screams of rage faded into distant echoes that hung in the air like dreadful memories—
I could have stung myself, right behind the brain case —he realized. And then, realizing again how narrowly he had escaped the trap of the Freudian paradigm, he warned himself again. You are the Bug-Man! Don’t let him define you or your reality! Monsters from the id aren’t real!
The Bug-Man headed down the tunnel. Its angle of descent increased abruptly, getting steeper and steeper, until he was slipping, sliding, skidding, tumbling—
—onto the hard-baked surface of a place with no sun, no moon, no sky and no horizon. Tall black cylinders surrounded them, leaping up into the gloom and disappearing overhead. They looked like the bars of a cage.
Freud stood beside one of the bars, surveying him thoughtfully. “You are resisting the treatment,” he said. “I can’t help you if you do not want to be helped.” He waggled his finger meaningfully. “You must really want to change!”
Bug-Man roared in fury. It consumed him like volcanic fire. He became a core of molten energy. The blast of emotion overwhelmed him. Enraged, he charged.
Bug-Man galloped across the space between them, tearing up the
floor with his six mighty claws. He thundered like a bull, hot smoke streaming from the vents of his nostrils. The black leviathan leapt—
—and abruptly, Freud was gone!
Bug-Man smashed against the bars of the cage like a locomotive hitting a wall, his legs flailing, his body deforming, the air screaming out from his lungs like a steam whistle. He shrieked in rage and frustration and pain. He fell back, legs working wildly, righted himself, whirled around, eyes flicking this way and that, focusing on Freud again. The PsycheMan waited for him on the opposite side of the cage. The Bug-Man didn’t hesitate! He charged again—
—and again, he came slamming up against the bars. Helpless for an instant, he lay there gasping and wondering what he was doing wrong. Transformed Kafka shuddered in his shell. But he pushed the thought aside, levered himself back to his feet, focused again on his target, readied his charge, sighted his prey—
This time, he would watch to see which way the PsycheMan leapt. He would snatch him from the air. He held his pincers high and wide. Instead of charging, he advanced steadily, inexorably, closing on his elusive prey like some ghastly mechanical device of the industrial revolution gone mad. His mandibles clicked and clashed. His eyes shone with unholy fury. A terrible guttural sound came moaning up out of his throat—
—came slamming hard against the bars of the cage as if he’d been fired into them by a cannon. The discontinuity left him rolling across the floor in pain, clutching at his aching genitals and crying in little soft gasps. He pulled himself back to his knees, his feet, trying to solidify his form again. He stood there, wavering, almost whimpering.
“What’s wrong?” he asked himself. “What am I doing wrong?”
Kafka looked across the cage. Freud stood there grinning nastily. The old man laughed. “You battle yourself!” he said thickly. “The rigidity of your constructed identity cannot deal with events occurring outside of its world view. You become confused and you attack shadows and phantoms!”
Kafka took a deep breath. Then another, and another. “I am Franz Kafka, superhero!” he said to himself “I am here to destroy the evil paradigm of Dr. Freud! I will not be defeated.”
No!—he realized abruptly. That way doesn’t work! I am the master of metamorphosis. I must metamorphose into something that the doctor cannot defeat! At first he thought of giant squids and vampire bats, cobras
and bengal tigers, raging elephants, bears, dragons, manticores, goblins, trolls—Jungian archetypes! But, no —he realized. That would be just more of the same! Just another monster! To fight a monster I must change into something ELSE—
He stood there motionless, staring
I could have stung myself, right behind the brain case —he realized. And then, realizing again how narrowly he had escaped the trap of the Freudian paradigm, he warned himself again. You are the Bug-Man! Don’t let him define you or your reality! Monsters from the id aren’t real!
The Bug-Man headed down the tunnel. Its angle of descent increased abruptly, getting steeper and steeper, until he was slipping, sliding, skidding, tumbling—
—onto the hard-baked surface of a place with no sun, no moon, no sky and no horizon. Tall black cylinders surrounded them, leaping up into the gloom and disappearing overhead. They looked like the bars of a cage.
Freud stood beside one of the bars, surveying him thoughtfully. “You are resisting the treatment,” he said. “I can’t help you if you do not want to be helped.” He waggled his finger meaningfully. “You must really want to change!”
Bug-Man roared in fury. It consumed him like volcanic fire. He became a core of molten energy. The blast of emotion overwhelmed him. Enraged, he charged.
Bug-Man galloped across the space between them, tearing up the
floor with his six mighty claws. He thundered like a bull, hot smoke streaming from the vents of his nostrils. The black leviathan leapt—
—and abruptly, Freud was gone!
Bug-Man smashed against the bars of the cage like a locomotive hitting a wall, his legs flailing, his body deforming, the air screaming out from his lungs like a steam whistle. He shrieked in rage and frustration and pain. He fell back, legs working wildly, righted himself, whirled around, eyes flicking this way and that, focusing on Freud again. The PsycheMan waited for him on the opposite side of the cage. The Bug-Man didn’t hesitate! He charged again—
—and again, he came slamming up against the bars. Helpless for an instant, he lay there gasping and wondering what he was doing wrong. Transformed Kafka shuddered in his shell. But he pushed the thought aside, levered himself back to his feet, focused again on his target, readied his charge, sighted his prey—
This time, he would watch to see which way the PsycheMan leapt. He would snatch him from the air. He held his pincers high and wide. Instead of charging, he advanced steadily, inexorably, closing on his elusive prey like some ghastly mechanical device of the industrial revolution gone mad. His mandibles clicked and clashed. His eyes shone with unholy fury. A terrible guttural sound came moaning up out of his throat—
—came slamming hard against the bars of the cage as if he’d been fired into them by a cannon. The discontinuity left him rolling across the floor in pain, clutching at his aching genitals and crying in little soft gasps. He pulled himself back to his knees, his feet, trying to solidify his form again. He stood there, wavering, almost whimpering.
“What’s wrong?” he asked himself. “What am I doing wrong?”
Kafka looked across the cage. Freud stood there grinning nastily. The old man laughed. “You battle yourself!” he said thickly. “The rigidity of your constructed identity cannot deal with events occurring outside of its world view. You become confused and you attack shadows and phantoms!”
Kafka took a deep breath. Then another, and another. “I am Franz Kafka, superhero!” he said to himself “I am here to destroy the evil paradigm of Dr. Freud! I will not be defeated.”
No!—he realized abruptly. That way doesn’t work! I am the master of metamorphosis. I must metamorphose into something that the doctor cannot defeat! At first he thought of giant squids and vampire bats, cobras
and bengal tigers, raging elephants, bears, dragons, manticores, goblins, trolls—Jungian archetypes! But, no —he realized. That would be just more of the same! Just another monster! To fight a monster I must change into something ELSE—
He stood there motionless, staring
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