The Butcher's Theatre (72 page)

Seeing only Fields’s face, then BoJo’s, then the two of them merging into a white/nigger slime mask.

Pow. His hands itched.

BoJo turned off Nasty and onto the side street, snapping his fingers and staggering—probably stoned out of his gourd from too much juice or weed or whatever. He paused a block away from the Pontiac, the way he always did, hitched up his pants, and lit his Sherman’s. The flame from the rabbit lighter illuminated his monkey face for one brief, ugly moment.

Soon as the flame died, Dr. Terrific came running silently out of the alley, all superhero clean-cut and full of destiny.

Sliding a crowbar out from under the windbreaker, he jogged over to the Grand Prix on bouncy tennie feet, raised the crowbar over his head, and brought it down as hard as he could, pulverizing the windshield. The sound of shattering glass still sweet in his ears, he zipped around to the passenger side, squatted low on the sidewalk.

The supersensitive motion-detector alarm started screaming.

BoJo had been dragging on his cigarette. It took a second for the pimp to realize what was happening. Another second before he started screaming too. In harmony with the alarm.

Soul music.

Fucker pulled out his gun, ran/staggered to the Grand Prix as fast as those faggy high heels could take him. Tripping and cursing, finally getting there and staring open-mouthed at the rape of the windshield. Meanwhile, the alarm was still screaming out its mechanical painsong.

BoJo jumped up and down, swung the .45 in a arc, and looked from side to side, spitting and cursing, saying “Come here, mothahfuckahs, goddam fuckin’ mothahfuckahs!”

The alarm continued pouring its little electronic heart out.

Meanwhile, he was staying still as a dead man, crouching with the crowbar in his hand. Ready. Stupid nigger never saw him, never thought of checking the passenger side of the car. Just kept jumping and spitting and cursing, leaning over to

finger what was left of the windshield, staring at whole chunks of safety glass that had come loose, hundreds of bubbles of glass all over the fake-ermine tuck-and-roll dashboard, stuck in the high-pile fake-ermine bucket seats.

Repeating “Mothahfuckah, fuckin’ mothahfuckah” like some spear-chucker chant, stomping his little high-heeled foot, waving the gun around, then finally putting it away, taking the handset out of his pocket and turning off the alarm.

The screaming died; the silence seemed even louder.

Dr. T. held his breath.

“Shit,” said BoJo, removing his hat and rubbing a balding head. “Oh, fuck, mothahfuckin’ shee-it.”

Nigger opened the driver’s door with a gold-plated key, brushed glass from the seat and the dashboard, listened to the sad-song tinkle as it fell to the curb, said “Shee-it” again, then got out to reexamine the windshield, as if it had all been a bad dream, next time he looked everything would be okay.

It wasn’t.

“Mercy fuck. Shee-it”

Famous last words, because when the fucker straightened up, he was staring into a clean-cut superhero face, hearing:

“Hi, I’m Doctor Terrific. What seems to be the problem?”

“Say wha—” Feeling without really comprehending, the stunning pain as the crowbar smashed him square across his nose, pulverizing his face, driving bone slivers into whatever poor excuse for cerebral tissue he carried in that ugly black’ monkey skull.

So easy, just like Fields.

So easy, it made him hard.

Blackberry jelly, he thought, as he hit the nigger slime again and again, stepping back and wiping himself with tissues each time, so that the blood wouldn’t spatter his clothes. Wiping the crowbar clean, and leaving it next to the body. Using the tissues to extract the .45 from the slime’s waistband and laying the gun on top of the pimp’s crotch.

“Umgawa, umgawa. Suck this, coonshit.”

Then heading back to the alley, where he retrieved his Polaroid camera, returned to the heap of wet blacktrash, and snapped a flash picture before sauntering ” off, soooo casual.

He stopped under a streetlight three blocks away, found a few riny blood freckles on his shoes and T-shirt. The shoes he wiped. The shirt was quickly concealed by zipping up the windbreaker. Then he walked on. Two blocks farther was the Plymouth, nice and comfy. He got in it, drove a mile to another alley with dumpsters. Opened the trunk of the car and wet some rags with alcohol and water from plastic hospital bottles he’d stored there. Pulled the camera apart with his hands, enjoying the cracking sound and imagining it was the nigger’s body he was breaking. Wiping each piece, then throwing them into three separate dumpsters.

