Skullcrack City (25 page)

Hindsight would later reveal this to be a display of lordosis behavior, and had I understood this somewhere in my reptile brain and responded, maybe Dara and I could have given in to the urges we were both feeling and we would have had one strange, beautiful moment together in the back of that hijacked SUV. And then later we would have had some memory of what it was like to be together as whole, natural human beings.

Instead, neither of us moved. There was an odd electric paralysis as we lay there next to Buddy’s brain, watching it bob and sway in its fluid.

I think I’m here. I think this is real.

The road rolled underneath us as the skyscrapers gave way to tenement blocks and abandoned brownstones. Just after I saw the yellowed streetlights and realized we were on 45
^th
street, the truck slammed to a halt.

Dara and I both shifted onto our knees and stayed low in the back of the SUV, barely raising our heads above the rear bench seat, pistols levelled at our travel guides.

Buddy popped the top off a prescription bottle and dropped two hefty painkillers into his hand. He knocked them back and swallowed with no water, grimacing as they slid down. Then he smiled, one eye drifting off into the distance, one staying trained on me. “Last stop, Trunk Man. Made it to Doc’s. It’s tune-up time!”

We wanted Buddy to have his appointment—his brain tank was in desperate need of a refresher, and I was curious how much more lucid he might be with his mind swimming in a new pool of CSF—but the liability of sending him in first and playing some kind of waiting game was too great. Dr. Tikoshi might know well enough to disregard his patient’s verbal effluvia, but I could picture Buddy being struck by a rare moment of mental clarity and saying something like, “The people from my trunk are here, too. They have no interest in peeing on me, but they brought guns and they’d really like to meet you.” And sure, after that he’d say something like, “My head is probably all grapes, dream doctor,” but the damage would be done.

I don’t know if it’s because Dara was cresting some invisible wave of serendipity, or whether I had a relapse of FUCK IT! WHY NOT? Syndrome, but—sitting there in Buddy’s rig, staring at the side of what looked like an abandoned warehouse with a single light shining from a second floor window, and having no idea what might be waiting for us inside—we decided that it was time to finally meet Dr. Tikoshi, and now.

We ran the angles and realized that due to my total lack of training and Buddy’s brain-damaged instability, this couldn’t be some kind of SWAT raid. Though this forever crushed my dream of rappelling down the side of a warehouse and through a window with guns blazing, I conceded.

Instead, we opted for a more subtle approach: Walking right through the front door.

We’d pose as prospective patients/mod groupies who’d convinced Buddy to bring us along. Entering as a crew allowed us to retain some level of control over Buddy and Boudreaux’s behavior, and placed us face to face with Dr. Tikoshi without him immediately seeing us through threat-colored goggles.

At least, that’s how we hoped it might work. I don’t know if it was madness by proximity from our time with Buddy, or the throes of sleep dep, but it felt like a plan at the time.

Boudreaux, sitting in the driver’s seat, made a call on his cell. “We’re here.” Seemed code free, though I guess even a message that short and sweet could be pre-designated as a cipher for, “Shoot the motherfuckers coming in with us.” Dara ran a drone scan while I scoped out the rooftops for anything moving. In particular I had my eyes peeled for the outline of massive loping brain-munching man-beasts, since those were, somehow, real, and possibly created by the man we wanted to visit. I shivered at the memory of the thing’s drool running down the back of my neck—Post Salival Mess Disorder.

“Alright, boys. We’re going in guns tucked, and maybe this thing stays peaceful. But you need to be aware that if there is any deviation from our plan, Doyle and I are each packing a full batch of boiler rounds, and I’ll have my SoniScrape palmed.”

Buddy spoke up. “I would also like a pistol, Serious Woman. Your tone is causing me some anxiety. Might be calming to hold a gun.”

Maybe Buddy was actually that oblivious. Maybe this was as close as he came to clever. I considered the idea. Dara did not. “No guns for you. You’re going to your appointment with Dr. Tikoshi.”

