Sleepless by Charlie Huston

one almost as communicable as it had been long feared BSE might someday prove to be, but most definitely BSE-related.
    And how comforting it was to know what was killing people by stealing their sleep. To have a name to put to the face of misery. To know that these mutated BSE prions, simple proteins that had folded into shapes so baleful and malicious that they spread their geometry to any healthy proteins they came into proximity with, were caused by eating Quarter Pounders.
    The fact that several of the infected were avowed vegetarians and vegans seemed to be no impediment to this theory, and the air soon smelled like barbeque. Hairy, shitty barbeque.
    PETA and the SPCA lodged protests with the appropriate authorities, but public sentiment was against them. Which is not to say they were without allies. The team-up between animal rights activists and the Cattleman's Beef Board was one of the more amusing juxtapositions that heralded the rapid tilt of the world into a landscape that was less Dali and more Hieronymus Bosch. As evidenced by the vision of vast herds of cattle being machine-gunned from above by helicopters, then coated in napalm and set ablaze. An inferno of beefs, not all of them dead. I summon for you the image of a wounded cow, running, in flames.
    How shocking when it turned out that no BSE had been found in the dissected brains of the victims.
    But the sheep and chicken ranchers made out well.
    A fact that was pointed out by some of the more colorful cable commentators as they began to wax, inevitably, conspiratorial. Not that they were taken seriously. Not by anyone but the cattlemen, anyway. But truly, when the first indications of a deadly pandemic appear, how far does one have to search for a conspiracy?
    It was clearly the work of The Terrorists.
    Which ones was academic. A virtually simultaneous worldwide outbreak of a never before seen prion disease? Could there be any doubt of what we were dealing with? No, there could not; terrorists were at work. Pretty much all the countries of the world were in agreement and joined in pointing their fingers, or more lethal indicators, at one another.
    And perhaps they were all right.
    A new viral spongiform encephalopathy, exhibiting all the symptoms of fatal familial insomnia. Perhaps it was born in a lab. Twisted into existence by endless manipulations. Applied nucleation creating self-assembling systems, designed materials, refined, until a special grotesque was found, the shape of sleeplessness.
    The shape of the sleepless prion, SLP, as it was dubbed, when isolated and revealed. That shape became a familiar thing. Part of the evening news graphic for every SLP-related story. Which meant pretty much every story. As what was not related to SLP?
    An icon on protest signs. For. Against. Up. Down. Applied as needed. Defined as desired.
    A T-shirt decal, endlessly riffed upon. Twisted and elongated for a Coca-Cola can. Blunted and squared for an MTV name check. Quadrupled in calligraphy over a burning Hindenburg in obtuse tribute to Led Zeppelin.
    An endlessly repeated graffito. Black spray-over showing where the edges of a stencil had been. The absent portions of a negative image, applied to every surface. Recalling, somehow poignantly, the similarly sprayed aspect of Andre the Giant. Resonating, I guess, with the looming specter of his death, brought about, as it was, by a mysteriously mutating condition.
    The tattooed insignia of an especially virulent strain of ultranationalistic fascism that seemed to manifest globally in much the same way as the disease itself. Spontaneously and without reason.
    A spray-painted word on the front doors of homes, informing SL response teams that there was work to be done inside, decapitating the dead so that slides of their brains could be added to the CDC registry, the bodies added to the pyres.
    The lone sigil of a thousand suicide notes.
    A replacement, in the lexicon of Armageddon, for the number of the beast.
    So much