I.F.
by
Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan
Copyright©2012 MetaFic, Inc.
All rights reserved.
My whole life I've been trying to reverse the effects of the IF. Not the "if only I hadn't dumped Kathy" and not the "if only I studied harder in college" but the big if, as in: what if I never got the IF Chip. That chip is the reason I went to med school; that's why my marriage went to shit; and it's why I'm still staring at the monitors, analyzing EEG charts and MRI's of the brain.
The coffee's cold, the glare of the monitors sharp. The cigarettes keep pilling up in the ashtray. I rub my forehead. I feel like I'm close. Just a few more adjustments and i'll get it. The cure. For me, for all of us - the imaginary generation. But the equations don't add up. I'm missing something.
"Maybe you're missing a hug?" asks Mr. Fuzzy. I squeeze my teeth together but keep working.
"Dicky, are you missing a hug?" Mr. Fuzzy asks again. He's using that annoying kids-show voice on purpose. He knows I hate it when he does that. "Dicky, lets sing a song together."
"Fuck off," I offer in singsong. "I'm working here," I say and turn to him. A six-foot plush camel is staring at me, batting its huge innocent eyes. I switch back to the monitors and pick up my yellow pad, crisscrossed with my notes, the gibberish of my exuberant fantasies. Then I light up another cigarette.
"Got one of those for me, Dicky? Sharing means caring, you know." The camel comes closer and nuzzles my arm. I know it's all in my mind, I know better than anyone else that he's just a figment of my imagination - how the psychosomatic effect forms in the mind, stimulating just the right neurons, firing up the ganglions to create the perfect reproduction of unreality in my mind - but I can still feel it. How do you ignore something thats real to you?
I push him away, my fingers drowning in soft fur.
"Why are you trying to get rid of the chip's effects, Dicky? Aren't I precious? Look at me. I have a camel hump, and a camel nose, and a camel-toe!" He laughs. I haven't laughed at that joke since we passed puberty. "Hey, it could have been worse. Tom from accounting - he's stuck with an Easter Bunny. An eight-foot annoying fuck that keeps making egg jokes." His tone is back to normal - my own voice talking to me, resonating oppressively inside of my cranium. "From the lack of women we have in our life, I think it's safe to assume that your eggs are blue, Dicky. We've got to get laid, man. Seriously, when was the last time? Watching you jack off is fun and all but you know..."
I put down the pad and turn to him, fists on hips. He's smoking a cigarette, he's got sunglasses on. I hate it when he smokes in my mind.
"Call me Joe," he says. I look down to my cigarette pack. I'm surrounded by fucking camels.
"Why am I trying to get rid of the chip's effects? Are you serious?" I scream. "Look at you! I'm a forty-year-old man stuck with a giant imaginary friend."
"You know I hate it when you call me that, Dicky." The Barney voice is back.
"What should I call you then?"
"Mr. Fuzzy. Just like you did when you were little. Or The Fuz! Just like you did in college when you thought you were cool." Now he's got a 50's leather jacket on with the collar picked up. "Hey!"
"I was cool," I mumble and shrug out of my lab coat.
"Sure you were, slugger. You still are." The fake coat of encouragement makes me hate him even more.
I shake my head and hang up the lab coat. I take my briefcase and turn off the lights. Mr. Fuzzy pads out after me.
Outside, the moon is high. It's late and winds lash at me. Again I sacrificed daylight to senseless numbers and obtuse formulas. I never see the sun anymore.
"Want to ride me home, Dicky?" Mr. Fuzzy asks. Oh no, not falling for that one again. I hail a cab. We get in.
"What?" the driver asks.
"I didn't say anything yet," I reply.
"No we can't stop for pizza. I'm working. Where to, buddy?" I stay quiet. In the world of today it's safer to keep silent for a moment longer and make sure that people are talking to you and not to the ghosts of the IF chip. The driver turns to me questioningly and only then do I tell him where to go.
It's not polite to ask people about their imaginary friends. In reality, it's a painful subject for us all. They're our burdens. But from the few bits and pieces that the cabbie throws out at his IF I can ascertain that it's either some sort of an oriental turtle, possibly mutated, or a pony, which is really gay, even for an imaginary friend.