“Oh, that’s great! I’ve been under the weather, I think. I’ll be back out in a jiff. Let’s go, Boudreaux.”

“No, Buddy. We’re coming with you. Remember?”

“Oh…y
eah
.” It was the least confident agreement I’d ever heard, but then he made a great point. “And why would he believe you’re on the freak show circuit, again?”

“You’ve got a point. They’re a couple of Plain Janes.”

“They’re right,” I said. “Give me a second and I’ll have it.”

Buddy was excited. “He’s going to have it, Serious Woman. You’ll see. I knew Trunk Man in another time, and although I won’t speak of the details, I can tell you he is wise.”

And I don’t know if the answer came from a truly intelligent place in my brain, or some damaged, drug-blasted quadrant which only lit up when ridiculous ideas were needed, but Buddy was right—I had it.

“Dara, you’re The OptiCorn. You want your false eye replaced by a fiber-optic horn with a customizable surface and projection capabilities. Might be good to ask for a tail and steel hoof implants extending from the top of your wrists. That’s a start.”

“And you?”

“I’m Dick Twisty, recovered Hex-addict and outspoken advocate for the penile reconstruction charity Staff Solutions.”

“Okay, but what’s your mod?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking I’d be able to fly on the ‘provocative examination of an infrequently discussed but real issue facing men today’ kind of thing.”

“That’s it?”

“And maybe I’m a detective, too. A detective who investigates a new real life maimed penis case each episode. Come on—it’s contemporary. It’s got an edge.”

“Real talk!” added Buddy.

“But,” Dara asked, “why would you need Dr. Tikoshi if your whole scheme is only to pretend to be a detective and televise bent penises?”

“Oh. Um…what if I underwent a monthly penile reconstruction? Maybe a different shape each month, on full display. Like when Tranny Danny did that series of gender reversions. Only I’d just keep changing the shape of my junk. I could do the soft pretzel. The striking dragon. The Möbius strip.”

“The Civil War Reenactment!” Buddy was helping. I felt like I could ask him for a donation right that minute.

“See—I’ve got the endorsement of the head of the League. We’re good to go.”

“You’re good to go!” Buddy lifted the vial of powdered rhino horn we’d delivered, popped the cap, raised the container to us in salute, and then snorted all its contents.

Boudreaux sat silent, his head in his hands, clearly not accustomed to the kind of absurd psychological ups and downs Dara and I took for granted.

“What do you think, Boudreaux?”

“I think we need to go, now, before Dr. T. starts wondering why we haven’t come in.”

He was right, and so we emerged from the SUV into early night on 45
^th
street, sirens in the distance, cooling air on our skin. We stayed low on the side of the rig opposite the entrance. Dara reached into her pocket and pulled out her old eye-patch.

“We need to obscure your face. The anti-rec mask would probably spook Dr. T., but this might throw him off. Between the news and him contracting for Delta, he might already know who you are. Hopefully this makes it harder for him to recognize you.”

She expanded the elastic string and then brought the patch down over my right eye, both of her palms over my cheeks.

Her working eye looked straight into my still visible left. “Your depth perception and peripheral vision are going to feel a little ragged at first, but you’ll adjust quickly. We can do this. We’re going to find your mother. And remember, safety off.”

I checked the gun. “Safety off.”

Her hands drifted from my face, but their warmth energized me. I wondered at the way even the smallest touch from her pulled me into a haze where our general shitstorm status seemed acceptable. I hoped that, maybe, I made her feel that way too.

“Dara Borkowski.”

“Yeah, Shenanigans Patrick?”

And I was going to lean in and give her a kiss, and I don’t think she would have turned away. But then Buddy yelled out, “Sky Kirby, coming in hot,” and we all ducked down by the truck and covered our faces.

