; altruism; utopia..........”

    Marz sudden burst into laughter. “I see your amnesia has not effected your penetrating observations of the world, my boy,” he praised between guffaws while wiping his eyes free of glee-born tears with the back of his gloved right hand.

    “Apparently not,” I said, then smiled. “Then you agree with me?”

    “Agree with what?” he asked as he wiped away the last tear.

    “That there’s neither a point in having words that we can’t define with our actions nor ideals we are morally incapable of realizing?”

    “Wholeheartedly, my boy. Wholeheartedly,” he eagerly agreed then, once again, doubled-over. His head nearly bounced the table.

    I could not help smiling. But it was an uncomfortable smile. I waited patiently for a full two minutes listening for the hee-haw to subside, while longing for lazy Sunday afternoons watching football. 

    He wiped both eyes with the backs of both hands simultaneously as he regained a level of control behavior that would be conducive towards continuing our dialogue without suddenly bursting into peels of chortling.

    “My. My. That felt good,” he said. “I haven’t experienced a good side-splitter like that in years.”

    “Glad to be of service,” I said with a frown.

    “No. No, my lad. Don’t misunderstand. I wasn’t laughing at you, per se. It just the irony of it all.”

    “Irony?”

    “Well. It struck me as funny that I’m speaking with an amnesiac who happens to have an incomparable perspicacious vision and greater pertinacious grasp of reality than most people with their memories completely intact.”

    “I live to serve,” I said with a courtly nod of my head.

    “As do we all,” he added accompanied by a gallant gesture of his own as his face turned a cherry-red. “Whether we like or not!”

    “You’re not going to........?” 

    “No. No,” he interrupted. “I promise to control myself.”

    “Are you married, Doctor?” I suddenly asked, not knowing why.

    He suddenly grimaced, as if in pain. “No.”

    “From your expression, something tells me that the word divorce has a lot to do with that no.” 

    “You have an annoyingly incisive mind, young man, but in this case it has failed you.”

    “Then you’re a widower.”

    “Yes,” he admitted with great reluctance. “For many years now.”

    “What happened?” I unintentionally, but no less, indelicately probed.

    “Suffice it to say that many unpleasant things occurred before the Grim Reaper did what he does best.”

    “Apparently. But what happened?”

    His face turned as cold and hard as a gravestone. “And it is equally apparent, that you have not included suffice in your personal lexicon. You should learn when you’ve hit upon a rather sensitive subject that whatever answers you are given, regardless of how vague, should be accepted as satisfactory.”

    “Chalk it up to the probing nature of youth, “I said with a flippant shrug.

    The harsh lines in his face suddenly softened as he studied my curious and expectant eyes for an uncomfortable moment or two before he diverted his beseeching gaze to his hands that were joined and resting on the table. He looked at them as if they were in possession of some answers, some bits of advice that could offer him some avenue of escape from my question. He suddenly disengaged them, snatched his bourbon bottle up by its neck and refilled his shot glass, brought it up to lips and tossed the amber liquid down his throat. He grimaced from the burning of the Jack Daniels without experiencing his customary enjoyment. He then lighted a fresh cigarette, even though he had one already burning in the ashtray. He exhaled a large cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, slowly tilted his head down and fixed my youthful, worry-free eyes with his ancient, pained ones. 

