The New and Improved Romie Futch by Julia Elliott Page B

tossed it into the garbage. He sat down on the edge of the sectional.
    â€œHow about a cup of Pep?” he said to Trippy.
    â€œSure thing.” Trippy pulled out the sacred milk jug, gave it a brisk shake, and then sloshed a few inches of hooch into a Styrofoam cup and handed it to Al.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about your theory, Irvin,” said Skeeter, charging into a new subject to clear the air.
    â€œWhich one?” said Irvin.
    â€œAbout the different eras of porn and the ineluctable modality of the visual—”
    â€œGentlemen,” interrupted Al, and then he rose from the couch, strolled to the center of the floor, and held his drink aloft like a chap with a crystal tumbler in a Chivas Regal ad.
    â€œLet’s be frank,” he said in a New England accent with a detectable midwestern undertow—vaguely academic, the television voice of scientific reason.
    â€œEvery man worries about the size of his member.” Al winked. “So let’s be honest. Even if you’re John Holmes, you still feel inadequate, still want that extra inch of prowess, that erection of triple-alloyed tungsten that makes the ladies howl.”
    Al winked.
    â€œTake my penis, for example. The pitiful appendage used to be about two inches long, a Napoleonic cocktail weenie that was downright cherubic—until I started using Priapus. Priapus is a state-of-the-art gene-therapy program bioengineered by scientists from MIT. In a revolutionary new process, nanobots deliver gene therapy through the patient’s bloodstream, using RNA interference to block growth inhibitors. As microscopic polymer robots reprogram penile building blocks on a subatomic level, stem cells recalibrate to pubertal levels that lead to rapid genital growth in less than thirty days! Guaranteed! Or your money back. Call 1-866-P-R-I-A-P-U-S, and you’ll be a ballin’ lothario in no time!”
    And then, as though nothing had happened, Al returned to his chair and took a slurp of Pep.
    â€œYou feel okay, man?” said Skeeter. “You joshing, right?”
    Al frowned, glanced from face to face.
    â€œI get it.” Trippy flashed a fake smile. “Pop-up-like random commercials, a postmodern parody of spam, yeah?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about, Willis?” Al tried to smile, but a tremor overtook him, crumpling his face. He dropped his cup, clutched his head, and groaned.
    â€œWhat’s the matter, man?” said Irvin.
    â€œHeadache,” growled Al. “Motherfucking übermigraine.” Al whimpered and rubbed his temples.
    Skeeter stood up, his enormous eyes swimming with sympathy, and patted him on the back. “Want to go to the infirmary, bo?” he said.
    â€œUggrh,” said Al.
    Then he straightened himself, blinked at us. “It’s gone,” he said. “Just like that. Poof .”

SEVEN
    Later in my room I fell into a strange half sleep as traffic from the interstate beeped and droned outside the sliding glass door. Needle was still gone, but I kept sensing him there, looming over me with his invisible samurai sword.
    I flicked on the light, glanced around.
    Nothing.
    It must be the Pep , I thought.
    I got out of bed, walked to the window, and looked out at the corporate landscaping: fountain, Bradford pear trees, sickle moon hanging over the parking lot. I had a headache. I took two Advils and lay down again.
    First thing next morning I’d ask them point-blank what the hell was going on. I’d tell them we knew about Vernon’s suspicious release. Ask them what the deal was with Al. I’d refuse any more downloads until they gave me a satisfying answer. I’d even go home if I had to—screw the six thousand dollars I so desperately needed. I’d called my dad a few times since arriving to stave off suspicion but otherwise hadn’t communicated with anybody. I’d sent out a volley of cryptic e-mails predeparture, hinting at a