Maniacs in The Fourth Dimension (24 page)

He shattered
my world. Neither once did I doubt his innocence, and now... I
wanted my world back, I wanted last two days gone from my memory. I
found an add for hypnotist Eric Deeds in the papers. I called him.
I told him what I need. For three hundred bucks, he
agreed.

''Wind
whispers through treetops. It's completely dark. You are walking on
the gravel road. The gravel crackles under your feet. Now, you have
stepped into the river, you're going on, and water reaches up to
your chest. It's Lethe. Drink from it. Drink, and it will wash you
away, and wash away your memory...''

Who is this
Eric Deeds? An occultist? I opened my eyes in one of the halls of
Pine Cone Center, with no memory of how I got there. There, he
as
sembled a group of his followers, and
did something to them, they started seeing things. Whatever it was,
it didn't work on me. Maybe, some kind of mass hypnosis. Or
chemicals. Or both. I don't know. They say that every hypnosis is
auto-hypnosis. Maybe they saw things they wanted to see. All I know
is that it wasn't real. There's no such thing as magic flying
mushrooms.

And what do
you do now Zeke, when truth has liberated you? I don't now. I'll
sent a friend request to Alma, and see what will she say, although
I'd say she had enough of me. Maybe I should point out that I'm
Zeke Holodnik jr., son of the man from 'Free Zeke Holodnik' shirts.
People think it's a name of a band.

C
hapter seventy one

''They like,
gave me a motorcycle and a cell, and then I like, get calls from
this dispatcher chick, she gives me addresses, and I go there to
see what do they want, and people mostly want to go get them
groceries, and stuff.''

''Sounds cool. Did you have any
weird requests?''

''Well, you
know, sometimes kids under age ask you to go get them booze, I
don't know, sometimes they ask for drugs and shit.''

''Seriously?! That's crazy,
man.''

''Yeah...
Once I did a 'run' for Rob Bourdon.'

He doesn't know who that is.

''Rob Bourdon, the drummer of
'Linkin Park'.''

''Shit, seriously?!''

''Yeah...''

''What did he want?''

''To get him
something from some specialized pharmacy store in Beverly Hills. He
gave a good tip.''

''Did you tell him you play
too?''

''Like, when,
man, there was no time. Plus, we don't even play the same
instrument. I don't know, I thought it would come off pathetic.
Plus, I don't even have a band anymore...''

Maybe I should have. Too late
now anyway...

''Anyway,
before I got into this, I had this really sweet job of walking a
dog for this little girl, who's dad is fat on dough. She was paying
me from her allowance. I was making more money than most people
with regular jobs. Imagine that.''

''Why did you stop?''

''She got
bored of
the dog and gave him to her
friend from Italy. Sweet dog. Alaskan malamute.''

''Yeah?''

''Yeah.''

''What did you say was the name
of your second band?''

'' 'Amateur
attempt'. I can't believe you didn't hear for us, Raja, we had so
many sold-out gigs in the city, we toured Europe music
festivals...''

''I kinda dropped out of the
music scene, I was busy with so many other things...''

Yeah, I can
see that, he doesn't even know who Rob Bourdon is. Raja was a big
fan of this high school band I played bass in, 'Plastic palm tree'.
He was always jumping and screaming when we would play, even though
we played Hawaiian tunes. Back then, he was serious about becoming
a musician, I remember showing him how to play guitar. Anyway, we
stopped playing after high school, when we went separate
ways.

''There's
like, still fifty people in front of us, I thought this will go
faster...''

''Getting your book signed by
Stephen King?! No way man! Whenever Stephen's signing books,
there's always a long line. I didn't know you're a Stephen King
fan.''

''I'm not. I'm not a fan of
books, to be more precise. I haven't read one since high
school.''

''Like,
seriously, dude?! You don't read books? You're a weird man, Funky.
I'm a massive Stephen's fan.''

''No... It just takes so long to
read one.''

''Why are you here then,
man?''