Soon enough we get home. I undress and fall into bed. I surf the waves of exhaustion all the way to la-la land.
I sleep well. I have dreams where I'm still a kid, just around the time my parents bought the chip. I chose Mr. Fuzzy myself as my gift for my fifth birthday. Later on I found out he was one of the worst selling models. Something about kids liking squirrels and kittens more than camels. I don't know. I liked him back then. What got me was the color of his fur - that soft desert color. And his eyes - he's got these huge, watery eyes.
We played. We sang. He taught me the ABC's and math in a fun way. He taught me right from wrong when my parents were too busy with work. He had morals boiled down into simple one-liners like "Just say no!" and "Jesus loves you!" The problem with that one was that I'm not even Christian, but I liked him so much I didn't tell my parents that the religion-setting was mixed up. Also, I was afraid of burning in Hell. Things were so much simpler back then. The IF Chips were a brilliant solution for parents to busy or lazy to discipline their kids; a brilliant solution for a world that offered too many seductions and wrong turns. With the Chip there's no reason to worry – Scruffy will guide your kid straight.
The alarm rings.
"Relax, Dicky, I got it." He doesn't get it.
The bed still feels empty without Linda. I hate waking up alone.
"That's why I'm here," Mr. Fuzzy says. "Want me to make you breakfast in bed?" I can hardly hear him with the alarm still ringing. Linda left me because of him, because I was distracted all the time. She said she didn't want to share me with a camel. She especially hated me taking The Fuz's advice during our lovemaking. Oh yeah, like Princess Pooky was so innocent.
Why did the imaginary friends remain behind when the chips were removed? How the hell did they worm their way into our subconscious? The university studies and the foremost psychochemists came to the conclusion that all the recipients of the chip are now left with schizophrenia. Afterwards, they fed us all sorts of anti-psychotics like haloperidol and chlorpromazine. Clazipan just left me with constipation. That's what I'm working on now for MetaFic Pharmaceuticals – I'm trying to come up with a drug powerful enough to erase the plush, cute psychological scars of our minds. And one day soon I'll do it and then I'll be rid of the fucker.
"Jesus doesn't like it when you curse," Mr. Fuzzy admonishes. Well, it's better than his usual "If you snitch, you're Satan's bitch."
I struggle out of bed and get ready for work. Fuzzy doesn't shut up, he just keeps on talking. An unending stream of commentary about everything from the size of a passerby's breasts to reminding me that I forgot to take my vitamins this morning.
I'm back at the office, sitting behind the screens, scratching away at paper. It's not just for me, it's for the millions of kids of my generation that grew up and are forced to live with these abusive, corrupt, immoral imaginary friends. The thing is - the friends didn't remain their adorable, innocent selves. They grew up with us. They learned hate and pride and love and lust. They became too fucking human.
"I don't get it, Richard." I look up. Fuzzy almost never uses my full name. It means he's serious. "Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to kill us?" He slowly bats his beautiful, curvy eyelashes. Like a girl's, except that Fuzzy's a boy. "And what a boy! Hung like a horse model!" He chimes in.
I ignore t
hat.
"It's gone too far. A man's mind is his own. It's sacred, you know? It's not right for me to have to share it with a camel." Some of my coworkers turn, see me staring at the wall, and go back to their tasks.
"Remember sixth grade? When..."
"Don't do that. Don't play on my nostalgia."
"But we had so much fun together. I taught you everything you know," Fuzzy's voice is almost choking, as if he's crying.
"You ruined my life!"
"Hey, keep it down!" My boss yells. "Me and Spoky have to finish this budget report by lunch." He's all alone in his office. And they're not finishing a report, they're playing chess.
"I need my mind back. I need to be alone." I say it but something inside squeezes painfully. "Just some peace and quiet."
"You've never been alone, Dicky. Not since you were five. You won't be able to handle it." Mr. Fuzzy bats the eyelashes again. "All the depressions in the world, all the suffering, the cut wrists and the roof-dives, it's all loneliness."
"And how many people committed suicide because they couldn't cope with their IF's?" I retort.
