The Egotist Page 8

  I see more of the aliens now, and walking amongst them are humans - men and women in nice business suits. They are definitely with the green horned things, possibly showing them the way to conquer the planet. I can see it all.

  “We’ll start with the grocery stores,” they say, a blueprint of the world before them. “Then, we’ll mow over the video stores . . . here, and here!” They point to the large map, signaling their targets.

  I don’t have much love for this world, that’s no secret, but I also don’t believe the green horned things should be the beneficiaries of our discontent. If anyone is going to change the world, it’s going to be me, and I decide to make my stand and claim what is rightfully mine.

  I pull off my apron, lay it on the floor, and begin to scoop canned vegetables into it. I don’t have much time before I’m likely to be seen, so I empty the shelves quickly, wrap up the apron around what I can carry - which seems to be a superhuman amount - and head for the back, discreetly avoiding the enemy.

  In the far rear of the store is a machine we use to crush boxes. With inspiration flowing through me, I dump my apron filled with canned goods into the giant crusher, close the heavy door, and power it on. I watch with great cunning as the presser lowers itself onto the wad of cans. Electricity shoots from the screaming machine, and an unwieldy noise like the tearing of steal belches from deep within it. I watch as the red light turns to green, signaling the end of the compression cycle. I open the metal door and pull out the tool which has been created, the tool I will need.

  The steel cans have been crushed into the form of a giant sword, the handle a petrified ear of corn. Why corn? I cannot explain.

  I take the sword and run back into the main part of the store, where patrons are being cut down by the blasting guns of the enemy. Undaunted, I hurl myself at one of the beasts, my sword glinting in the fluorescent lights. Before the other-worldly worm can respond, I slice cleanly through its midsection, leaving it in two. Ooze pours out over the floor, but before I can revel in my victory, two more come at me. They fire their guns and I deftly deflect the arsenal with the magical sword, sending the explosive charges to the left and right where they detonate harmlessly into shelves of tissue and an assortment of automotive goods.

  I run at the new victims, lopping one’s head off before it can react to my fury. The other one turns to flee but I stab it once in the back, cut off its leg, and then, as it lies on the ground facing me, finish it by running my thick blade through its throat.

  I turn around and see a man in a suit speaking into a cellular phone. He appears hostile, and I figure he’s sending for reinforcements from some great mothership somewhere. He gives me a condescending glare and mutters something he finds obscenely funny into the little phone. Allowing my anger to run its course, I take a step and hurl the sword at him. It travels like an arrow before piercing his chest. His surprised face reads like a horror novel as he is sent spiraling into the frozen meats section, the sword’s momentum carrying him nearly twenty feet through the air.

  I retrieve my blade and run out of the market. In the parking lot are a couple of flying saucers, one of which I quickly commandeer as my own.

  Hurtling myself into the sky, I soon find myself engaged in a dogfight with other saucers.

  Tucking! Turning! Diving! Thrusting! Firing! Evading!

  I attack them, turning a trio of enemies into charred steel, their ships falling helplessly toward the ground.

  Seizing the moment, I decide to make my stand. I begin firing at large office buildings, blowing them in half and watching them topple over. A domino effect occurs at one point, and I watch happily as structure after structure falls into destruction. The other saucers don’t know what to do now, they aren’t sure if I’m friend or foe. Seizing the opportunity, I blow them out of the sky, laughing horrendously.

  I see earth-based fighter planes coming at me and I engage them, destroying everything in my path. I have no friends, no alliances. I want the world for my own, to rebuild as my own. It will be grand, I think, as I send my ship like an animal into the day care center atmosphere of the cradle of humanity, blasting homes at random, people by the dozen. Even the green horned things are fleeing now, not knowing what to make of this turn of events. I watch them heading up toward space, and decide not to follow. It’s this planet I’m interested in.

  I go on destroying, leaving only places I know and like to escape my wrath: the coffee shop where I hung out when I was younger, the bar that John Liggins and I have been to numerous times . . .