I looked up after the sound of the engine passed over and saw it was only a recreational drone, without the lights which would I.D. it as city issue. Probably out to film voyeur porn in back alleys and windows, possibly scanning for open sales territory. Regardless, not our problem. But the moment had passed, sabotaged by the man who was now squatting in the street with his brain box vertical in his hands. His gray matter had sloshed sideways and was smashed against the southern wall of the container. How many concussions did Buddy unknowingly endure due to bad baggage handling? If I was in his situation, I’d carry that thing like an ice cream cake stacked on top of old dynamite.

Boudreaux was pissed. “Buddy, regardless of whose drone that was, you’re pretty easy to identify. Let’s scoot before it comes back around for a second look.”

We gave the area one last scan before crossing the street. Spotting public or private surveillance was near impossible in that lighting, so we kept our heads low. Buddy the Brain, Boudreaux the bodyguard, Dick Twisty, and The OptiCorn had an appointment to keep.

There were no security pat downs at the front door, though we were greeted by the astringent smell of surgical antiseptics. Darkness clouded the warehouse, aside from a beam of light shining down over a staircase to the second floor. I checked the corners behind us and waited for the gun to the back of my head, but it never came.

Boudreaux and Buddy marched up the stairs ahead of us, and before our group crept over the top step we heard a man yell, “Spoiled fucking meat!”

Buddy looked back at us and pulled hissing air in through his teeth. “Yeesh. Doc’s not happy.”

And then we passed through the door to the second floor and into the laboratory of Dr. Tikoshi. It was clear this was no thrown together back-up field unit. He’d been using this space for some time, and there were more gleaming steel machines and instruments than I could count. Two surgical stations with adjustable tables and ceiling-drop curtain railings sat at the center of the room, phalanxed by industrial freezers, chemical storage racks, and one extra-large humming box labelled “Materials.” The entire area was floating in an eye-watering vapor-cloud of industrial sterilizer. Something had just been cleaned from the surgical space.

Was this where Hungarian Minor had been bringing bodies? Or had he taken them to Dr. T.’s regular practice after hours?

I thought about the amount of money Delta MedWorks had been shifting in Dr. Tikoshi’s direction and realized that this could be one of many such centers in the city.

Dr. Tikoshi turned to us, something narrow, red, and wet flopping over the blue latex-gloved knuckles of his right hand. He wore paper-thin purple scrubs and blue elastic booties over his shoes. His hair was the salt and pepper mix of a man in his forties, but his skin seemed older and waxier. His face was pinched with frustration, and it was clear we’d broken his focus. He was wearing a pair of magnifying glasses for the apparent intricacy of his table work. He pushed them up on to his forehead and squinted at us from across the room.

“Oh, hello, Buddy. I apologize for my outburst. I had an unfortunate incident today, but I’m trying to make the best of it. But this…” Dr. Tikoshi shook the shining red tissue in his hand. “This material is old, damaged. The suture anchors are ripping right through it, and now I feel I’ve wasted too much time to give up the effort. I don’t know. At this point I’m tempted to stop reconstruction and build a prosthetic, but I promised my patient I’d try an organic arm before we went down that road. And I haven’t been able to tend to other parts of this lab recently, so of course we’ve got some kind of infection in the meat vat. It would have been great if this could have worked.”

Dr. Tikoshi’s voice was eerie, almost disembodied in its dissonance from his image. I’d never heard an old Japanese man speak in such a non-accented American news broadcaster dialect.

And what kind of ‘unfortunate incident’ causes a man to salvage body parts?

Dr. Tikoshi rotated away from us with a sigh, popped the lid on a biohazard bin, and chucked in the damaged material. Then he returned his attention to us.

He spoke to Boudreaux. “I noticed that you and Buddy have brought some friends with you. As a reminder, our contract stipulates that there are to be no additional visitors during Buddy’s appointments. I’m sure you understand. Buddy has some fans who are a bit more
zealous
about my work than I’m comfortable with, and then there’s the issue of proprietary methods, and…Well, I know you understand. So these folks must be very special, for you to have violated our terms.” Dr. Tikoshi’s voice carried a barely concealed indignation that riled at our insolence. “I don’t mean to be rude, but that needed to be said. Now would you care to introduce me?”