False Idols and Other Short Stories

  False Idols

  and Other Short Stories

  * * *

  by Tony LaRocca

  Copyright © 2013 by Tony LaRocca

  Cover and book design by Tony LaRocca

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Printing, April 2013

  www.EgotisticalProductions.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Table of contents

  * * *

  Ad Aware

  False Idols

  The Arena

  All Part of Being a Dragon

  Heaven 2.0

  Flawed Copies

  Shattered Possibilities

  Soul Mates

  The Autumn People

  About the Author

  Other Works

  Ad Aware

  Death by midlife crisis, Richard Bringham thought as he tumbled through the void. Please, don’t let them put that on my tombstone. He had never expected death to be so… annoying. If he had only lived, he could have sued Fun–Sport JetPaks for incorrectly labeling their product. It should have read, “Not to be purchased by men in their forties hell–bent on proving—”

  “Mister Bringham,” someone said in the darkness, “please open your eyes.”

  Richard jerked as the voice sluiced away the bliss of oblivion. He heard the whine of machinery and felt his limbs sting with pins and needles. He was corporal again, and his burning lungs demanded that he breathe. He gasped, opening his eyes.

  The reek of ammonia flooded his sinuses. He lay on his back, suspended by an antigravity harness within a vast, mint–green chamber. An array of Nightingales hovered above, scanning him with flickering rays of blue light. He raised his head an inch, and was rewarded with a stomach–churning vertigo.

  A man with a smooth face and glistening spectacles loomed into Richard’s view. “Welcome back from the abyss,” he said, arching his eyebrows on the last word. There was a “W.E.” embroidered on his white coat: the insignia of a Wellness Extraspecialist.

  Richard’s mind spun. There were life lessons here, he realized: Do not JetPak through Times Square, even if some schmuck from marketing dares you. Remember that skyscraper canyons create wind tunnels. When you lose control and find yourself tossed around like God’s beanbag, please feel free to wet yourself. But most important of all, stay away from Port Mort Kola billboards, especially if they are giant LCD displays designed to be seen from space, because it will hurt and hurt bad when you smash into one. He tried to speak with the numb piece of meat that was his tongue. “How?” he mumbled. “Crash.”

  “Yes,” the W.E. said. “You were electrocuted, I’m afraid. It cooked your heart beyond repair.” He grinned. “But you’ll be happy to know we’ve replaced it with a fully functional, biomechanical one that’s top of the line.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink into Richard’s addled brain. His eyes widened as understanding brought with it a pang of anxiety. “Money,” he said, “can’t afford…”

  “Ah, ah, ah, don’t worry about that,” the W.E. said. “Americana Coverage: free health care for all, no matter the need, no matter the cost. We cover everyone.”

  The fear in Richard’s mind waned. “Free,” he said.

  “Just about,” said the doctor. He bowed from the waist. “Call me Doctor Hank. Perhaps you’ve seen my face on the Americana posters conveniently located…”

  Richard smiled as he sank back onto his pillow, ignoring the idiot’s prattle. He was alive and he was covered. What else mattered?

  “Free,” he whispered.

  “Port Mort Kola! Port Mort Kola! Port Mort Kola!”

  Richard woke to the sound of his own screams. He slumped back onto sweat–damped sheets.

  Two weeks had passed since the accident. Two weeks and the nightmares would not stop, but all Doctor Hank offered in the way of help was psychobabble. “The billboard was the last thing you saw before death,” the quack insisted. “It’s only natural for the subconscious to replay its tragedy.” Richard had no stomach for that kind of crap. In fact, he wanted to wring the W.E. by his patronizing neck.

  He blinked. His thoughts had taken him out of his bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen. He sank to his knees on the cold, tiled floor, trembling. He was going insane. He was losing his mind.

  He was thirsty.

  Christ, he was thirsty.

