If that’s your thing…his offices are only down the hall, though I’m afraid he’s out — there’s been a death in the family, my cat ate his mouse, my dog ate his cat, he’s all broken up about it. Though you might want to take a meeting with our employer, have a word — I assume you know who that is.
We know, and we already have — we’ve had a few words, in fact: Shalom was one of them, Shalom the other. We understand he’s exclusively retained your services, and those of your fraternal twin — but your employer and ours, they’ve reached an understanding…I hope you understand, farshteyn.
That’s for Der to say, and when we spoke this morning he said nothing of the sort. He flinches. Didn’t even mention.
It’s all written right here, and the Hymie waves an official document as if it’s gone spoiled, along with a warrant, too, to search your property, to seize anything we might want to seize and then search through on our own time, though it’s no crime to waste yours — whether as faith’s evidence (FED), or, gevalt, just to aggravate you…anything out of the ordinary, our decision, our call, anything suspicious, whatever, vos nor. He squats to the ground to light another smoke, and the leather of his wingtips crackles like burning. From that position, removing his glengarry and scratching around his yarmulke a head that’s been recently buzzed, he asks, tell me, Doctor, do you have anything suspicious on your premises? and he takes a slow drag, exhales with a frown, you think I’m joking, joshing, narring with you, mishing, just witzing around — you want we should garnish your socks?
Nothing I know of, I assure you, and he tries to hide from the Hymie one foot behind the other he’s crossing them again and again, almost falling when he realizes one foot always has to be put forward, the best. This is a medical facility, righting himself. Long Island’s most discreet & expensive inpatient sanctum sanctorum’s our new ad campaign…what do you think, a bit much? No one’s here to take your call right now. If you’d like to leave a message, wait for the…
Hello, this is H.Y.M.I.E. I’m calling with regard to a particular foreskin in your possession, that of a Mister Israelien — actually, we’ve been led to understand you have multiple foreskins, but we only need one. If not that One, then another. Whichever. A futzing flake, a fall — is that too much to ask?
You’re not listening. I’ve handled many foreskins in my day: detaching, re-attaching, redetaching, dereattaching, you name it, and even my own — you might be interested in a procedure yourself, no offense: even with our rates so affordable, we could probably work out a deal…
His foreskin, you schmuck — first off the orla, then the ganze peria, a bissele brisele, His milah mine…the Hymie shrieking every schmeck of decorum lost if, also, messed around in this very referring deferral, passion for his mission refound. Jumping up from his squat, he flicks ash to the carpet, throws his hat bent out of shape atop the flaming as if to drench with his shvitz, then jumps up and down on the smolder; the other Hymie, however, remains impassive, stands still, “hebetudinal” as his partner’ll describe in his report: how he hangs deep in the shadow of the door edged open as wide as his mouth, as tongueless, and dull, no help at all but he’s family, how their sister fright wig and whining, she’d asked a favor, he’d needed a job.
His! the mensch’s shrieking again and again, His! Israelien’s rail, Ben’s bump epimorphic, you putz, you know of what I’m talking…pulling himself together, retrieving his hat thrown into the ring scorched on the floor, punches its dents into dings, then felshes it all into perfect shape brim to crown. Apparently, he goes on, further calming, an interesting specimen, the world’s largest, it’s said: falls off farkakta, grows back yadda and blah, regenerative, blastemal if you want, bornagain miraculous; echt, a neys if there’s ever been one gadol…he coos, it won’t be such a loss. I’ll tell you what, and his eyes shift this way, that, then cross: let’s say we forget search & seizure. Just confirm for me, will you — it’s true what they say; this wondermont to behold, call us curious…does it really live up to the hype?
And the doctor, he holds out his arms, indicative of either the state of dispossession, or the desire to take flight…how Hymie’s debriefing’ll take note of both possibilities: his palms out, facing up, fingers splayed, his wardrobe jacket baring cuffs then humiliate skin — anyone’s guess, the Ascension.
Then any hair samples, the Hymie says — actually, any and all organic materials of His whatsoever; anything that once lived: organs, nails, skin fore or aft, I’m sure something’s lying around somewhere, has to be, filed away no doubt. I hope you’ll see things our way (straightening his own sight, making of contact a bludgeon) — you have a reputation to think of, a future, too, olam haba…has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?
You’ll make another of Him, others, I know it…the doctor thumbing still at his snort, maming nares. But it’s never been done before, don’t you understand — the first one to be cloned, He can’t be Affiliated.
The first one cloned has to be Affiliated…just think for a moment, Doctor — with any mazel, we’ll make Him that way.
But then is He Affiliated? Aha! and Doctor Tweiss jumpsup himself though he’s already standing, pedants over to the blackboard walling the west of the room, grabs a length of chalk to make a chit in its corner, upperrighthand. A point for me!
Doctor, He’s whatever we want Him to be, and the Hymie grabs his dark knit tie, spits to its tip a cusp of congestion to aid in his erasure.
But that’s insane…it’d never work, it’d never live, and the doctor returning dashes back toward the board, tripping on the rug that bunches under him falling, his fingers splayed to grip for the ledge, which gives way with his weight and he ends up on the floor stuck with a stick of white dust up a nostril.
It? Now, Doctor, is that any way to refer to the nearly living, to the in-the-works, the potentially possible, the perfectible Ben, b’ezrat Hashem’s what we’re saying — is that how you’d talk to the imminent Messiah Himself? Moshiach, I mean. Omniscience wouldn’t miss that. Heaven’s all ears, Doctor, old and humungoid, waxedhairy ears…it’s all recorded anyway, and the Hymie adjusts the lily in his lapel, though the mic’s actually clipped to a cufflink.
Even with a slightly smaller nose…which we’re planning on by the beshert, He’d still smell what stank.
God’s plan is His, if you believe in Him — and I don’t very much…but for now, it’s inviolable, and all these new adherents, they’ll do your work anyway, on their own, no questions asked. And no pay. But you, you…a little help here — you’ll blond Him up, you’ll blue up the eyes!
The doctor crumpled on the floor like a paper discarded: a subpoena, a prescription, the script — ripped through the middle with chalk.
Which will see for miles…gazing out from a head ten feet above the earth: a head like of marble, and with skin of such velvet so you’d like to stroke it, baby it, bathe it, sleep with it at night, wake atop it come morning. A nose ever straighter and straighter, teeth white and whiter even — until they’ll rob us of sight like a thief in the night, and we’ll look within. A Messiah who’ll live forever, every day made younger and smarter — making something of Himself, something more, all for us, His fathers and heirs, to have pride in, over which to shep nachas…
You don’t know what you’re doing…(the doctor getting himself up, reading off a script the other Hymie now hands him; before they’d been sharing one copy) — you have no idea of the forces at work…
You won’t make a God, it’s impossible.
But, Doctor, we’re not making a God, we’re duplicating Him: In the beginning there was creation, et ha’shamayim v’et ha’aretz…and it was good, but could always be better; think of it like this: we’re making improvements (the Hymie loses his place in the snark of delivery, the other Hymie points a finger, he finds it again and smirks on)…don’t worry, Doctor, we have our top ravs on this (would he really say that, “top ravs,” he asks, isn’t that a little much, over the top and toohatted — maybe “rabbis,” no, just a suggestion).