QUIET AS IT WAS...
Page 2

"Jerry.

"Jerry.

"Hey, man, I gotta get ready to go to work."

"Mff. What? Oh. That's OK. I'll just sleep in for a while."

"No, Jerry. You know I can't leave you here alone. You gotta go."

"It's too early for that. Or too late. What time is it?"

"Oh five thirty. Get up."

"Just a couple more."

"Get up. Get out. Get gone. You weren't worth a f#@k, and you'll never get another chance if you don't get your ass in gear and get out of here."

"I shoulda known you'd be like this. Well, maybe I'll call you. What was your name again?"

"Dolores. Let me call you. 'Bye."

Door closed softly. Face against the cool inner oft-painted surface. Hot eyes, tired throat, sagging resolve. Mechanical entry into the pre-grind ritual: toilet, shower, appearance, nutrition, transport.

Not a peep from the leeches.

Into the elevator with other slave-hosts. Strong odor of possessedness, of barely- maintained composure. No one talked. Still, the scent of mile-a-minute, frantic inner dialogues pervaded.

She looked at the floor indicator. It looked back. "Six," it said. "Seven." "Eight."

"All right," she screamed. "All _right_. You _win_. You're not bastard scumsucking leeches. You're masters of the universe and beyond. Just don't play that _guten sweeten_ song again."

"Ta dum te dum, ta dum te dum; deedle de dum, deedle de dum."

No one in the elevator flinched or turned. There were, almost, a couple of sympathetic sighs.

"I'LL TAKE A DOZEN...

...of those long chocklity ones. That'll do 'im."

He handed over his money and took the box, a little too flimsy for its contents. Two hands for safety. Mental picture of successful arrival at his tiny, featureless cubicle, pastries intact. The two he would select and put in a drawer before carrying the box to the coffee room made an even tastier image. A little tinge of pleasure began to extrude from the edges of objects in his interior landscape.

"Erase.

"Erase.

"Erase.

"Erase.

"Jud_sohn_, my son, you are so stupid. You know how much fun we get from pissing on your enjoyment. Would you rather have the little bit you get, or avoid the pain of having it taken away, by never having it?"

Jud formed no coherent thought, but felt, knew, lived the fact that on balance the pleasure was way more worth it than mere avoidance of pain.

No response from the alter. Blanked as he was, Jud didn't dare ask the question: "Do they not detect my deep and unarticulated modules of self, or are they just waiting for a time when the devastation will be greater?"

He didn't even form a satisfying sentiment at having no alter input, whatever the reason. There was a subtle subsonic sound, almost an "Ahem," that he took as indication that he was getting near the limit of distinguishable thought.

He reached out with his focus and lifted a metaphoric curtain, just a little.

"Watch it, Jud. Don't get me mad. You can pretend you have a tool or two, but don't get to believing they are actually good for anything. We know _every_thing. No exceptions. You have to be _this tall_ to go on that ride, and you ain't within an order of magnitude or two. Got it?"

He dropped the curtain, lead weights in the hem making a satisfying dent in the malleable floor of his mind.

Later on he would crow: "Holy shit, I think they were running scared!"

Just a microsecond after that, he would have his entire consciousness, history and all, sucked into the belly of the alters. They would giggle at the shell that had been him as it, no longer "he," silently crumbled into alphanumeric grains that flowed into the earth.

IT'S NOT AS IF IT MAKES ANY DIFFERENCE...

...was the first thing that came to her mind. She was right, even if she didn't believe what she said. She was not one to think a lot before letting the words roll on. She had enough brain cells to have formed links among a few ill-understood concepts and symbols. Not always legitimate links, not ever detailed concepts or coherent symbols.

"That you, Lety? Seeing anything today? Got a thought or two? Don't be ashamed. Even bad people have thoughts."

"Why do you have to pick on me? I'm only trying to do right. Who are you? Why are you here? What do you want from me? I do the best I can. My mother was good, too. Even if she did beat me and soak my feet in brine so she wouldn't have to buy new shoes in the summer time.

"I don't want to think about Daddy. He was a nice man, too. He sounded a lot like you. Are you my Daddy? I'll ask... Who shall I ask? What ever happened to manners? It's not as if it makes any difference, anyway. I'm an abomination."

I'M DANCING...

...as fast as I can. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite place the origin. No matter, he thought with the placid, serene confidence of a master, or of someone who had made the decision to end it all. He knew he was asking for it.

It was time for the next card. He had to take the hit. Twelve would get him nothing. Ten or a face meant bust. Always a gamble. Always more to lose than to gain.

"Hey, Jake. Counting cards again, are you? Easy for me to say. Ha ha ha."

"I got your ha ha ha right here. It seems to me you make unjustified claims and illegitimate assertions."

"Same-o, same-o, Jakesy-poo. You _know_ there's no use in tweaking my nose. I don't have to worry about issues or art. All I have to do is toss a few darts toward your plump porky butt and you'll drain away. Like grease from a great copper pot. Like water from charcoal. Like aquavit from a broken metaphor. See what I mean? I don't have to make sense. All I have to do is say, 'You're a poo-poo head,' and the essence of all that _is_ rallies to my support."

"It _is_ easy for you to say, and easy for you to hide your fragmented self and essential weakness behind bluster and _ad hominems_. Quite a show. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's obviously worked for you for millennia, and I'm sure it amuses the alters with _real_ talent.

"Well, I may be mistaken; it seems as if _some_thing must have worked for you. Either you have existed in a world of dolts and dementeds, or your aberrations have just recently come bubbling to the surface. What could have precipitated that? I wonder."

"Listen, you prancing nancified... thing, you. All I have to do is inhale and you'll be finding your way among the alveoli for the instant it takes to gasp your last, you... you... you cartoon character of the lowest order."

Down for double: "Get someone to tell us again how that lividity above your collar is evidence of your enjoyment of a little humor. How that steam blasting from your ears reveals the height of your pleasure as you relish these little contests you set up and lose."

"That's it, Jakesy. Kiss your pimpled ass goodbye, you piece of shit pretending to be a person."

"Hit me."

"You got it, sucker. Hyeah!"

Number Nine.

"Now the other one."

"Die, fool."

Jack o' Diamonds.

"I'm good. Now you."

"Show me what you got."

"Nossir. You play, you get paid. If you win. Your turn. Hit yourself."

"I don't have to do any such thing. Poo-poo head."

"It's not working. Play."

"Awright, dammit. There."

"King of Hearts. How's that fit your hand, big guy? You look a little pale."

Jake reached across and turned the cards. Ten. Six. Ten-six-king. Busted.

"You lose, big guy. I'm under on both hands, you're over. Aw dee ose, my friend."

Surely the alter would challenge his bluff. He knew a clear head would have seen the ruse.

Jake raised his eyes. There was no opponent. Just a tepid grease spot on the felt. Deep sigh. He supposed it was possible he had been wiped out by the alters, as expected. It might be that his sudden comfort was another febrile illusion, another confluence of nothings adding up to something of perhaps less significance than its parts.

Like the alters.

The alters, already just a mild ripple in the river of memory.



You remember the alters?

No? Me neither, but I heard about 'em. Don't remember what I heard, though.

Must not have been very important.

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Copyright 2000 TwinkleInMyEyeProductions, Frank S, Proprietor

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