Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson Page A

Prague-inspired movies had been made in the last five years alone.
    He waved a hand and the wall assimilated the gel-screens. He drank the tranzbubble’s alcoholic blood in silence until it knocked him out.
    He awoke to the sound of the flight attendant’s voice: “Mr Prague. Wake up, Mr Prague. I might have tossed you a little to the left. Please don’t be angry. Please don’t come back from the dead and hurt me…”

11
    Araby (Re)viz[it]ed

     
    The anguish and anger that marked its gaze fluctuated with its vision.
    —I’ll fix it, said the monster’s companion. I promise.
    —My prototypes weren’t blind, replied the monster. There are no lilies on my brow. Scheiße!
    —You’re not blind. You’re just not working properly. But you’re new. Give yourself time to adjust.
    A man with no arms and legs crawled out of a hole in the wall. He said:
    —Welcome to Araby. My name’s Rardion! But most citizens call me Mike.
    The greeter came closer, moving across the floor on his stomach like an inchworm. He wore a striped onesie.
    —Can I be of service? May I assist you in some peculiar way?
    The monster flinched and said:
    — Pee -culiar.
    —Don’t be afraid, said the monster’s companion, squeezing its elbow. This is normal. When you enter a bazaar, you must expect to be accosted. You must expect to be accosted when you enter anything, anywhere. Granted, the greeter lacks extremities. But that’s not unheard of. People have lacked extremities for eons.
    The monster’s companion removed his sungoggles.
    —Ah! chirped the greeter. He rolled onto his back. Dr Teufelsdröchk! I didn’t recognize you!
    —It’s bright out.
    — Willkommen zurück! We’ve just received a fresh batch of artichokes, I’m told. Straight from Algiers!
    —Extraordinary. This is my monster. It is a psychocoporeal fusion of John Keats and Adolph Hitler. I call it The Sans Merci. It’s a working title. But I suspect the title may stick.
    The greeter rolled his head and frowned at The Sans Merci.
    —Pardon us.
    The doktor sidestepped the greeter, shepherded the monster through a security gate…and experienced an epiphany.
    —I know the function of bald people, he said. They signify what planets look like from afar. Thus they symbolize the distance between A and B. Hence they are unceasing reminders of cosmic vastness and the certainty of Blank Space.
    Illogical epiphanies were chronic phenomena in Araby, the owners of which had rigged the bazaar with ceiling fans that continually sprinkled Total Rekall dust onto shoppers, prompting them to either remember fond but forgotten experiences or, more commonly, extract meaning from nothingness. The owners sought to manufacture an illusory sense of intelligence and imagination in shoppers. This, in turn, would lead to a heightened sense of selfhood. And a heightened sense of selfhood would generate a greater desire to consume Araby’s various wares. It worked, for the most part, although sometimes shoppers devolved into mere artiste -like creatures, fleeing the bazaar in order to construct their own unrealized self-portraits on the canvas of life. But once a shopper left the premises, s/he ceased to fetishize Künstlerroman narratives and exhibit Joycean conduct.
    The Total Rekall dust had no effekt on The Sans Merci.
    —Artichokes, mumbled Dr Teufelsdröchk. Why would that stump think I wanted artichokes? Artichokes are for plebes and antisophisticants. Artichokes are the scum of the vegetable world. Artichokes are assholes that have been yanked inside-out.
    —You said artichoke five times in a row.
    —People repeat things. People let you down, too. Nothing more.
    They sat on a T-Bar that lifted and ferried them across the skyscape of Araby to its neurorganic produce section. Dr Teufelsdröchk expounded on the benefits of neurorganic produce along the way. How it filled the gap between body and psyche. How it filtered the stream of consciousness. How it massaged the soft interstices