Riding on and tossing the tissues in four separate sewer drains, tearing off the corner of the one with the most blood and eating it.

He rewarded himself by getting a beer out of the ice chest in the trunk. Drinking it slowly, so casual.

Twenty minutes later he was back on the boulevard, foot-cruising among the geeks and creeps and night-crawling slimeballs, knowing they were his, knowing he could have any of them any time he wanted.

He found a twenty-four-hour fast-food stand—greasy, run-down joint with a pockmarked slant behind the counter. After staring the slant into giving him the key to the men’s room, he washed up, examined his face, touched himself, not quite believing he was real.

Then he went back to the counter, ordered a double cheeseburger and vanilla shake from the slant, sat on a cracked plastic stool, eating. Really enjoying his dinner.

The only other customers were a pair of stinking biker faggot types in black leather, stuffing their faces with teriyaki dogs and onion rings. They noticed him, nudged each other, tried to stare him down, tried to give him the evil eye.

His grin changed their minds.

He thought Nightwing would be impressed by the snapshot of all that dead black jelly, overcome with My Hero! gratitude. Instead she gave him a weird look like he was dirty. It made him feel bad for a moment, kind of nauseous and scared, like when he’d been a kid sitting tight-sphinctered on step number six, terrified of being caught.

He stared back at her stare, heard the bad-machine noise get louder, and thought: Stupid ungrateful cunt. Hot rage-pain clawed at the roof of his mouth; he felt the cold rolled steel of the crowbar in his hands. Cooled it with a chest-ballooning deep breath and mind-pictures of the nigger as he’d gone down. Patent shoes black with nightblood.

Be casual. Patient.

But he knew she was hopeless. The romance was over.

He tore the picture in little pieces, ate them, and grinned. Stretched and yawned. “I did it for you. Now you’re safe, babe.”

“Yeah.” Forced smile. “G-great. Thanks—you’re terrific!”

“My pleasure, babe.” A command.

A minute later: “Do me again, babe.”

She hesitated, saw the look on his face, then said, “Yeah, sure, my pleasure, gratis,” and lowered her head.

After that their relationship changed. They continued to date, she took his money, did what he wanted, but held back. Emotionally. He could tell.

No more boyfriend/girlfriend, this was heavy duty love/ respect, like a kid for a parent.

Which was okay. He was sick of hearing her sob stories, mean old daddy, all the johns who couldn’t get it up, dribbled on her legs, the ones who liked to hurt her.

Fuck that noise. Power was better than closeness any day of the week. Far as he was concerned, they could have continued that way for a while.

But she fucked it up. What happened was her fault, when you got right down to it. The thoughtlessness, dirtying his heritage.

Dirtying Schwann.

He’d say one thing for Fields: The shitbag had been thorough. Checking foreign phone books, employment and immigration records, physicians’ directories, licensing board rosters, motor vehicle registrations. Medical journal obituaries.

Being a private eye was clearly more busywork than brainwork, all that TV stuff pure bullshit.

He learned something: Lots of information was just lying around for the taking, if you knew where to look for it.

One downer: The best information Fields had gotten hold of came right out of Schwann’s hospital file—Doctor’s hospital, the same hospital he’d been working in for two years! In the Pathology Department, of all places—he’d delivered mail there at least a thousand times, was still doing it, had fondled a stiff there just last week.

All those sacred facts right under his nose and he’d paid a dumb slime to find them!

Overlooking it made him tremble, want to cut himself. He cooled himself down with a beer and a stroke, told himself it was okay to make mistakes as long as you learned.

He’d learned. From a dead man, a fucking scumbag.

It paid to keep an open mind.

Visually, Fields’s report was a mess, just what you’d expect from a lowlife slob: cheap machine, ink smudges, bent corners, the text typed on a cheap machine with chipped letters, and marred by typographical errors and slipping margins. In those margins, Fields had scrawled little handprinted comments—the slime had obviously planned on squeezing more money out of him by coming across superhelpful. Writing in a oily buddy-buddy tone that made him wish he could bring the fucker back to life in order to smash him to trash again.

Despite all that, the file was sacred, a bible.

Bless you. Daddy.

He set aside bible time every day, sitting naked on the floor of the ice palace, touching himself. Sometimes he worshipped more than once, memorizing the text, every word was sacred. Staring at the hospital ID photo for hours until the image of Schwann’s face was burned into his brain.

