All the while, Mr. Ketamine’s mumbling to keep my message fresh in his mind. His sunset-illuminated face, drawn and gaunt, stained the color of flame, fiercely he’s repeating, “No stem cells.”
The thoughtful gray bowels of my brain are queasy with motion sickness. They’re nauseated with the indigestible memory of my father in New York City saying, “Madison was a little coward.”
Ahead of us the procession has come to a bottleneck. The berobed penitents await admittance at a great archway, the entrance to the mountaintop temple. Among us, a quartet of giants shoulders the corners of a sedan chair, a boxed-and-curtained affair whose occupants remain concealed within its red velvet draperies. To my mind, Camille and Antonio are its most likely passengers, and I crane my neck to get a better look. Meanwhile the crowd surges into a not-historically-inaccurate reproduction of a courtyard from some Renaissance Venetian palazzo, the flamboyant dadoes and corbels reproduced in copious amounts of sculpted blah-colored hardened-cellulose froth.
Among this throng of hooded figures Mr. K stands on tiptoe and shouts, “Listen! Everybody listen to me!” Someone has given him a lit candle, and he holds this flaming taper overhead like a stuttering, bright star.
Gentle Tweeter, please understand that effective communication is paramount to me. My parents are so rich because people have outsourced the skills with which they once conveyed their emotions. The public has contracted out their own self-expression. All love must be mediated through greeting cards, assembly-line diamond jewelry, or professionally arranged, factory-farmed bouquets of roses. All epiphanies must be modeled by my mother. People feel only those emotions she prompts them to feel. For them, she is Aphrodite. My father, my dad, is the zeitgeist.
All of my greatest concerns, I’ve entrusted them to this ravaged ketamine hound who now leaps in place, waving his candle and shouting to attract everyone’s attention. Imagine my horror when Mr. K shouts, “Stop!” He whistles for silence, then shouts, “Madison says you’re all going to Hell unless you listen!” The assembled crowd begins to turn and stare. “The angel Madison,” he shouts, “wants you all to stop cussing and burping….”
Here I’ve entrusted one person to express all the love I could not. I’ve asked him to bear all my regrets and resolve all my lies. I sense the tide slowly turning.
Their faces framed in the openings of their red hoods, the confused audience regards Mr. K. They wait, restive, blinking with expressions of puzzlement.
“Madison,” shouts Mr. K. He pauses for a moment of absolute hushed silence. “Madison Spencer says the only true path to salvation lies in sucking donkey dicks!”
Ye gods.
It’s at that moment that I see my parents. They push back their hoods and stare, their faces exploded in looks of stricken horror.
And without taking another breath, Mr. Crescent City, Mr. K, my psychic bounty hunter, he falls down dead.
DECEMBER 21, 2:22 P.M. HAST
The Beating I So Richly Deserve
Gentle Tweeter,
No one gets it. Everyone gets it wrong.
In the sky-high temple of repurposed plastic, the familiar blue ghost bleeds out of Mr. Ketamine’s collapsed body. “I’m not going back,” says the blue Mr. K–shaped ectoplasm standing next to me, shaking its head. No one can see us. Every hooded figure is staring at his postalive remains in the center of the courtyard. That pockmarked, pigtailed rag doll. Even now, a team of paramedics pushes through the crowd and begins to check for vital signs.
The ghost of Mr. K tells me, “It’s my heart, finally. Hallelujah. I’m gone for good this time.”
Under our feet, the topography of Madlantis gives a tiny sideways tug.
Revealed, my parents observe while the medics inject Mr. K’s corpse with various lifesaving agents. The bearers of the velvet-draped sedan chair have deposited their burden nearby, but its veiled contents remain a mystery.
Their ceremony interrupted for a moment, the assembled celebrants push back their scarlet hoods. Still holding their flickering tapers, they continue to mutter genital and excretory obscenities. When the attending medics strip the not-clean tunic from Mr. K’s not-healthy chest and make ready to attach the leads for a cardiac defibrillator, I see my chance.
The ghost Mr. K sees me and says, “Don’t do it, angel Madison.”
I have to. There’s so much to tell my parents. Not the least of which is how much I love and miss them. That, and how stupid they’re being.
“If you’re going to use my old body,” says Mr. K, “just be aware I was in the middle of a gnarly herpes flare-up.”
I look at the ghost him. I look at his crumpled corpse.
“Just so you know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.
I’m so Ctrl+Alt+Grossed-out.
The paramedics shout, “Clear!” And I can’t do it. I can’t make the jump, Gentle Tweeter, not into that disgusting, inflamed, drug-abused cadaver. The medics deliver their jolt of heart-starting amperage, but nothing happens. All life signs stay flat.
My parents will die without knowing I loved them. They’ll go to Hell and be diced by demons with razor blades dipped in margarita salt. They’ll get paper cuts across their eyeballs and be subjected to high colonics of liquid Drano.
Once more the paramedics shout, “Clear!” And I don’t take the opportunity.
All humanity will be wiped off the face of the Earth. Satan will claim all of God’s children. Satan will win. All this is because I can’t bring myself to comingle my virginal, intelligent soul with the jaundiced, skeletal remains of a creepy, predecomposed loser man.
“I don’t blame you,” says ghost Mr. K. “I didn’t much like being in there myself.”
For a third and final effort, the paramedics shout, “Clear!”
My brains growl a warning: Satan will find my cat.
And I make my jump.
Not since I was entombed in the overly sullied environs of an upstate public toilet have I felt so degraded. These leprous hands! These withered, spindly limbs! The helpful medics have stripped away the majority of my soiled garments, and I find myself with barely a malodorous pair of undershorts veiling my vile pendulous membrum virilis. My own burdensome membrum puerile. Even as the decorous medics caution me to remain prone on the courtyard pavement, I launch my shambling frame to a scarcely standing posture. Placating latex-gloved hands attempt to stop me, but I stagger a step toward my aghast parents.
My mother and father, they stand beside the curtained sedan chair. Their jaws hang slack. As I careen my monstrous new body toward them, my arms thrown wide to give them a loving bear hug, they shudder with not-concealed revulsion.
So weak am I that I fall—Gentle Tweeter, I am always falling—sprawled on the plastic cobblestones.
I, who had once fretted over the prospect of pubescent acne, now I crawl before my father, pitted with the stinging craters of the virulent herpes virus. I who sought to wed Jesus Christ in order to forestall my budding girlhood physicality, I squirm on dying knees, soliciting in a quaking moribund voice for my mother to pay me her loving regard. Prone, covered in sores, I approach my makers on my irredeemably pestilent belly. This form modeled from corruption, once I constituted my parents’ bright future, the living confirmation that they had made the politically progressive choices. Now I slither on my naked stomach, exposing my ribbed, emaciated back and dragging the burdensome shame of my heavily soiled pigtail. That braid, so like an exposed prereptilian brainstem. Me, Madison Spencer, their emissary into a better, more enlightened future, I’m reduced to this slinking lizard.