  Suddenly, from behind, I’m hit.

  My ship spits out and heads toward the surface at an unyielding pace. I eject smoothly, holding my broadsword grandly as I float down amongst the rubble.

  As I reach the ground I find myself suddenly surrounded by yellow smoke . . . gas! I have no way to shield my face as I see officers of the law striding towards me, their artificial breathing apparatuses firmly in place. There’s no air left for me, and as I drop to a knee I attempt one last act of heroism, holding my sword before me like a threat. I stare at it and can see the labels from the cans of vegetables embedded in the steel. Horribly, it begins to degenerate, the gas having some awful effect on it. It crumbles to little pieces, and I look down to see bits of corn and beans where my steel once was. The spell broken and me suffocating, I look up to boldly face my execution.

  The officers waste no time. From behind their packs come machine guns, not unlike the old Tommy guns they had in gangster movies. I think I can recognize my father as one of the faces behind the masks, and I try to dismiss it as paranoia when I hear his voice crackling in my head, his tone taunting and electronic, as if coming through a transmitter.

  “You must stop this immoral lusting, W., this unhealthy fixation of your sister. My God, W., your own flesh and blood - it’s disgusting.”

  “Screw you,” I mumble instinctively. He knows? I look up toward him, but there is no longer the face of my father, but the face of Beth. Even through the mask apparatus, I know she’s smiling. Why?

  I stop thinking and can no longer stand. My crumpled form is nothing but a dark silhouette against the yellow smoke surrounding me, and the sounds of stamping boots coming toward me fill my screaming ears. I realize they are about to open fire, and I muster up to shout my last words:

  “My taxes paid for those guns,” I scream, my voice cracking with the effects of the gas, “They can’t hurt me!”

  I stop breathing while parts of me explode away as they open fire, their shots ringing out in mad vibrancy, doing most impressive damage. I look down at myself, watching helplessly as parts of me drift away in slow motion, my blood spreading out below.

  Slowly, I black out. My head lolls to the left, my eyes still open. Before me, through hazy darkness, I can see the red digits of my alarm clock. My eyes adjust slowly, and I can now see light coming in from my bedroom window.

  From the other room I hear loud tapping as Lemus works on his book. I decide to write down my dream before it escapes me, never stopping to think in the hours to come that I’ve completely forgotten about going to work.

  One Scenario After Another

  I have to wonder why I’m allowed to present myself, time and time again, to a public setting. I have no idea how to act around people, I don’t like people, I don’t want anything to do with people, so why should I be admitted to interact with them? Why must I go out into civic places? Why can’t I just stay home, in the dark privacy of my apartment, and think about things I want to think about, and do things I want to do?

  It is all like a great theatre. When I am forced to interact with others, it is as if I’m suddenly on a stage, performing for an invisible audience. There is no such thing as natural interaction. Sure, there are people like John Liggins, around whom I act very much like myself. But even with him, there are restrictions to my candor. I cannot belch, scratch myself, undress, or pee in front of him. I cannot speak to him of how I see faces in the woodwork. I cannot tell him about
my deepest, most innermost thoughts, such as the ones I write down here.

  And Donnie Lemus - although we are close - he is not the reflection of me that I see in the mirror every morning. He is not my shadow, or my guardian angel. He is just another being, affecting my behavior whenever he’s around. Granted, both John and Lemus allow me to be more familiar than I would be with strangers, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am still confined, altered, forced to be something I am not.

  In public? Forget it. The populace who speak to me are like plastic toys, yapping inconsistently about things I care nothing about. Why is this person talking to me? I’ll ask myself. I don’t want to hear what they have to say, and yet I’m forced to reciprocate their efforts. Why would I want to know about their lives? I could care less. I’ll never see them again after this night, and if I do, I’ll ignore them.