His face.

The same face. Clean-cut and handsome.

Handsome, because Schwann had wanted to pass the superhero legacy on to him, had squeezed those face-chromosomes into her filthy womb.

Dominating her inferior tissue with Schwann supersperm. The line of command from father to son, a sparkling clone chain.

Looking at his face, anyone knowing Schwann would have to know. Doctor had been a stupid kikefuck not to have caught it.

No one else had ever mentioned it because they were kike-dupes. Doctor had paid them off.

He intensified his bible studies, started reading ,,,,,„,,,the file after every meal. The New New Testament. Book of Dieter, Chapter One, Verse One.

In the beginning, Dieter Schwann was born.

Only child—like him!—of Hermann Schwann and Hilde Lobauer Schwann.

Date of the blessed event: April 20, 1926.

The sacred place: Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany.

(“Fancy ski resort for the rich, Doc,” Fields had scrawled. “Family probably had money, may still have some. You could try to attach some of their bank accounts but overseas stuff is hard to pull off without an internt’l attorney—be happy to get you a referral.”)

Grandma Hilde: Fields had little to say about her. (“Nothing traceable. Died 1962, haven’t been able to find out who inherited her estate. A foreign trace might obtain you more.”) But he was certain she was beautiful. Clean and cool. And blond.

Grandpa Hermann: a doctor, of course. An important one—two doctorates, M.D and Ph.D. Professor of Surgery, University of Berlin.

Herr Doktor Professor Hermann Schwann, M.D., Ph.D. (“Died, 1952. A Nazi. I checked the Periodicals Index and his name turned up in a 1949 Life magazine article on the Nuremberg trials. Seems he ran experiments at Dachau, was convicted of war crimes and imprisoned after the war. Died in jail. Tough luck for the bastard, eh, Doc?”)

Tough luck for slime-o Fields, eh?

Chapter Two, Verse One: Dieter Grows to Manhood.

Supercloner had been a doctor too. A brilliant one—you could tell by reading between the lines of the bible/report:

“M.D., 1949, University of Berlin”—which made him a doctor at 23! “Residency and fellowship in surgical pathology, ‘49—‘51”—they didn’t give that to just anyone! “Immigrated to the U.S. on a student visa in ‘51 for a post-doctoral fellowship

in micro-anatomy research. Finished up in ‘53, and went to New York as a staff pathologist at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital.”

Reading between the lines revealed a dual mission to the emigration:

A. Put the finishing touches on a brilliant medical education.

B. Shoot superhero sperm into a womb-receptable until it cloned to perfection.

Fuck the womb—the seed lives on!

Dr. Terrific, alias Dieter Schwann, Junior—no, the second. No, Roman numerals: II. II. II.

Dr. Dieter Schwann, II.

Herr Doktor Professor Dieter Schwann, II: Famous— world-renowned physician, surgical pathologist, micro-anatomist, life giver and taker, cleanser of dirt and scum, mind-picture artist, and man-about-town.

Dieter Schwann had died for the sins of the world, but his seed lived on.

Lived.

A noble story, but the end of the report couched it in lies. The Apocrypha. By trying to conceal the truth, Fields had justified his death a million times over.

It had happened too fast. The slime had deserved a lesson. Real science.

No more Mr. Nice Guy.

Still, he didn’t tear out the lies, not wanting to alter any part of the bible. Forced himself to read, in order to strengthen his will, harden his heart.

“Schwann left Columbia in ‘59. They wouldn’t say why— his file was closed. (I picked up a hint of something smelly in the ethics department, which makes sense when you follow what happened to the guy.) After that, the State Board has him working in a storefront medical clinic in Harlem—that’s a bad black neighborhood—from ‘60 through ‘63. The first dope arrest is in ‘63. He got probation, lost his license, appealed, and lost. No employment record after ‘63. Second arrest, ‘64, possession of heroin and conspiracy to sell. A year at Rikers Island—that’s a New York City jail—released on probation after six months. Arrested again in ‘65, sent to

the state prison at Attica for seven years. Died of a heroin overdose in prison in ‘69.”

In the margin: “Like father, like son, eh?”

He read the scrawled note for the millionth time, became inflamed with rage. Rubbed his cock until the skin was raw and pinpointed with blood. Clawed at his thighs, tore the skin, pushed through the bad-machine noise, which was as loud as thunder, strong as a tidal wave.