    “It was many years ago,” he began as some residual smoke lazily escaped his mouth and nostrils. “I met her in a coffee house in New York’s Greenwich Village during the height of the McCarthy Witch Hunts. She was a screenwriter that was blackballed and was forced to move out of Hollywood and sew her creative seeds in far more receptive and fertile ground. Hence, she came to New York and chose The Great White Way. But McCarthy’s insidious tendrils of influence were far reaching. She was summarily rejected by all of the producers on Broadway who wished to remain on the favorable side of ‘The Hangman,’ as we dubbed McCarthy back then. Consequently, she set her sights a little lower and began to submit her work to the little theaters that peppered The Village. Fortunately, the acceptance and praise of her work were quick in the coming, but unfortunately not the financial rewards. When I met her, she had just spent her last dime on a cup of light and nauseatingly sweet coffee she had been nursing for the two hours prior to my arrival. From my vantage point, I could see she was agonizing over something. Not long after, I was informed it was how she was going to pay her rent that was already 3 months past due. As a results of her pained expression tugging at my heart strings and I summoned up the courage and I walked up to her table and introduced myself. One look into those captivating green eyes and I fell madly and passionately in love right on the spot. After I bought her dinner and gave her the money for her rent, then introduced her to some patrons of the bistro who were influential in The Theater, we left the I and had a night on the town. The days that followed, we spent every waking moment together on a mad carousel ride of long passionate nights of lovemaking and painfully short days of new discoveries. We were wed within the week of that fateful day. The following months were as if I were reborn. There were so many things I needed to see through her eyes, so many experiences to feel with her spirit, that I feared that a hundred lifetimes would simply not be enough time. But it all abruptly ended with the news of her pregnancy. I initially believed that bringing a new life into the world to share the love we had for one another and our passion for living  would make her immeasurably happy. But I could’ve been further from the truth. It seemed.....It seemed as the baby grew stronger in her womb, she became weaker in spirit. Her desire to write ebbed drastically until she ceased entirely. She became dark and brooding and subject to violent fits of temper at the slightest provocation. Her personal hygiene was adversely affected as well.  She would go for days on end without bathing or changing her clothes or simply splashing some water on her face in the morning. She displayed not the slightest concern for the product of our love that lied nestling in her womb. She continued to smoke and drink and do little else. But, by some miracle, the baby was born healthy and normal.”

    “What did you name him?” I asked, then I saw something in his eyes. A hidden truth. A buried pain. 

    He winced. “Simon. His name was Simon.”

    “Was?” I asked, and felt a sudden chill as if someone had just urinated on my grave. I then studied his agonizing eyes. I felt like the vilest of all rapists for pursuing something too painful for him even to think about, let alone tell another human being.     

    “On his 5th birthday...,” he hesitated and sighed forlornly, then continued with great effort. “On his 5th birthday........his mother dddecided that we had no right to bbring....bbbring a child into this cruel, stolid, corrupt wwwworld...........” he trailed off with a stammer as his eyes began to well up with stinging tears from the painful memory. “Consequently, while I was out purchasing items for a party we had planned, ssshe..........she sssstrangled my poor SiSiSimon as he......................sssslept,” he sighed, then fell silent and lowered his head. When he raised it again, I noticed something truly unexpected had occurred. A change had come over him. Control and focus had some how replaced the relived grief. It embraced him. Fortified him as he stared directly into my eyes and inhaled deeply, then exhaled a gust of cigarette and bourbon scented breath in my direction and continued his account in a steady monotone with no more passion than if he were checking off a grocery list. “I discovered Simon in his bed with a sickening mixture of terror and bewilderment and betrayal savagely etched on his normally angelic face. He was naked and she had positioned his soiled sheets beneath him to resemble wings. I surmised that she deemed that Angels had no place on this Earth. She on the other hand had met the end of her miserable existence in the fashion of all cowards: By her own hand. Her chosen method was a tub filled with hot water and my straight razor. The selfish, retched bitch even had the audacity of polishing off my last bottle of Napoleon brandy during the procedure. Not to fortify her courage, mind you. No. Not that! I mean......how much fucking courage does it take to strangle a little boy, anyway?!? It was simply an attempt to further deadening whatever morality and maternal instinct that remained!”

    “I’m.....So sorry,” I offered. My condolence seemed so damned lame. I knew full well that any attempt at consolation I could possibly dredge-up would be pitifully pale and inadequate in the light of his heinous disclosure.

    He then refilled his shot glass with mechanical deftness, quickly brought the bourbon to his awaiting lips, bent his head back and swallowed. But a single tear managed to escaped his stoic control and leisurely rolled down his left cheek, crept to his jawbone, inched its way down his neck and eventually vanished into the collar of his shirt. I could see the material darken to a powder gray as the salty bead of emotion spread throughout the small circle of fabric. He then leaned forward and fixed me with a gaze that was an impossible blend of homicidal rage, festering anguish, and undying gratitude. 

