Götzefalsch is seated before me, scribbling into his pad.
“I’m here and there?”
“And?”
“I’m also somehow back in the Lay-Z-Boy lounge chair in the mysterious location— present tense —being asked questions by Hal, the nameless, faceless Interrogator…. Can he read my mind right now? Or does he require me to speak?”
“Pipe down, Shitbird, you don’t wanna give away everything. Someone’s gonna ask you what pill you took, probably that duplicitous Doc. Tell him a mescaline derivative.” Captain Jager lights the briar pipe and barks at me. “I know I’m lighting a pipe, you jackass! Stop narrating about me and pay attention,” he yells from his spot across the living room.
“Who are you veet, Meester Beekaver? Kant you remember hees name?”
Jager shouts, “Tell him Ronald Reagan. He’ll probably get a kick in the pants from that one.”
“The Gipper.” I answer.
“Who?” Götzefalsch asks.
“Ronald Reagan,” I say.
The Doc attempts to repress the shock registered on his face.
The Interrogator now chimes in. “ You seem to be in a confused state, Mr. Bikaver. Why have you stopped giving me past information? Are you having problems with your recall? ”
“Rat Bastard! He’s probably a dirty low-down AI,” mutters Jager.
“I know I muttered that!” says Jager.
“Get the hell out of this loop—don’t worry about what the hell I say right now!” yells Jager. “Or else they’ll track onto me too.”
“Aha—I’m in a loop, and….”
“A loop, eh? Vaht sort of peel deed Meester Raygun geeve too you?” The Doc seems to have regained composure from the previous blow.
“I believe it was mescaline,” I answer.
The Doc is tsk-tsking and shaking his head. “Zat may be very contradeectory to ze other medikation you are on. I am not shure dat vas ein gut idea.”
“ Mr. Bikaver—are you having problems with your recall? ” the Interrogator repeats.
Neither the Interrogator nor Dr. Götzefalsch are aware of one another, only me, as though I were talking to each of them on two separate telephones.
“Yes—I believe the drugs Doctor Götzefalsch gave me did something—at times I would forget where I was and what I was doing—like a walking blackout.”
“ You were on your way to Fillono’s. You took a shortcut. Rain began to fall—then heavily. You almost ran your car off the road, having a ‘near death’ experience, wherein a series of memories flashed before you. Then what happened? ” The Interrogator probes for more information.
“Didn’t we already go over this?” I ask.
Wait a second. The Interrogator doesn’t know this part. Did I stop the narrative after the crash? Impossible—otherwise, how would I be where I am at now—to this very sentence in the story? I seem to have a certain power to withhold information. Hal, the Interrogator, must not have an up-to-date version of my activities. In that sense, I am free. But for how long?
“ Please explain, ” the Interrogator says.
“I can’t remember,” I say, just to say something.
“Zat vas vat I vas afraid vould happen. Ve might try ein deeferent approach.” The Doc exits the office.
I get up and go to the window. Blackness outside. Not night, just blackness. Where the hell am I? I examine my surroundings.
Something is strange—as though this is not real.
Am I on a set? I go to the door and open it. Outside there’s an empty airplane hangar—dark except for the luminance issuing forth from the Doc’s office, which I can now see is in fact an artificial set, built of plywood flats. From afar I hear the reverberation of footsteps, what I perceive to be emanating from more than one pair of shoes. Maybe three or four. Should I go back inside and play dumb or get the hell out of here? Wherever here is.
“Your call,” Captain Jager—I mean Ronald Reagan—whispers. “If you stay, who knows? If you bolt, they’ll track you down and they’ll probably make you go through all this
“I’m here and there?”
“And?”
“I’m also somehow back in the Lay-Z-Boy lounge chair in the mysterious location— present tense —being asked questions by Hal, the nameless, faceless Interrogator…. Can he read my mind right now? Or does he require me to speak?”
“Pipe down, Shitbird, you don’t wanna give away everything. Someone’s gonna ask you what pill you took, probably that duplicitous Doc. Tell him a mescaline derivative.” Captain Jager lights the briar pipe and barks at me. “I know I’m lighting a pipe, you jackass! Stop narrating about me and pay attention,” he yells from his spot across the living room.
“Who are you veet, Meester Beekaver? Kant you remember hees name?”
Jager shouts, “Tell him Ronald Reagan. He’ll probably get a kick in the pants from that one.”
“The Gipper.” I answer.
“Who?” Götzefalsch asks.
“Ronald Reagan,” I say.
The Doc attempts to repress the shock registered on his face.
The Interrogator now chimes in. “ You seem to be in a confused state, Mr. Bikaver. Why have you stopped giving me past information? Are you having problems with your recall? ”
“Rat Bastard! He’s probably a dirty low-down AI,” mutters Jager.
“I know I muttered that!” says Jager.
“Get the hell out of this loop—don’t worry about what the hell I say right now!” yells Jager. “Or else they’ll track onto me too.”
“Aha—I’m in a loop, and….”
“A loop, eh? Vaht sort of peel deed Meester Raygun geeve too you?” The Doc seems to have regained composure from the previous blow.
“I believe it was mescaline,” I answer.
The Doc is tsk-tsking and shaking his head. “Zat may be very contradeectory to ze other medikation you are on. I am not shure dat vas ein gut idea.”
“ Mr. Bikaver—are you having problems with your recall? ” the Interrogator repeats.
Neither the Interrogator nor Dr. Götzefalsch are aware of one another, only me, as though I were talking to each of them on two separate telephones.
“Yes—I believe the drugs Doctor Götzefalsch gave me did something—at times I would forget where I was and what I was doing—like a walking blackout.”
“ You were on your way to Fillono’s. You took a shortcut. Rain began to fall—then heavily. You almost ran your car off the road, having a ‘near death’ experience, wherein a series of memories flashed before you. Then what happened? ” The Interrogator probes for more information.
“Didn’t we already go over this?” I ask.
Wait a second. The Interrogator doesn’t know this part. Did I stop the narrative after the crash? Impossible—otherwise, how would I be where I am at now—to this very sentence in the story? I seem to have a certain power to withhold information. Hal, the Interrogator, must not have an up-to-date version of my activities. In that sense, I am free. But for how long?
“ Please explain, ” the Interrogator says.
“I can’t remember,” I say, just to say something.
“Zat vas vat I vas afraid vould happen. Ve might try ein deeferent approach.” The Doc exits the office.
I get up and go to the window. Blackness outside. Not night, just blackness. Where the hell am I? I examine my surroundings.
Something is strange—as though this is not real.
Am I on a set? I go to the door and open it. Outside there’s an empty airplane hangar—dark except for the luminance issuing forth from the Doc’s office, which I can now see is in fact an artificial set, built of plywood flats. From afar I hear the reverberation of footsteps, what I perceive to be emanating from more than one pair of shoes. Maybe three or four. Should I go back inside and play dumb or get the hell out of here? Wherever here is.
“Your call,” Captain Jager—I mean Ronald Reagan—whispers. “If you stay, who knows? If you bolt, they’ll track you down and they’ll probably make you go through all this
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