Evil knoweth no man like man knoweth evil…
Lard is reading the latest issue of the Kyiv Poster in his hospital bed.
“Dang,” he says, “that boy is ugly. And I mean one major serious catastrophic and irredeemable y-u-u-u-ugly!!!”
“Hey, who you referring to,” a strange invisible low-key soft hissing voice asks Lard.
“Oh,” Lard answers, “this photo of a still image of the moment in the show on the cable interview Channel X when that shapeless blob, whom people purport to be my ego, is about to jump off the studio crossbeam, which will then launch Welsh Losser into the air hanging by his neck from the noose that crazed-looking half-naked Andrew Plumb just threw around his neck, as you can see right there in the picture, as part of his savage chokehold. Why, I’m telling you, I saw it all unfold before my very eyes right there on the TV! And this here Kyiv Poster story confirms the whole thing.”
“Was this Welsh Losser your good friend,” the voice asks Lard.
“Yes, he was.”
“And was he highly talented?”
“That’s right, and undoubtedly still is.”
“In the PR and media promotions sector?”
“Yes, and he also turned into a powerful writer and publisher. Just like he’d always wanted to in his dreams. Well, he made his dreams come true. When he worked for me, he kept improving all the time. After a while, there wasn’t a thing I could teach him. Left me for another company. Then, when he gained even more professional power, kind of went off on his own. Apparently, did the right thing. Good for him, Welsh Losser. Though now I don’t know. What’s going to happen? He survived this heinous attack, but it says right here in the Poster he’s going to return to the world of creators somewhat ‘crooked.’”
“Crooked?”
“Yeah. Kind of a cruel way of putting it, if you ask me – that danged editorializing Bret Boner at the helm again. What was Moe Zaire thinking by rehiring him? No place for that kind of redundant commentary in this kind of what’s supposed to be a hard-hitting fact-based crime story – no place whatsoever, I tell ya…”
“But come again, Lard. Crooked? What do you think that means? How crooked? In what way? Crooked of mind?”
“No, of body – but who knows? A crooked body can conceivably lead to a crooked mind.”
“You don’t say?”
“I do. And then there’s Andrew Plumb. Hoo-wee, that boy! Says right here the authorities are after him.”
“Well, Lard, you know how much that means in this country.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I do, I guess I do.”
“Say, Lard, you’re suddenly remembering an awful lot after your own near brush with death – your second one – right here in this hospital bed; and I daresay, that one came a lot closer to fruition than the gunshot in the ass you took from Plumb in the theater. So, why is it, do you think, your memory’s coming back?”
“Gosh, I don’t rightly know. Is it my real memory, or is it just stuff I’m making up to fill in a mind that didn’t seem to have anything significant stored in it at all – I mean, recollections of how it was and how important I used to be and some of the things I ended up doing to people, like firing them, for example, in the process of throwing my substantial weight around – just to satisfy my ego.”
“Ego, you say?”
“Yes, unfortunately – ego…”
“Well, Lard, maybe you’re remembering more of those good ol’ days because your ego’s come back to you?”
“Naaahh – now hold on there! If you’re trying to tell me that, that… thing… that you see in the paper has somehow crawled back inside me, you’re –”
“Now, don’t go getting all worked up for nothing, Lard. I didn’t say anything. Maybe it’s not him. Maybe you’re somehow miraculously ego-free and your memories are coming back on their own, prompted by no ego inside you whatsoever. Or maybe you’re developing a whole new and different ego. Still, that chap you see there in the Kyiv Poster is a fugitive from the law. He needs to hide somewhere, and you’re his most familiar place. These things usually find a way of getting back in. The spirit resists, but the flesh is weak. Hell, and you’ve been especially weak, Lard; first, after having your ego dredged up out of you, then getting half your ass blown off, and finally, nearly being suffocated to death by… Josh Davies. At least you say so.”
“Say so?! I know so! He stood right here over me and came down on that pillow over my mouth with the full weight of his body. And besides, what makes you such an expert? Don’t you think I know what happened to me better than anyone else?”
“Why, surely you do, Lard, surely you do. I hain’t sayin’ nothin’ – especially the part where you don’t know how, but you’re pretty sure the nurse came into the room, and at that very moment the pressure through the pillow suddenly lifted, and when you were finally able to drag some breath through your lungs again, you saw, all blurry-like through the tears in your eyes, lying on the sheet pulled up over your stomach, just a pile of sparkling sand.”
“And it was sand! You, you sly, whispering deceiver. Just as surely as I’m alive in this bed, shouting it out now – it was sand, it was sand, it was sand – a-ha-ha-haaaaa…!!!”
Lard’s nurse comes into the room.
“Okay, Mr. Lard, we’ve fused and welded a large ball of clay into that huge hole in your ass using the latest medical laser technology. With time, it should heal over nicely. We would have kept you here for a while yet, but not with these hysterics. So, out you go.”
“Out? You mean…???”
“That’s right. Get out of this bed, get your things into your little kitbag and it’s out with you. Goodbye. Dopobachenya!”
“But you can’t mean that – it’s cold out there. I don’t even have a coat!”
Well, Mr. Lard, I can mean it, and I do mean it. As they say around here – that’s your problem. Orderly!!!”
Filed by Jack Step, October 2, 2013