    “Thank you,” he said just above a hoarse whisper.

    “You’re welcome,” I said, but truly not knowing if his gratitude was directed at me or the Deity he learned about in Sunday school.

    “And no. I haven’t been with anyone else since,” he hissed. “I’ve managed to resist the genetic programming that compelled us all to seek out others of our kind.”

    “Well. I was going to ask, but changed my mind. In light of your.....well, you know, it no longer seemed appropriate.”    

    “Oh my dear, Joe,” he began with furrowed brow, as he placed his right hand upon his chest. “When you’ve laid open a man’s heart with the scalpel of inquisition, can continuing to probe be any more painful?”

    “I don’t know,” I timidly whisper.

    “Is it your amnesia the cause for this ignorance?”

    “No. Lack of experience,” I confessed as I grabbed the bottle of bourbon and poured myself a shot.

    “Hmm,” he muttered as he reached for his pack of cigarettes.

    “Well,” I said from behind the cigarette between my lips. “I’ve got this sneaking suspicion that anything else we discuss from this point on will appear a tad dull.”

    “I can’t argue with that,” he said while lighting his cigarette then tossed me the lighter.

    “By the way, what was her name?” I asked. “You probably didn’t notice, but not once did you refer to her by name during the entire account.”

    “Hadn’t I?” 

    “No.”

    “Well. Lucinda. Her name was Lucinda.”

    The very second he spoke the long dead woman’s name, I felt another chill and a torrent of memories came rushing into my mind. I then calmly rose from my seat, reached behind me and pulled a Walhter PPK .38 from the holster clipped to my jeans at the small of my back, brought the weapon around, raised my arm, aimed and fired a single round into the unexpected, yet calm face of Dr. Justidian Marz. The bullet entered his forehead causing his head to snap back, then forward into its previous position. His facial muscles to slacken. The bullet exited the back of his skull in a gory spray of brain, bone, blood and hair. Blood began to trickle from the corner of his gaping mouth, soaking the cigarette that still dangled from between his lips. His body then slowly inched forward until his ruined forehead made contact with the table with a sickening wet thump.

    I then returned the weapon to the holster and calmly exited the room. I had no thoughts of what I had just done as I made my way down the hallway, then to the stairs that lead to the lobby. 

    I leisurely walked out of the hotel and headed directly to the black, stretch Mercedes with the dark-tinted windows. It was evidently waiting for me. Its engine was purring a welcome.

    As I approached the rear left passenger door, its tinted window slowly rolled down to reveal a gaunt, wan face that I recognized, but sans the fond memories. 

    “Is it done?” he asked.

    “Yes, Lazlo. It is done,” I stoically replied. “But why was it necessary?”

    “Get in,” he commanded as the door slowly opened. 

    I complied without question or hesitation. 

    “Why was it necessary?” I asked again while staring straight ahead at the tinted glass partition that separated us from the driver.

     “We’ve been experiencing a bit of difficulty with you carrying out your assignments,” he began as he splashed some Napoleon brandy into a crystal snifter. He then leaned forward and knocked on the partition and the driver threw the limo into drive and we pulled away from the curb. Lazlo then sat back and started patting himself down for his cigar case. 

    “You’ve been resisting your programming. Consequently, in lieu of scrapping a valuable piece of hardware, such as you, we thought we’d take measures to correct the glitch.”

    I slowly swiveled my head in his direction, “What are you talking about? What programming? What glitch?”

    “Shit!” he exclaimed in annoyance. “I told Ferguson not to frag your sentient subroutine. To put it as gently as I know how: You’re a glorified toaster. An expensive collection of microprocessors and servo-motors that The Factory whipped up.”

    “What?” 

    “An android.”

    “That’s impossible!” I heatedly denied, then grabbed my left arm pitch the skin between my index finger and thumb. “That’s flesh,  and there’s blood and bone under there! FEEL IT!”