  Every situation is a scenario. Every meeting place is a stage. Everything you touch is a prop, and every person you meet is an actor. I don’t want to be in these skits anymore. I just want to live by my own rules, say what I want to say, be the way I want to be. I don’t want to care about others’ feelings or ways of life. I don’t want to celebrate holidays. I don’t want to give or receive gifts. I don’t want to wish someone Happy Birthday, I don’t want to be a Valentine, and I don’t want to kiss anybody under the mistletoe. I just want to be real.

  For one moment in time, I want to be real.

  I want to be with people who say what they think, not what they think they ought to say. I want to be with people who dress comfortably, not fashionably. I want to be with people who can sit and talk and not worry about whether or not I’m interested in what they’re saying. If I’m not, I’ll get up and walk away, and they can talk to someone else. If I am, I’ll correspond with them at my leisure. I refuse to fill dead space with needless verbiage. I refuse to play the game.

  Why is it that people have such an inferiority complex? Who installed this insane personality flaw in every member of society? Why don’t people have more confidence in themselves?

  Yes, I am selfish, egotistical, and brash. I say what I think, do what I want, create only what I wish to create. I do not care what people think or say of me, I do not care if I’m accepted or accepting. I am an object unto myself . . . the perfect being. I am a perfect being. I am not a cog in the machine. I am not part of this society - society is me.

  I am selfish, yes, but I am not unique. Every person on this world should have the same sense of selfishness, the same egotism, the same want of singularity. We are each one of us a sun, and a solar system revolves around our bodies, and we may create or destroy as we will. The power is in each one of us and we can be great.

  But until then, until the W. Buhners of the world are in full control, it will be one scenario after another . . . one long play on this futile stage.

  I fear that the world will end in the middle of a billion useless sentences, and the only voice that will matter is the one that stands alone screaming, “I am The One! I am The One! I am The One!”

  So I say it now, clearly and plain: I am The One.

  BOOK SEVEN

  ARRIVALS

  Egotistical Scumbag Conquers All

  I have started to pick up women at my job. When I say women, I don’t mean women who work there, I mean customers. The whole thing started when I was pricing antacids one day.

  A voice from behind me. “Excuse me, could you help me find something?”

  I turn to see a startling creature. The kind of woman you don’t see every day. She’s athletic, yet feminine. Frail, yet somehow courageous. I see fire in her eyes, and softness in her lips. She’s like a roller-coaster ride made into human form, her body all curves - not slutty, more aggressive than that. She’s Toon Town for adults, a blonde for all occasions - not just the back door or the bedroom. I am thoroughly entranced and make no light way about it.

  I maneuver toward her boldly, my height shadowing over her like lamb’s wool, my posture energized and strong. I can feel my arms bulging from their day’s work, and I have to fight from embracing her.

  “It’s what I do, missus . . .” I let it linger, feigning ignorance, for I know immediately that she isn’t married. When you see a doe like that, you check the hooves for battle scars.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Help,” I state, trying to sound earnest. “It’s what I do.” I disregard that she doesn’t give me her name, jotting it down to shyness.

  She begins to look a little creeped out, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m reeling. I am in full swoon mode and nothing but the mounted police can stop me. My libido is swarming like African bees, and the honey is dripping between us.

  “I see,” she says awkwardly. “Well, I’m looking for detergent, and I can’t seem to find it anywhere.”

  She smiles and my knees practically buckle. What glorious gift this is. And me, in perfect form! Luck? I don’t think so. Coincidence? Get out! This is fate, my stupid friends, and I shall quaff the elixir of good fortune as only the chosen can do. I will be shiny and victorious at the end of the day, and this little vixen before me, so innocent until this moment, will become my foundation for a new kingdom, a new time in my embattled life. From now on, W. Buhner stops taking orders, and starts giving them!

  I take the fortunate young lady’s hand, wrapping my arm deftly about her elbow, leading her toward the detergent aisle. She seems stunned, possibly flustered. The air is thick with the smell of victory, and that sweet tangy scent of honey.

