Fantastic Metropolis

He thinks his life is a dream. He has never told a lie. His eyes are pure opaque white. But he can see.

 

A dog is writing one of these stories. The one about how the Devil is real, but he left the planet a long time ago, and all the fear that we ever have about anything is a deep archetype, the same (and originator) to the loss-denial reaction resultant from most split-parent families and failed early relationships. (Some editors consider that this particular manuscript would be shelved under Non-Fiction, or Self-Help.) The Devil had two dogs. They were the first dogs to feel love, and they often pretended to fight, because they just didn’t want Lucifer to feel jealous, because they really did care about his feelings (though not the same love or intensity they felt for one another). The Devil never named his pets, and they have forgiven him that.

These dogs are still alive. They can talk, but don’t. Fifty-four languages (six of them known only now between them). They are rather upset by unbearably slow progress and periodic cancellation of the space program. But every day feels unbelievable and stark, as it does when you’re In Love.

This one doesn’t count. Only stories are allowed. And this thing is historical record.

 

The agents of the old department are pretending everyone still listens to them, that they do not need to change. They have always used the word “god” once a week, while they avoided its use in perception of themselves—when they were listened to. They are of the opinion that time is Real too (which is the first question on the test to qualify you as a full agent of the new dept.), so they are too busy to learn the simple idea that names are actually stories, much less that stories are the only existence. So they would not believe you if you told them they are creating the killer.

 

(Another month goes by). The dreams have not returned, but she has learned to Live With It. She takes a few accrued vacation days and spends it eating Styrofoam-like snack chips laced with monosodium glutamate, while watching daytime TV. The same characters are on the daytime soap shows she watched between classes at college, but they are played by different people now.

On the third day she gets out of the house, and goes out to Fall In Love. She lands in a bar. She sits at the stool for almost two hours, eventually losing the feeling in her teeth.

The man stops talking from the time they leave the bar until the time he leaves her apartment a few hours later. She doesn’t feel like saying anything throughout the whole Act, but hears herself coaching him and complimenting him on what he does right, and realizes (during the Act) that her fish died yesterday and she had meant to take Buddha to the park today for a ritualistic burial, or at least flush him before he started to stink.

When he is done (47 seconds later) and snoring, she stares into the dark, not asleep.

He tries to be dressed and leaving, so he can only have to say, “Oh, you’re awake. I have to go. I’ll call you.” It doesn’t work, because she is looking at him, wide awake before he can even get one leg into his pants. He is so unnerved by it that he takes his clothes and dresses in the kitchen. And never comes back in to say good-bye.

She does not care in the least. She is thinking she is not tired at all, that what she really wants to do with herself is get in shape.

 

The agents of the new department aren’t pursuing relentlessly at all. They are swollen and grounded with pride at how clever they are to have come up with a new name. They are sitting around and around in smooth swivel chairs in the state-of-the-art headquarters which only lets them in by scanning their palms and retinas, talking about how great it would be to sell the movie rights to their nifty new name, and not really even listening to each other, talking, and changing the screen saver animations on their Dept. computers.

And when the End comes, they will drown no less painlessly in the red, clawing for another job, another chance, some air.

 

There is a word common to all (current, future and dead) languages. This is the only magic. It is the word and sound an owl makes laughing. It cannot be written down (shaping the characters breaks the hand), only delivered vocally. Saying the word will grant you what you desire in the deepest way. In the entire history of the world only six people have known the magic word, all issuing it by complete accident. All were storytellers. They all asked for Love or Revenge. But they were lying to themselves and the magic. Their hearts exploded because what they really wanted was the End. They will get it soon.

These sound like rules. If they are rules, they cannot be changed. What they are, they were not made, but they are. Like stories, they happen.

 

There is a boy who will never grow up. He will remain eight years old until the end comes, while his parents move from thirty-six to forty-eight. (This has been done before, yes. But this one is For Real.) The day after his eighth birthday he went with his friend from down the street to the monthly flea market in the basement of the downtown auditorium. His friend’s mom took them, and he bought the beautiful owl wing-shaped knife for only two dollars. His friend was jealous that he saw it first, and asked the seller if he had any more like it.