    “That flesh is made from a tri-polymer compound stretched over your bones that comprise your aluminum-titanium alloy skeleton. Your blood is a coolant because you’re nuclear powered.”

    “But I have emotions!” I bellowed in anger and confusion. “I sweat! I experience thirst and hunger. I can eat and drink! Hell! I still have a buzz on from all the damned bourbon I drank!”

    “Made possible by Ferguson’s hi-tech wizardry and ingenious programming.”

    “I can’t be just a damned machine,” I mumbled in despair while I hoped I was dreaming I was an adult and would soon awake in the comfort and sanity of my Grandfather’s lap.

    “Oh really, “ Lazlo said, then casually placed his brandy down on the bar and suddenly lunged toward me and sliced my left forearm with a long bladed knife that appeared from nowhere. He closed the knife and returned it to his jacket pocket, then retrieved his brandy, sat back and smiled.

     I stared at him as if he had gone completely mad as my arm bled. But the odd thing was, I felt no pain. Sensation yes, but no pain. Then suddenly, the gaping wound began to quickly mend right before my bewildered eyes. Within seconds there was no evidence of wound save for the blood.

     “What the ......?”  I uttered in amazement as I palpated my arm.

    “Nanites,” said Lazlo off-handedly. “Any damage is instantaneously repaired. Nice work, huh?”

    “How is this possible? This technology is decades away!”

    “Does Roswell, New Mexico ring any bells? Besides, you’ll  have to ask Ferguson about. I’m merely a Field Supervisor.”

    I sat rubbing my arm and thinking that there had to be some other explanation. If there wasn’t, and wasn’t  I going completely insane, then this slimy bastard was telling the truth. “It’s a.....a...advanced prosthetic arm. It just has to be.”

    “No. It’s not. And no amount of rationalizing is going to change that.”

    “Then I take it, I don’t have a Grampa Joe?”

    “Programming.”

    “No Sunday afternoons watching football.......?”

    “None. More of Ferguson’s programming.”

    “I experience severe anxiety attacks and hallucinations. Do you know anything about that?”

    “Yes. Ferguson wanted additional tests. He wanted to see if you’d carry out your assignment regardless of the obstacle.”

    “So they were programs to stop me.”

    “Well, lets say.......Added difficulties.”

    When I “I seem to be experiencing difficulty ac.....” my God. My Dear Sweet God. It’s true. “Accessing my memories. Would you mind telling me my real name or at least what I’m called?”

    “SAM.”

    “Samuel?”

    “No. Just SAM.” 

    “And what does that stand for?”

    “Synthetic Analytical Mechanism.”

    “Ferguson?”

    “Ferguson.”

    “Where is he now?”

    “Back at The Factory,” he replied then lit a Cuban cigar with a wooden match he retrieved from a separate compartment within his sterling silver cigar case.  He returned the case to the inside pocket of his jacket, sat back and inhaled deeply, then blew three large gray smoke rings in rapid succession. 

    “Why the old man?” I asked, not wanting to believe a word this reptile was saying. “Why was it necessary to kill him?”

    “He was merely a test subject for your new programming,” he said with no more emotion than as if he were offering me the results of some vacuous taste-test between Coke and Pepsi. “Besides, we owed the Klan and the Nation a favor.”

    “The Ku Klux Klan?” I incredulous asked. “What possible dealings could you have with the Ku Klux Klan? And what is this ‘Nation’?”

    “The Nation of Islam,” he said matter-of-factly.

    “The Black Muslims and the Klan.......? I can’t make the connection.”

    “Divide and Conquer.”

    “What?”

    “We’ve decided that the most effective method of controlling the American people is to keep them in little ethnic and racial corrals. To create and maintain divisions. The Klan and the Nation have been exceedingly instrumental in achieving that end.”

    “But what did Marz have to do with them?”

    “Naturally, we had to maintain internal surveillance of the various hate groups in order to ensure that they didn’t eventually join forces and perceive us as a common enemy. Marz infiltrated and kept tabs on the Klan. He also made certain they maintained their ideas and practices of racial autonomy and division.”

