22

DÉNOUEMENT – 1ST PERSON ('BLAH)

Dr. Identity selected a mid-level rooftop in Chop Suey Square. Day and night it was Bliptown’s busiest sector. Trafficways of all forms, genres, creeds and velocities stretched above, below and beyond us…

Baryames Bornagainandagain knelt on the edge of the rooftop with his hands locked behind his head. He oscillated between calling us names and offering us royalties from his better-selling films. Dr. Identity had stalked and kidnapped the movie star with the intention of assassinating him, live, in front of the entire city. The android stood behind the actor, a roaring chainsword brandished over its head. It transmitted its POV onto every skyscreen and vidbuilding in Chop Suey Square.

I stood at a safe distance from the scene, making small talk with the curator of a hot dog stand.

Bornagainandagain said, “I’ll give you half of my earnings from The Robobarista.” His real last name was McDarnit. He changed it after a second comeback from BBB-movieland to semi-mainstream cinema. Since the change he had managed not to slip back into obscurity, although if he did again, he resolved to simply tack an ellipsis onto the end of the alias and leave it at that.

Dr. Identity revved the chainsword.

“Sideshow,” grumbled Bornagainandagain.

Dr. Identity rapped its knuckles across the movie star’s skull, then offered the following overture, which blasted out of every surroundsound satellite in the immediate vicinity: “Citizens of Bliptown! Behold as I, Dr. Identity, remove yet another cultural artifact from the degraded, devolved museum of postcapitalist life! Before me kneels Baryames Bornagainandagain, star of countless low-grade films, sell-out commercials and plotless pornos, but he was an extra in the Papanazi-acclaimed Honkies & Catnip, and Patrick Swayze is his distant relative! His death is a flagrant act of terrorism and inexcusable bastardry. I give it to you!”

Dr. Identity threw out its arms, daring somebody to stop it. Its afro trembled in the wind.

Despite the prevalence of Papanazi, professional vigilantes, bounty hunters and Pigs in the trafficways, nobody responded. A few seconds later my ’gänger lost the signal to the skyscreens and vidbuildings…

“Shit!” Dr. Identity tossed the chainsword aside, yanked tight its glitterglove, pulled a carrot out of its Thriller jacket and snapped into it.

“Can I go now?” Bornagainandagain asked, unlocking his fingers.

Dr. Identity chewed the carrot with Bugs Bunnylike relish. “Fine. Go.” It kicked the movie star in the back. Bornagainandagain toppled forward and fell, fell, fell…

Dr. Identity joined me at the hot dog stand. Its pupils had become hallucinogenic swirls.

I said, “You know, you’re mixing time periods there. The glove came after the jacket. Jackson didn’t start with the glove until after the Bad album. And your afro is from Off the Wall, before he started playing dress-up and molesting children. Not to mention your facemask. It wasn’t an actual skull until he got into his hundreds.”

“Since when do you know so much about the King of Pop?” Dr. Identity removed the facemask with the glitterglove and inspected it.

“I know lots of things. I’m a plaquedemic.”

“Not anymore.”

We fell silent. The hot dog curator glanced back and forth between us, wondering if we were going to buy something. Dr. Identity looked bizarre. It had developed a strange fetish for carrot-eating recently. Overindulgence of beta carotene had turned its eyes a bright orange color.

“At any rate,” it said, “there’s nothing wrong with exhibiting a little temporal diversity. Fashion plates have been doing it for years.”

“Fashion plates?”

“Don’t say it.” Dr. Identity removed the afro and stuffed it into a de la Footwa. He did the same with the facemask and the glitterglove. He kept the Thriller jacket on. “This is discouraging. I’m sick of being ignored. Nobody gives a shit about us anymore. You should have programmed me to deal more effectively with rejection.”

I pointed at a corndog and the curator leapt to the task. “That’s what happens when you lay it on too thick. People get a bad taste in their mouths. Then the taste just goes away.” We had stopped being pursued long ago. Not only did the Law and the Media grow bored with us, there were too many people impersonating us to bother trying to apprehend the real perpetrators. The passing of President-thing Bogue’s law against acknowledging our holocaustic behavior didn’t help. Nor did the hottest-selling perfume on the market, Plaquedemic Fringe, laced with the scent of our DNA. Even my credit was operable again: thousands of impersonators had opened up bank accounts in my name and numbers…

I was happy. I still didn’t know my real name. But I was happy. Unfortunately the Pigs had sold my wife-thing to a small tribe of Frankenstein monsters who lived in the rainforest outside of Bliptown’s nine o’clock gate. But foul play begets foul play.

Dr. Identity was having difficulty coming to terms with being out of the limelight. Every now and then he committed a holocaust or murdered a celebrity, hoping to return to mediatized grandeur. It never worked. Since my ’gänger’s original act of ultraviolence, it seemed, everybody was committing holocausts and murdering celebrities. The Law decided that that’s the way things had been for years and nothing could be done about it by human intervention or rationalization. “Bliptown will shakedown and shakeout its own riffraff in its own time,” the Mayor-thing of the city was quoted as saying. Additionally, the Amerikan government decided that there was an overpopulation of celebrities and they needed to be brought closer to extinction so as to accentuate their market value and public interest.

“Something to eat?” I asked Dr. Identity.

It shook its head. “I’m too depressed to eat.”

I paid for my corndog and took a bite. It tasted good. “There’s no need to be depressed. Think about your comic book. That’s something to look forward to. You’ve constructed a very detailed outline already. Now all you have to do is draft it. We may want to rethink your title. We may want to rethink some of its minutia. I’d be glad to provide you with constructive criticism.”

Dr. Identity glared at me. “The comic book is mine.”

I shrugged. “Fair enough. I’ve got plans of my own anyway.”

“No doubt.”

“I’ve been in touch with a group of investors. I told them I was interested in establishing my own university. There are so few left in Bliptown since you came into vogue and popularized making mincemeat out of university property. Copycats of your work are legion. Some of the investors were hesitant. But I reassured them I knew what I was doing and their contributions would pay off. I’m going to be a Dean. I’m not sure what kind of Dean yet. But a Dean nonetheless. And I’m hand-picking every single plaquedemic that works at my university. No more eccentrics. No more absurdists. No more tumbleweeds.”

“I see. What will you call your university?”

“I’m torn. Either Blah Blah Blah State University or the University of Blah Blah Blah. Maybe just ’Blah College.”

Dr. Identity’s pupils morphed into turning cogs. “You’re delusional.”

I took another bite of the corndog. “Perhaps. But it’s a new world now. One man’s delusion is another ’gänger’s reality.”

That night Dr. Identity and I went to my cubapt. I hadn’t been there since the morning of the initial holocaust. Dr. Identity hadn’t been there since I purchased him. The cubapt was a theater of war. The walls were blood-stained, the furniture was burnt and ripped apart, and none of the appliances worked except for an old television set, a 1947 Motorola VT105 I had bought at an underground vintage ADW as a graduate student. We lay on the floor and watched the news. Around midnight I told Dr. Identity I was going to bed. The android said goodnight and I turned it off.