''I told you
earlier. I'm working. I'm getting the book signed for Charlie Adam,
he'll give me fifty bucks for this. You remember him, Charlie Adam?
He didn't go to our school, but he was there all the time, Samantha
Miles boyfriend, remember?''

''Yeah! Yeah, I remember, the
blond guy...''

''No. You don't remember.
Charlie was never blond, you mixed him up with her brother.''

''Oh.''

''Anyway, the dispatcher chick
sent me to this address, and he opens the door, and we recognized
each other. I gave him my cell number, so whenever he needs
something, he calls me, that way I don't have to share anything
with the firm.''

''Clever boy, Funky. Working
around the firm.''

''Yeah, well, otherwise I would
never earn anything.''

''So, he's doing well, when he's
paying you to do things for him.''

''Yeah, he
is. His dad bought this online company for him, where kids go and
post their homeworks, and pay, I don't know, three dollars, and
then people from India and Pakistan and who the fuck would know
where, do their homework and get half a buck for that, Charlie
keeps two and a half.''

''Such a fuckin' ripoff! I can't
believe somebody came up with an idea like that!''

''Well, as
you see, Raja, someone did...''

Still lot of people in front of
us...

''Make sure
to check out our song '1986', my favorite, it's awesome, you'll
like it.''

''Why 1986? Isn't it always
1984?''

''This has
nothing to do with 1984, this is a song about Chernobyl disaster,
which occurred in 1986. It starts with this really tender ethereal
tune and lyrics are whispered over it, like reflecting the sounds
of early spring, then it gets noisy, industrial, clanging of the
machines inside, than it explodes, and the song goes full metal,
reactor rupture, screaming and everything, it gradually disappears,
and switches back to that first tune, sounds of the early spring.
It's over nine minutes long.''

''Sounds
awesome, man! Can't wait to hear the song!''

''Yeah, that's my favourite, but
our most famous song is 'Shooting shit in Hollywood'.''

''About drugs?''

''Yeah, about
drugs. It was the idea of Emil and Bee, lead guitar and bass man,
all the songs are their ideas. They wanted to do a song about doing
drugs, that works like a cartoon, you know, has a cartoonish story
and silly rhymes. It starts with Emil's instrumental of 'Looney
Toons' tune, and continues with some crazy kids melody. And over
it, each of us raps out, in ridiculous voices, a verse about our
adventures of tripping in Hollywood. You get to hear me rapping on
that one.''

''Sounds crazy, cuz. Sounds like
you were making a lot of crazy songs, and doing lot of drugs.''

''We were. But, I don't do that
shit anymore.''

''Why did you break up?''

''Well,
technically we didn't. We're on hiatus. Emil had an encounter with
his ex wife, against which he has a restraining order, he was
probably drunk and drugged, and I don't know what did he do to her,
but he's doing time now. I hope that we'll get back together when
he comes out, but I don't know... It was all too crazy to
last.''

''God, I missed out a lot. How
much time passed since high school?''

''I'm taking
your energy'', said this one girl, who's turn it was to get her
book signed, and pulled a .38 out of the book, and pointed it at
Stephen King. She shot him, and he just fell down.

''Is this for real?!''

Security
disarmed her, and pushed her to the floor, and more of them came
from the outside. I guess it is for real. I got lost quickly, I
didn't want to be around when cops come, I have a pack of blunts in
my pocket. It's not for me, it's for some kids that pay me to
obtain it for them. I don't do that shit anymore.

I went
outside. What do I do now? Now, I'm not going to get the book
signed. It's a fat book. Six hundred pages at least. No wonder a
small .38 fit inside. If he wrote a thinner book, maybe he wouldn't
get shot by a psychotic fan. And I would get my fifty bucks. Fuck
it, I'll sign the book, how will Charlie Adam now that it's not
Stephen King's writing?

Dear Charlie,

I hope you'll enjoy the
book

Sincerely, Stephen King

There. Looks
good, right? Maybe I should have used cursive. Too late
now.

Fuckin' Convention-con.