    “I take it the Klan discovered he was a plant.”

    “Exactly. But we convinced them that Marz was a FBI operative. It certainly wouldn’t do if they discovered that he was one of ours. Also, he managed to make off with a little over $11,000,000,00 of their cash flow.”

     “So. You had me kill that old man just to remain in the good graces of those redneck lunatics?”

    “Primarily? No. The testing of your programming was our main concern. Choosing Marz was just killing two birds with one stone.”

    “But what did Marz have to do with the Muslims?”

    “We informed the Nation that Marz was responsible for that mosque bombing.”

    “What mosque bombing?”

    “Four months ago, a mosque in Brooklyn, New York was bombed. Seventeen people were killed.”

    “Was Marz involved?”

    “Of course not.”

    “You and your people blew up that mosque, didn’t you?”

    “Of course,” Lazlo admitted matter of  factly. “Which bring us to your next assignment.”

    “And that’d be.......?”

    “Infiltrating the Nation and gaining Calypso Louie’s confidence.”

    I stared at Lazlo as if he suddenly lost his mind. “In case you haven’t noticed, Lazlo, but Ferguson built me to resemble a white man.”

    “Once we get back to The Factory, Ferguson will assist you in locating the nanite control program that will take care of that little problem.”

    I had no idea what he was talking about. “Anyway. I gotta hand it to ol’ Marz. Any guy that can manage to piss off the Klan and stay one step ahead you clowns, is all right in my book. I’m sort of glad you afforded me the opportunity of getting to know the old man before I had to blow his fucking brains out,” I hissed and fixed Lazlo’s eyes with a penetrating stare of loathing. I never wanted to kill anyone in my life as much as I wanted to kill this bastard right now. “You do realize I’m going to do all in my power to stop you crazy bastards?” 

    Lazlo’s eyes became bubbling tar pits of disdain as his already thin lips became an angry line. “Once we get you back to The Factory that kind of thinking will be stripped clean from what passes for a mind in that titanium skull of yours.”

    “You know, Lazlo. My memories a little thready at the moment, but I’m pretty sure I’ve never liked you.”

    “That’ll change.”

    “Don’t think so.”

    Lazlo shrugged his bony shoulders beneath his $2,000.00 pinstriped suit.

    “By the way, I take it my trigger to kill Marz was his son and wife’s names.”

    “Bright boy,” Lazlo commended. “Marz has kept that nasty little episode of his life bottled up for over 40 years. We knew your Probe and Empathy sub-routines were working in concert with his need to unload. It was simply a question of time when you’d  draw them out..”     

    “You slimy bastard,” I hissed.

    “Now, now, Sam. We actually provided the retched old bastard with a humanitarian service.”

    “You did, did you?”

    “Of course. He would have eventually blown his own brains out or drank himself to death anyway.”

    “He seemed content.”

    “A front. A mask he affixed that concealed his misery.”

    “You seem to have everything all figured out.”

“Just about.”

    “What now?” I asked while staring vacantly out of the window at the blurred row of pine trees as the limo sped down the country road.     

    “We head back to The Factory and start mass production on a couple of thousand of your techno-clone brothers,” he said, then pompously puffed on his cigar. “You have a great future ahead of you, Sammy-boy.”

    “Why do you need me? Don’t I fall short of fulfilling your killings needs?”

    “No. Not at all, Sammy-boy. Now that you’re up to snuff again, you’ll serve as the blue print for mass construction of assassins and infiltrators. We’re going to replace key figures in the Public and Private sectors throughout the world with replicas.”

    “What is it with you clowns?”

     Lazlo stopped in mid-sip and lower his snifter to chest level, then glared at me with raw disdain. “What clowns?”

    “You fucking clowns. You skim through a few pages of Nietzsche, buy into that ubermensche shit and get a little crazy and start thinking you can take over the world. What is it? Screwing up your own countries is not enough? Why are you compelled by some perverted sense of purpose to set your sights beyond your national borders and start scribbling down your own fucked up versions of the Manifest Destiny?”