  He opened the Suck It 2 Me. They were still in there, of course, twelve of them. They sat innocently on the shelf. Richard caressed one, feeling the cool, sleek glass in his hand. He read the label: Port Mort Kola. He yanked it out of the refrigerator, tore off the cap, and chugged it down. The empty bottle fell from his fingers and shattered on the floor as he grabbed another, then another, and then another. He let out a long, triumphant belch, the sticky Kola dribbling down his chin.

  After a few minutes, the refrigerator spoke up. “Excuse me, sir,” it said, “but you’re letting all the cold air out.”

  Richard ignored it as a chill settled over him. He could not see any more bottles. He tore the shelves out, throwing moldy leftovers and condiments to the floor.

  “More Port Mort,” he said. His throat burned.

  “May I suggest some Fruity Fun Punch?” the Suck It 2 Me asked. “It’s nutritious, tastes great, and keeps you regular, all for one credit.”

  “More Port Mort.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m out,” said the refrigerator. “If you’d insert only four credits, I’ll have another twelve–pack sucked to me in a jiffy.” Richard slammed the door. He sniffed. There was some sweet, sweet Kola somewhere close. He fell to the floor amongst the shards of broken bottles. A drop here, a drop there. He could sense them. He stuck out his tongue and lapped up the delicious Port Mort Kola, garnished with just a touch of glass.

  A month later, Richard waddled into the Wellness Clinic. His bloodshot eyes were downcast, staring with guilt at his tremendous gut. He leaned against the wall and waited for his Wellness Extraspecialist’s tirade.

  “Richard,” said Doctor Hank as he strolled into the room, “it seems you have put on weight.” He stumbled backward as Richard leaped at him, grabbing the W.E. by his collar.

  “You’ve got to help me, Doc,” he said. “I’m going insane.”

  A benign, pitying smile came to Doctor Hank’s face. He clapped his hands and the lights dimmed. The examination table inflated and molded itself into a couch. “Fortunately for you, your Americana Wellness Extraspecialist is trained for everything,” he said, pulling a small pad out of his coat. “Please, tell me what the problem is.”

  Richard sank onto the couch. He closed his eyes and recounted his recurring nightmare:

  “I crawl through the desert,” he said. “The sand burns my skin. I’m dying of thirst. On the horizon, I see an oasis. I run to it and drink, but the water is bitter and stings my throat like rotten grapefruit juice. I look up, and a camel is doing its business in it. Nauseous, I crawl to the next oasis. It’s full of milk — sweet, cool milk. But by the time I get there, it’s moldy and reeks of decrepit cheese. Green blobs float in it. I sally forth, and finally I reach another oasis. This time it’s Port Mort Kola. I really don’t like Port Mort, but of course I drink it, and it’s the most refreshing thing I’ve ever had. Suddenly, I’m not in the desert anymore. I’m at a beach party, and there are half–naked women jiggling around me, cheering my name. Then I wake up.”

  “Hmmm,” said Doctor Hank as he scribbled. “And I assume…”

  “Yes,” Richard said, nodding his double chins. “When I wake up, all I want is Port Mort Kola. I get kegs of it vacuumed to my house now. I had to get a bigger fridge.”

  Doctor Hank munched on the end of his pen for a few seconds. “This is very serious,” he said, clapping his pad shut. “You clearly have a problem with taking responsibility for your actions. You have gained thirty pounds in the past month. You sit around the house swilling soft drinks, but instead of blaming yourself, you blame your dreams. Very serious.” He leapt to his feet and clapped his hands again. Fluorescent light flooded the room once more. The couch tossed Richard to the floor and deflated. The W.E. walked to a wall console, checked a display screen, and made a few adjustments.

  Richard jerked, feeling a stinging in his chest. “What are you doing?” he asked, clutching his chunky breasts.

  “I’m reprogramming the heart to compensate for your extra weight, and to keep up with the aerobic regimen I’m going to prescribe.”

  “What about my nightmares?” Richard asked. He grimaced as his heart surged against his ribs.