"You know they all went straight to Hell, don't you?" Fuzzy asks as an aside. "I might have been a computer program, but with the chip removed, I'm part of you."
Yeah, the bad part.
Tonight I have a date. No, not with destiny – the formula isn't complete yet. It's a date with a real woman. Fuzzy made me go out and find one. He's right, I am burning out. Everyday I spend sweating over spreadsheets and biochemical equations. I'm constantly fatigued and my stool isn't what it used to be. I need to take some stress off. I need to get laid.
Mr. Fuzzy helps me pick out a tie - a yellow one with red dots - a suit and even the right brand of condoms. Flowers, candy, and the next thing I know we're sitting with Candy at a quite, candlelit restaurant. A waiter comes over and fills our glasses with wine. I smile at her and she reciprocates.
"I've got to warn you, I have an IF," I say as a disclaimer.
"Wow! That's so exciting," she says. "When I was a little kid I also had imaginary friends! I had a hamster and a goldfish with long legs and a..." the last one is lost as a long, fuzzy muzzle appears to block her from my view. Mr. Fuzzy is wide-eyed and jaw wide agape. I push him out the way. "...and also Mr. Pickles!" she continues.
That's the difference between normal kids and the IF kids: the normal kids had as many imaginary friends as they wanted and they all left with age.
"So what kind of a friend do you have?"
"Tell her about me. Girls find camels hot."
"I don't want to talk about him. Why don't you tell me more about yourself," I say.
The rest of the date is crash and burn all the way. Candy's an airhead and, besides, I haven't been out on a date in years – my game's off.
"Tell her that the Savior died for her," Father Fuz, wearing a priest's collar and everything, advises. I smile.
"Basically, I think God put me here for a purpose," she says. "What I really want is for all creatures, big or small, imaginary or not, to live in a world full of love," she says. Why is she using a kids-show voice?
"Check please," Fuzzy whimpers hoarsely. I suppress a chuckle. "Check! For God's sake! Get us out of here, Dcky! Check!" Fuzzy is crying on the table. "The bitch is nuts!" She thinks my smile is directed at her, as if I approve, and she continues.
"See, I have this theory that all evil in this world comes from sex," she says. "I think that all creatures should be equal, regardless of gender or species. The inequality is generated by the need for sexual gratification - one party has supply and one party has demand, and that creates an unbalance that is easily exploited. That's why I believe that first people have to connect on a deeply emotional level..." She keeps talking but all I can see is Mr. Fuzzy standing on the table, spitting out water on her.
"The power of Christ compels you, demon!" He's performing and exorcism. "Be gone from this body!" He's got a censer around his neck. I chuckle and nod, wiping tears away from the corner of my eyes.
"Ah, Dick... Dicky, we should go. Now! There's no chance here. Trust me, I've seen deserts more fruitful."
"Hold on, Fuz, maybe if I just keep nodding I'll hump her in the end," I whisper all of this as she explains to the waiter why she's a vegetarian and how all creatures should live in harmony, because there is a disharmony of demand and supply.
"Hump? The only hump you're getting tonight is my camel hump. By the way, I also have camel eyes and a camel..."
"Enough with the camel-toe!" I scream. The restaurant is quiet. Everyone's staring at us.
Sufficient to say, things don't go well with Candy. Soon enough we're sitting in a bar, just Fuzzy and me, having a beer. We reminisce about the good old times, laughing, remembering the girls who didn't think that sex is the wellspring of all evil. We play a game of pool and some darts. The final score is two-two.
Eventually, I'm back at home, buzzed and smiling under my camel-hair blankets.
"I love you, Dicky," Mr. Fuzzy says.
"I love you too, Mr. Fuzzy."
"That's a little gay, Dicky. Jesus doesn't like gay," Mr. Fuzzy says.
The morning is alive with the scent of roasted coffee and Xeroxed documents and stale cigarettes. I'm back at work, drowning in my project. Something's still not adding up. I lost weeks of sleep studying sleep patterns and Kappa waves. There are bags under my eyes. I live on beer and coffee. My stomach is churning nothing. I'm almost ready to give up.
"You're killing yourself," Fuzzy says.
"I'm close," I reply.