    “Why settle for a slice of the pie when you can own the whole fucking bakery?”

    “Couldn’t you and Ferguson and the rest of the nutjobs just become accountants or something and open up a nice, little innocuous practice in Des Moines, Iowa, then quietly die without disturbing anybody?”

    “You’ll see things in a different light once we make the proper adjustments to your matrix,” he told me then bit down on his cigar and held it in the corner of his mouth.

    “Earlier, you mentioned my future. How about my past? When was I born? So to speak.”

    “173 days ago.”

    “And how long will I live?”

    “Under normal wear and tear, I’d say.....ah…..roughly 250 years.”

    “So I’ll just be just winding down in the year 2252 while you’ve been feeding the worms for 250 years.”

    “Correct. Presupposing I drop dead right now, of course.”

    “Bright boy,” I said, then rammed my elbow into his face just below his nose and above his cigar, driving his bridge-bone directly into his brain killing him instantly. A gush of air escaped his mouth as his head was forced against backrest and lolled from side to side with every bump in the road. The cigar fell from his mouth to his lap below, where it began to burn the pinstriped material that covered his groin. Blood poured from his ruined face and soaked his $150.00 silk shirt, his $125.00 tie and his $2,000.00 suit.

    Once the driver figured out what just happened, he immediately pulled the car over to the side of the road and stomped on the brake, threw the limo into park and drew his weapon from a shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket. But I had already crashed through the glass partition and snapped his neck before he had enough time to turn around, let alone get a shot off.

    I removed the bodies from the limo and dumped them in drainage ditch, behind a bank of evergreens, a few meters from the road.  While on my way back to the car, I noticed I had gotten some of Lazlo’s blood on my shirt. I had already cleaned my own “blood” from my clothes from when he cut my arm, so it couldn’t’ve been mine. I needed to clean it off. It certainly wouldn’t do to be stopped by some State Trooper and try to explain whose blood was on my shirt and on the back seat of car. 

    I quickened my pace as I pulled free the car  keys from my pocket. Just as I bent over to insert the key into the trunk lock, I smelled something familiar. I smelled my body coolant. But that was impossible. I had cleaned my pants and jacket with rags and kerosene I found in the trunk before I disposed of the bodies.

    I looked down at the crimson stain and wiped some off with the fingertips of my right hand and brought the sample to my nose and sniffed. 

    “This isn’t blood,” I realized, then swiveled my head in the direction of the evergreens. “It would seem I was not the only one with programming problems.”

    I rapidly and effectively cleaned my self up, tossed the rags and can back in the trunk, slammed it shut, then walked around and climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed. Inserted the key into the ignition slot and started the engine, but in lieu of throwing the car in drive and speeding off, I just sat for a few moments listening to the engine purr while wondering what my next move should be. I could successfully change my identity, since I discovered that program Lazlo mentioned. I could instruct the nanites in my body to reshape my face and fingerprints into any configuration I could imagine. Speaking of faces, I suddenly grabbed the rearview mirror and twisted it and peered into the reflective surface. I saw a pair emerald green eyes staring back at me from behind a handsome, chiseled face. I tilted my head forward and discovered my hair was black. I lifted my head and turned it from side to side as I rubbed the stubble on my jaw. 

    “Not a bad job, Ferguson. And the five o’clock shadow is a nice touch.”

    I leaned back in the car seat once I was satisfied it was not Rondo Hatton staring back at me and began to seriously entertaining the idea of altering my appearance and simply vanishing. But I simply couldn’t leave it alone. I couldn’t allow these people screw up the world anymore than it was already. 

    “The Factory,” I said aloud with resolve as I reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror, stepped on the brake then threw the transmission into drive and stomped on the accelerator and jerked off the shoulder on to the dirt road. I headed towards I-95 that was just a few hundred meters down the road.

“Now. Let’s see what Ferguson’s been up to,” I whispered through a wicked smile as I turned the limo onto I-95 North and floored the accelerator while the nanites went to work reshaping my face and body into exact replica of Lazlo’s.

THE END

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