  Doctor Hank sighed. “I’ve told you,” he said, “the subconscious is a fickle mistress. You have to listen to her. Like it or not, she’s the boss.” He tapped another section of the display, causing Richard to twitch in synch. “My advice to you is to listen to your dreams. They know what you need to be happy.” He gave Richard a few more spasms by remote. “See you next month.”

  Richard had read once that everyone dreamt three times a night, they just usually did not remember them. Before the accident, he had rarely recalled his dreams. Now he remembered them all in vivid detail.

  In his nightmares, an army of r
eeking sows chased him in the rain, all wanting to have their way with him. He tried to run, but he was too obese, and his shoes just slid in the mud. After a few nights of being amorously pursued by livestock, he bought himself a Tummy Trainer Treadmill, a Sure Stepper, and a decade’s supply of Proti–Yum vitamins.

  As Richard’s physique improved, his nightly horror show worsened. In them, he walked down streets of shining gold, packed with beautiful pedestrians. He, however, was dressed like a derelict. Urine–soaked rags clung to his body. Some nights he was a clown. On the most embarrassing nights he wore nothing at all. The passersby kicked and beat him to the gutter. They all wore Bum–Squeeze Jeans and crew shirts with little goldfish embroidered on them. Somehow, he knew that they would accept him, would care for him, would make passionate love to him, if only he fit in. After two nights, Richard took the hint and bought himself a designer wardrobe.

  Every few weeks, he returned to the Wellness Clinic. Every time, Doctor Hank readjusted his ticker. But no matter what the good W.E. prescribed, the nightmares kept getting worse. Six months to the day of his resurrection, a haggard, trembling Richard Bringham stumbled into the clinic. Doctor Hank pursed his lips as he examined his favorite patient. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. “The last time you were here, we discussed your dreams of a ninety–six inch VirtuViewer. Didn’t you buy it? Isn’t it keeping you happy?”

  “No,” Richard said. “No it isn’t.” He glared at his Wellness Extraspecialist. “You said to listen to my dreams. The dreams said I needed the VirtuViewer to escape.”

  Doctor Hank frowned, scratching his chin. “And it’s not working?”

  “It is, that’s the problem,” Richard said. “I never wanted to escape before. I never spent my free time watching virts. Now that’s all I want to do. What’s the point of living if all I want to do is escape?”

  “Now, now, now,” said Doctor Hank. He gave Richard a fatherly pat on his shoulder. “You’ve been through a very traumatic experience. It’s only natural that your inner voices conflict with each other. Listen to your dreams, for they are the music of your soul.”

  Richard looked at him with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Can’t you give me something to stop the dreams?” he asked.

  “Stop the dreams?” Doctor Hank whispered, his eyes wide. “What are you, insane?” He spun to the wall console and stabbed at it. “You need the dreams, they are your salvation.”

  A lightning storm erupted inside of Richard’s chest. “Please,” he gasped, “can’t you just prescribe some sort of sedative?”

  “I am prescribing,” said Doctor Hank, his face puffy and red. “I am prescribing that you listen to you.” He punctuated every syllable with a jab at the touchpad. “You just get a good night’s rest, and remember to listen.”

  The nightly insanity rose to a crescendo.

  Richard dreamt of Port Mort Kolas, Follicle Friends, Bum–Squeezes, and VirtuViewers. An army of brand name logos chased him through a maze of streets. When they caught him, they tore off his no–frills cotton t–shirt and branded his flesh with a red–hot iron that spelled TRAITOR. “Listen,” the logos commanded, drowning out his screams. “Listen!”

  He consulted nine different Wellness Extraspecialists. After checking his history, all of them told him to stop whining and just follow his dreams. None would prescribe anything to stop them. After a month of condescension from reputable W.E.s, Richard decided to seek out a disreputable one.

  Of course, taking prescriptions from such a person was illegal. Suffering nightmares alone in his bedroom was one thing, suffering them alongside a cellmate was another. But in the end, it only took a few phone calls and a painful amount of money.

