Alex found himself seated in a crowded train cabin despite the fact that he was dreaming in his own bed and his alarm should have gone off fifteen minutes prior. He wasn’t sure if this was the weekend or if he’d be late to work again. He also wondered how far they were from the next train stop, wherever that was. A few seats ahead, a man in an antiquated waistcoat stood and approached him with his clothes pulsing with an orange iridescence. The man’s frazzled beard and stoic face resembled Dostoyevsky, “You sir...” his face froze as if a glitchy machine, “Alex Stevens... you’re a,”—he froze—“man... that appreciates an indispensable product when you see one.”
The woman next to him turned, her v-neck blouse also pulsing. It was his boss—biting her lip incessantly, like she always did—hiding behind those vintage reading-glasses of hers, “Judging by your recent purchase of... How To Write Suspense Like the Pros, you are a... writer—”
“You need Fast Amnesia,” the Russian cut in. “It temporarily dims targeted memories.”
“Why would you want to forget things?” his boss asked. “There are hundreds of uses for Fast Amnesia, but—”
“You’ll need it to read your fiction objectively and be your own editor,” Dostoyevsky blurted with all the passion of the iconoclast putting the last period on his Notes from Underground.
“Be your own editor!” she agreed.
“Who better to objectively edit your work?” Dostoyevsky pressed, leaning toward him.
“It’s the next evolution in literature. If you don’t buy, you can’t compete!”
“Not approved by the Neural Interface Administration,” he warned. “May complicate neurological conditions and skew personality matrices, not for children below sixteen.”
“Get yours this morning at your nearest urban market,” she suggested.
“Specifics of our conversation will become unclear,” he suggested.
“He’s right,” she agreed. “Unclear.”
“You’ll remember the main point but our words will be forgotten... sorry,” Dostoyevsky apologized. “Good-Bye.”
Alex exited the train into a bowl of soup, floating over beef broth on an enormous chunk of steak. Two naked women—a redhead and a blonde—floated on huge noodles, paddling with oars toward him. They beamed in unison, “Alex Stevens.” The redhead began, “Ever wonder why you wake up with the urge to buy things you don’t really need?”
“Do you have headaches in the morning and concentration problems?” the blonde asked.
“If so, YOU”—the redhead’s face glitched—“Alex Stevens, are having your mind invaded. That’s no joke.”
“No joke!” the blonde agreed.
“Your mind is like your property,” the redhead continued. “Like a glove, like a shoe. There’s only one way to protect your property: Spam Helmet Forty-Four. Forty-Four blocks Crazy Waves and Electro-Jabbers.”
“During dreamtime your brain is defenseless,” the blonde explained, arching her back and wiggling for no discernable reason. “The interruption of dreams upsets brain electrochemistry, causing paranoia.”
“Judging from our records and your recent purchases of,” the redhead glitched, “various alcoholic refreshment, you may have already purchased Spam Helmet Forty-Four and... got drunk. Forgot to put it on. If this is true, always wear Forty-Four at night. If your helmet is broken or our records are incorrect, buy Forty-Four.”
“Buy Forty-Four!” the blonde exclaimed.
“And vote April Texas for Barcelle Pyramid Sheriff!” the redhead demanded. “Approved by the NIA. May complicate neurological conditions.”
“Certain parts of our conversation will be hazy,” the redhead explained.
“She’s right,” the blonde agreed. “Hazy.”
“You’ll recall the message but what we said will be forgotten.”
They both bounced their bodies up and down on their wet noodles in the greasy beef broth and said in unison, “Later Skater!”
He opened his eyes and sat up in bed. His alarm read 11:30 and his disconnected mental state warned of an impending hangover. He peered over the bed at his Spam Helmet with his deep voice croaking, “Why?” Why couldn’t he remember to wear it? Being drunk was no excuse. “They spammed me.” He reached back, rubbing the vertical scar on the back of his head.
The disks were implanted at age fifteen into the Superior sagittal sinus. Spamming dreams was illegal but the temptation for small companies was great and satellite networks could relay signals to anyone sleeping without a filtering helmet.
Alex walked from his bed to the bathroom, pulling off his boxer shorts as his slit eyes found the console of his shower gateway. He selected ‘Quick Clean,’ passed through and turned the bathroom faucet on, washing grime out of his ears. His eyes remained on the mirror as he turned to remove grime streaks from his back. He leaned on the sink, wondering what thoughts were his. One thing was certain: April Texas was the best Sheriff Barcelle Pyramid had ever had. Without her, the Pyramid would surely fall into the ocean. Or would it? Who was April Texas?
Regardless, it seemed without her the Gaia environmentalists would find a way to switch off the anti gravity, sending the Pyramid plummeting into the dead Pacific and hurricanes. They’d kill everyone, thinking the Earth could heal and spawn something better than man.
Gaia environmentalists... ? Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to buy another Spam Helmet. If he had two, he’d be less likely to forget. They’d definitely spammed him with something called something Amnesia. Brainwashing or no, it was useful. His love for the beauty of his written words was the only thing stopping him from publication. He hated his unshakable arrogance. His father had been arrogant, his grandfather also. But if he could forget he was the author of what he critiqued... Maybe it was fate he forgot to wear his helmet. There probably wasn’t anyone more qualified to edit his novella, Surprise Ending, than him.