"I think right now you're doing this on momentum alone, not to get rid of me or any other IF's."
"You're wrong. I have only one drive," I say and key in new numbers into the computer model.
"Am I really that bad?"
"Absolutely," I reply.
"Look me in the eyes, Richard, 'cause I'm serious right now. Do you really want me dead? Do you envision all the consequences of it? Are you ready for them?" Mr. Fuzzy says, and there's something different about him. I just nod.
"Fine," he says. "Have it your way. You forgot to carry the one. You never were good at arithmetic. My fault, I suppose." His nose points at my notes. I look down and it hits me. I adjust for my mistake and the formula comes together. Diefuzzyol is ready.
That evening, I hijack the lab. I spend the whole night mixing chemicals. The product of my imagination - no pun intended - is ready. Ten years worth of sleepless nights equals a shinny injection gun in my hand. The magazine is a vile of a blue tincture, and the barrel is a hypodermic syringe. One shot and Mr. Fuzzy is gone forever.
I'm on the roof of the lab, waiting for dawn. I'm a sentimental prick, but the sun will rise on a new day today. The victims of the IF will be cured. I will be cured.
Fuzzy is there in a cowboy hat, his toes are by a holster with a six-shooter.
"Let's go out with a bang, partner," Mr. Fuzzy says in a gritty tone. I smile fondly at him for what I know will be the last time.
The edges of the sky slowly turn purple as the sun begins its hesitant ascend. I sink the needle into my arm. All I have to do is squeeze the trigger, just apply a little bit of pressure and the serum will be pumped into my veins to purify my mind, to bestow its precious curative caress on my damaged, demented brain. Then I look to Fuzzy. He bats his eyelashes slowly, watching with a mix of fear and gratitude. Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think he's happy for me.
"I'm happy for you, Richard." He confirms. "I alone out of everyone truly understand the significance of this moment." And it's true. He is the only one that does.
The alarm rings. For a moment the bell just keeps going and going.
"I'll get it, honey," Kelly says.
She gets up and pulls on her silky, white pajama pants and top. She walks to the kitchen. I spend a few more blissful moments in bed before sitting up. I hear my kids playing outside, talking to their imaginary friends - the normal kind, not the ones that come in a tiny
silicon chip.
Diefuzzyol was a wild success. They even used my tag line - "Kill imaginary friends for real!" It made me ridiculously rich. That's why I hear waves crash against the bluff somewhere outside the glass doors of my villa. That's why the walls are covered in paintings, and windows in rich drapes. That's why a girl like Kelly married a schmuck like me. It's a good life now.
In another minute, Kelly comes back into the bedroom, carrying a tray with steaming cups of coffee and a plate hidden by a silver cover.
My gaze travels the length of her body and stops at the place where her silk pajamas are slightly pulled into her privates, I can almost make out the shape of her vulva.
"Is that what I think it is?" Mr. Fuzzy wrinkles his muzzle and sits up next to me in bed. He's wearing silk pajamas too and smoking a Cuban cigar. I hate it when he smokes in my mind.
An Excerpt from
ASHES OF HEROES
Book One of the War of Regret Series
By Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan
Available Now Wherever E-Books are Sold
"I once heard it said that a storyteller has but the briefest moment to snare the mind of his listeners and make them follow his story to the end. I once heard it said that one must start off the story with a grand mystery or a bloody war--something exciting." Renz's voice was satin-soft. He and Vira sat under the moonlight on a mossy boulder in a deserted corner of the fort that had seen too many bar fights and not enough tenderness.
"Will you tell me of your swordsmanship, then?" Vira asked in a hush. Renz felt her shift closer to him in the way a faithful hound reaches out for her owner's fingers.
"No, not swordsmanship," Renz said, adjusting his battle-ax to avoid poking her in the ribs. "You must forgive me, my sweet, but I have no such tales. The truth is, the really talented storyteller--the one who always smells of campfires and whose voice has wrought fantasies in the minds of children and noblemen alike--will describe the background before ever beginning the story of an epic battle or doomed love. Such men, the truly talented, know how to create the proper setting. They start at the beginning. A noble prince dying in the woods, handing off his infant son to--"