  The trail of shady contacts led Richard to an alley that stank of human refuse. He staggered down it, occasionally avoiding bundles of soiled blankets that moved. He shook, certain that she would not show, that he had been set up, that it was all a joke. Just as he was ready to turn and run, a rusty steel door screeched open, and his promised savior lurched forth.

  She was sixtyish. Tics randomly cracked her leathery face. She held out a nicotine–stained claw as Richard approached. He hesitated, then dropped a cashier’s chit into it. She examined the chit in the amber glow of the streetlights and shrugged. She reached into her tattered white coat, pulled out a small plastic bottle, and smacked it into Richard’s hand. He stared at it, praying he had not just paid a thousand credits for sugar pills or worse. “Are you sure this is right?” he asked. “I just want to… I need get some rest.” But when he looked up, she was gone.

  Richard clutched the bottle to his chest, not daring to release it until he was home. He gulped two of the tranquilizers down dry and curled up on his bed, not bothering to take off his clothes. The pills were not bitter, nor were they sweet. He did not feel dizzy or nauseous. My God, he thought, they’re the real deal. Tears of relief ran down his cheeks as he sank into darkness, a darkness that was a dreamless bliss.

  The funeral, paid for by Americana, was held at an Eternal Rest Crematorium. Doctor Hank stood in the back of the tiny congregation, swaying back and forth to the organ’s dirge. He felt obligated to be present. His prize patient had suffered total heart failure. Obviously, there were some problems with the beta–three model. Perhaps they would have better luck with the beta–four.

  A tear ran down the Wellness Extraspecialist’s cheek as the pearl–encrusted gates of the furnace parted and Richard’s coffin slid inside. He consoled himself that it was not his fault, that his patient should have known better. After all, what kind of fool expected adware to work if he blocked the advertisements?

  False Idols

  Travis unlocked the hatch of his emergency pod and spun it counterclockwise. A blast of methane shoved him back as the denser atmosphere of Beta Cassiopeiae XII equalized with the air inside. He struggled to his feet, his breath echoing within his helmet. He braced his boots against the hull and shoved the door as hard as he could, swinging it outward.

  A heavy wind carrying tendrils of glowing mist buffeted him, rippling the silver foil of his environment suit. He looked up. On approach, the atmosphere had been clear. Now the sky was a featureless, brown–grey muck. He had only about thirty feet of visibility before the rocks and desert melted into the gloom. He rubbed one of the passing phosphorescent wisps between his fingertips. There was some resistance. The substance clung to his glove for just an instant before floating off. He dropped the pod’s chain ladder and descended to the surface.

  His scanner estimated that James had crashed five miles away. Travis oriented himself in what he hoped was the right direction and began walking. The eggshell clay under his boots was dense and cracked. Every few minutes, the scanner corrected his course.

  “Travis?”

  The voice, laced with static, crackled inside his helmet. Travis winced and adjusted the volume.

  “James?” he asked. “James, are you ok?”

  There was a pause. Five seconds went by, then ten. Travis wondered if he had suffered some sort of auditory hallucination. He turned the volume back up. He heard quick, jerking sniffs. “James?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” James sobbed through a sea of electronic gibberish. “…such an idiot, …ucked everything up.”

  “It’s ok,” Travis said. “Where are you now? Can you boost your antenna at all?”

  “Do you even know what… means?” James asked. “Lock… frequency at two zero three point nine seven megahertz.”

  Travis complied. The screeches and intermittent whistling went away. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” James said. The software engineer’s voice sounded flanged, but his signal was clean. “I hear you.”

  “Can you help me out with your location?”

  There was a pause. “My left leg is broken. I got twisted in my ladder and fell. I’m not young like you.”

  “Did your suit puncture?”

  “Don’t ask stupid questions,” James said. “My DualCoder finger is intact. I know that’s all you care about.”