Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson Page B

of the brain…The Sans Merci ignored him. It stroked its mustache and stared at the commerce below. Hawkers in colorful cloaks whispered back and forth, up and down the aisles. Thin, brown, empty-handed women disappeared into red curtains and reappeared carrying buckets of wet celluloid. Piles of merchandise everywhere. And looming grandfather clocks. And long wooden platforms. And crackling torches. And, for added effekt, hundreds of drunken James Joyce androids whose mustaches, the monster surmised, were identical to its own…
    —I hate this place, said Dr Teufelsdröchk. Joyce was nothing but a spud-eater. But they have the best fruits and vegetables in Prague. In the entire European landfill, I’d argue.
    A shopper three T-Bars ahead slipped and fell. Two strongmen caught him in a bed sheet and cheerfully threw him in the air, twice, before letting him go.
    The Sans Merci said:
    —My buttocks ail me. Where are the gondolas?
    —They fetishize Lo-Tech here. As everywhere. It’s the nature of the postreal world.
    —Why?
    —Less glitz. More gusto.
    The T-Bar descended to the floor and they got off. Dr Teufelsdröchk smoothed the wrinkles from his corduroy slacks and had another epiphany.
    —I remember when I was in the fourth grade, he said dreamily. The haters fed me goulash. I gagged and smelled the breath of God. It was at this moment that I realized, for the first time, that I was not God.
    He twitched.
    —This way.
    As they wandered down the aisles, The Sans Merci had to fight the urge to goosestep. It wasn’t easy. His boots seemed to be alive, angry. Possessed. They leapt out in front of him like cats whose tails had been stepped on.
    Dr Teufelsdröchk commended the monster’s efforts and lectured it:
    —One can think and look like a Nazi, but one must not act like a Nazi. Not in public life. This is a Brave New World, remember. Better to traipse from here to there like a lovelorn poet, as if the floor beneath your feet is a bed of roses and you are a virgin chasing after the summer breeze. Consider the opening words of Keats’ “To Autumn”: “Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness!” Convert that sentence into your gait. Become one with Keats—but keep the Führer close at hand…
    The monster began to skip, clumsily at first, as if kneeless, then with a certain legerdemain . Then it tripped over its feet and collapsed.
    Nearby a James Joyce had been sniffing keelings. It hurried over and assisted the monster to its feet with a cane. Clad in beret, cravat and rubber fishing trousers, the Joyce said:
    —Are you all right? I like your uniform. Is that rayon? I like your shiny pegs, too. I have medals. I was a boy scout once. I almost made it to eagle scout. But I flew too close to the ceiling lights…Can I help you find something, sir?
    —I’m blind, croaked the monster, groping…
    The Joyce cocked its head. Blind? It removed a flask from its jacket and took a swig.
    —Blind, like, literally? Or metaphorically? Or both? It hiccupped. Oedipus manifested dual states of blindness. King Lear as well. Actually that’s not true. In each case, one state led to the other. Only after the patriarchs had gouged out their eyes could they adequately perceive history, social relations, the price of eggs, and so on. I can see that your eyes are in your head. Perhaps they don’t work? Perhaps things are precisely as they appear.
    The Joyce offered the monster a sip from the flask. It declined.
    —You look familiar, the Joyce continued. Have we met? Have you ever seen the film Time Cop ? Despite that mustache, you’re the spitting image of JCVD. Jean-Claude Van Damme, I mean.
    —Thank you, interjected Dr Teufelsdröchk. Thank you, no. We don’t need any help. Thank you. Good day, etc.
    He led the monster away.
    —No need to thank me, sir. I didn’t do anything.
    The Joyce pocketed the flask and began to roll a cigarette.
    The doktor paused.
    —You know, you don’t sound anything like James Joyce. He