staircase. BugMan ducked his head just in time. The blast of fire splattered off his back singing the walls, scorching the wallpaper, striking little fires among the chips and sawdust of the broken banister all the way down and leaving the air stinking of ozone.
Kafka was stunned. For a moment, he almost forgot that he was Bug-Man. Freud was much stronger than he had thought. He must have been gaining converts faster than they had realized, far more than they
had estimated. He must have been draining the life force of hundreds, perhaps thousands of hapless souls, distilling their very being down into his own evil essence.
Bug-Man recovered himself then. He stopped thinking, stopped considering, stopped caring—he remembered his purpose. To feed on the flesh of Sigmund Freud! He charged up the stairs after the monstrous little man. But Freud’s frail demeanor was only another deceit. The old man scampered away like an animated elf, disappearing into the darkness at the far end of the hall.
Bug-Man followed relentlessly, his six long hairy legs scrabbling loudly on the hardwood floor. His claws left nasty scratches in the polished surface. He plunged into the darkness—
And found himself in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. A maze. The maze. Twisty little passages. A twisty little maze. All alike.
His eyes swiveled backward and forward—and he hesitated. For a moment, he had to be Kafka again. Had to rely on his innate human intelligence instead of his insect instinct. Reminded himself. Freud has no power of his own. He borrows the power of others. He summons monsters from the id and lets them fight his battles for him. But it’s all illusion.. You will destroy yourself fighting empty manifestations of your own fears. Ignore the illusions. Concentrate on what’s real!
Bug-Man’s hesitation stretched out forever. His chitiny shell began to soften. His mandibles clattered in confusion. But—but how do I know what’s real? he wondered. Everything that a being can know is ultimately experiential. I have no way to stand apart from the experiential nature of existence! So how can I access what is real and distinguish it from illusion?
It seemed as if all time was standing still. Kafka’s mind raced, his thought processes accelerated. Be who you are! he shouted to the Bug-Man! Don’t let him define you! He is a walrus. You are the Bug-Man! You are the greatest superhero ever! Ignore the lies! Anything that contradicts the Bug-Man is a lie! Remember that!
The Bug-Man snarled. Unconfused. He knew himself again, submerged himself once more in crimson fury and fire; the hunger and rage suffused his body like a bath of acid. He clicked his mandibles, reached out with his pincers and started pulling down the ugly twisty little walls and their dripping veins and wires, started pulling down the twisty little maze of darkness and fury, sending creatures of indeterminate
shape scuttling out into the fringes, started pulling down the twisty little passages all alike, pulling and chewing and breaking through—
He was in a tunnel. Blackness behind him. Blackness ahead.
The tunnel slanted downward into the bottomless dark. The walls were straight; they were set wide apart, but the ceiling was low. Everything was cut from dark wet stone. The water dripped from the walls and slid downward into the gloom ahead. His eyes refocused. What little light there was seeped into the air from no apparent source.
Far in the distance below, something moved. He could smell it. His antennae quivered in anticipation. He lifted his pincers. He readied his stinger, arching his tail high over his head. His venom dripped.
The thing ahead was coming closer. In the blackness below, a formless form was growing. It opened its eyes. Two bright red embers, glowing ferociously! The eyes were screaming toward him now!
Stinger?!
Bug-Man remembered just in time. Ignore the lies!
The red eyes went hurling past him, vanishing into darkness. The
Kafka was stunned. For a moment, he almost forgot that he was Bug-Man. Freud was much stronger than he had thought. He must have been gaining converts faster than they had realized, far more than they
had estimated. He must have been draining the life force of hundreds, perhaps thousands of hapless souls, distilling their very being down into his own evil essence.
Bug-Man recovered himself then. He stopped thinking, stopped considering, stopped caring—he remembered his purpose. To feed on the flesh of Sigmund Freud! He charged up the stairs after the monstrous little man. But Freud’s frail demeanor was only another deceit. The old man scampered away like an animated elf, disappearing into the darkness at the far end of the hall.
Bug-Man followed relentlessly, his six long hairy legs scrabbling loudly on the hardwood floor. His claws left nasty scratches in the polished surface. He plunged into the darkness—
And found himself in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. A maze. The maze. Twisty little passages. A twisty little maze. All alike.
His eyes swiveled backward and forward—and he hesitated. For a moment, he had to be Kafka again. Had to rely on his innate human intelligence instead of his insect instinct. Reminded himself. Freud has no power of his own. He borrows the power of others. He summons monsters from the id and lets them fight his battles for him. But it’s all illusion.. You will destroy yourself fighting empty manifestations of your own fears. Ignore the illusions. Concentrate on what’s real!
Bug-Man’s hesitation stretched out forever. His chitiny shell began to soften. His mandibles clattered in confusion. But—but how do I know what’s real? he wondered. Everything that a being can know is ultimately experiential. I have no way to stand apart from the experiential nature of existence! So how can I access what is real and distinguish it from illusion?
It seemed as if all time was standing still. Kafka’s mind raced, his thought processes accelerated. Be who you are! he shouted to the Bug-Man! Don’t let him define you! He is a walrus. You are the Bug-Man! You are the greatest superhero ever! Ignore the lies! Anything that contradicts the Bug-Man is a lie! Remember that!
The Bug-Man snarled. Unconfused. He knew himself again, submerged himself once more in crimson fury and fire; the hunger and rage suffused his body like a bath of acid. He clicked his mandibles, reached out with his pincers and started pulling down the ugly twisty little walls and their dripping veins and wires, started pulling down the twisty little maze of darkness and fury, sending creatures of indeterminate
shape scuttling out into the fringes, started pulling down the twisty little passages all alike, pulling and chewing and breaking through—
He was in a tunnel. Blackness behind him. Blackness ahead.
The tunnel slanted downward into the bottomless dark. The walls were straight; they were set wide apart, but the ceiling was low. Everything was cut from dark wet stone. The water dripped from the walls and slid downward into the gloom ahead. His eyes refocused. What little light there was seeped into the air from no apparent source.
Far in the distance below, something moved. He could smell it. His antennae quivered in anticipation. He lifted his pincers. He readied his stinger, arching his tail high over his head. His venom dripped.
The thing ahead was coming closer. In the blackness below, a formless form was growing. It opened its eyes. Two bright red embers, glowing ferociously! The eyes were screaming toward him now!
Stinger?!
Bug-Man remembered just in time. Ignore the lies!
The red eyes went hurling past him, vanishing into darkness. The
Similar Books