  “Detergent is in Aisle Four,” I lecture. “It is lost there amongst other household goods: scrubbing cleansers, bleach, mops, brooms, rubber gloves and such. I can easily see how you would miss it, it’s quite buried. I’m glad we’ve had this time, this time where I can help you find the things you need. I only hope, in the days to come, you can return the favor, helping me find things that I might need. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  We have entered Aisle Four and are standing together in front of the detergents. The next moments are critical. She will either stay with me and choose from the two or three different products we carry, or she’ll break free and run for help. I don’t dare look at her, for now that the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, I fear her response. To be shot down in the prime of one’s approach is an ugly thing and the recovery time is long and painful. Some don’t recover at all.

  I hear her voice clearly now, and I know my worries are over. She sounds sweet, and if I look at her, I know she’ll be smiling.

  “Hmm . . . I’m not sure. Which one do you recommend, Mister…”

  “Buhner,” I respond quickly, still concentrating on the detergent, now content to play the mouse rather than the cat. “W. Buhner. I recommend this one here,” I say, pointing. “It’s the most costly, but when it comes to detergent, you really cannot spare any expense.”

  She picks out one of the larger boxes and I read it as an invitation for her to do my laundry.

  “Excellent, Mr. Buhner.” She steps easily away from me and extends her hand. “I’m Angie.”

  I look at her with surprise, amazed at how so perfect a creature could have so atrocious a name. I decide to start things off on the right foot by nipping the problem in the bud.

  “That’s kind of a white-trash name . . . Angie. How about if I call you Marie?”

  “I’ll sound like an Osmond,” she replies, impressing me with her wit.

  “Well,” I say, “I like it.”

  She shrugs, looking a bit miffed. I have to believe it will wear off in time.

  I untie my apron, ball it up, and stuff it behind the larger boxes of detergent.

  “C’mon Marie, let’s go get some dinner.”

  She warms to the idea, obviously excited by my spontaneity. Little does she know that I have been off the clock for about ten minutes . . . but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I put my arm around her casually, excited by the new arrangement. On the way out we pay for the detergent and a
few other items she’s picked up and - wham! - I spring my employee discount on her, pulling out all the stops. Betsy, the register girl, looks at us both stoically. I don’t know why she’d care who I went out with, it wasn’t like Betsy and I ever went on more than one, maybe two, dates.

  We leave the grocery mart and head to her place for dinner. She whips up a fine meal and I sleep it off on her couch. I decide not to go home, for fear that Lemus and his con book will be keeping me up half the night.

  The next day is Saturday, and she makes us both breakfast. I feel like I’m really hitting the ball well now, and I’m excited by the prospect of things beginning to go my way. I make a conscious decision to be good to Marie, more so than the girls I’ve abused in the past. I’m not sure why I make that choice - I guess I’m just tired of not having someone around.

  It’s selfish, I know, but I don’t think it’s technically sexist - and that’s something.

  Stupidity Is Mainstream

  Lemus has been working on his book for over a month now.

  He’s asked me several times to proofread the pages, and every time I’ve been able to come up with a viable excuse of why I can’t. Earlier tonight I ran out of reasons and found myself with a stack of about three hundred individually-typed pages of pure Lemus.

  I begin sorting through the makeshift manuscript, stacking it neatly into the chapters which Lemus has created. There are twenty-three in all, so far anyway. He tells me that he’s about halfway through with the whole thing.

  I pick up page one, a red pen firmly planted behind my ear. I’m about three lines into it when I find myself smack-dab in the middle of a rape scene involving Lemus and another prisoner who is described as “something proportionate to a Mack truck, except this truck’s grill is red-hot, and the cargo ain’t chicken.”

  “Lemus,” I say, raising my voice toward the adjacent room, where I know he’s sitting, biting his nails anxiously as I read. “It says here on page one that you had forced sex with,” I consult the page, “a greasy fellow named Spider.”