In Search of the Point

The Mind is a Terrible Thing to use as Paste

by Scott Hefflon, Jeff Pare, and William Ham
illustrations by Rob Zammarchi

Duiszk made a few mental notes as the coffee brewed.

“Why don’t you let me do that?” Fejod asked helpfully.

“Because every time I eat what you create, I get hungry again when I leave the room.”

“Really?” Fejod questioned, thinking of what it would be like to have an inattentive appetite.

“Yeah, it’s like your food is Chinese.”

“What?”

“I mean, it doesn’t stay with you.”

“No, I mean, `What?’ as in I didn’t hear you.”

“Jesus,” Duiszk sighed.

“Let’s not bring Him into this again.”

“No, no, no. Shut-up, stop thinking, or whatever the hell it is that you… you’re… SHIT!! Aauuhhhhh!” Duiszk struggled to express.

Fejod sulked. “You’re mad at me again, aren’t you?” Fejod asked through his slowly sagging face.

“No, I just… Well… It’s like this: We’ve lived together for how long? Almost a year, right? And the longest roommate you’ve had before this is ten days. Well, not including the ones at the ‘Facility’.” Duiszk paused. Fejod shuddered. Duiszk continued.

“Anyway, the reasons for this…”

“…Are not my fault,” Fejod reared back and butted in.

“Right. But I’m not mad. I just want to put some order in this because we’re getting nowhere.”

“OK.”

“Fine. As I see it, there are limitations in your ability to affect reality.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now, stop interrupting the flow of my narrative. You ALWAYS dominate the conversation. Being the Master of Your Own Spatial Reality and all, I can see why, but it still annoys me. Now I finally get a chance to explain some stuff, and here you go interrupting me. So…”

For a brief moment, a near six-foot penis stood in Duiszk’s shoes. For some unexplainable reason, they fit. Then the moment was over, and Duiszk stood in his shoes again. Fejod smilingly noticed the changes were only subtle.

Duiszk continued blissfully, “The limits affecting the outside world, I mean. The ones you’ve never seen. The ones where all this wacky ‘Gosh, I wonder if I’m going to wake up with a turnip for a head and an almost criminal desire to pet the wallpaper’ stuff doesn’t happen. For instance, I’ve already discovered that by moving my bed to the far end of my room, I can sleep much better. I figure this distance, about twenty feet, is the fringe of your realm.”

“That’s wild! I always thought that this was as it is and is as it was, laying all punctuation aside.” Duiszk carefully picked them up and put them in his pocket, for lack of a better place.

“If my world has limits, and you come and go freely, but I’m stuck with me, being me and all, and my world is everything I can imagine consciously or unconsciously, but anyone within those limits can affect my imagination once created and no longer in need of my control as you are now part of imagination; or, my imagination is limited.” Fejod’s thoughts rambled, babbled, tripped about, and went back to rambling again.

“But I thought I had an unlimited imagination. Well, since most people’s imaginations are confined to their own heads, and mine seems to have a radius of approximately 20 feet, I guess I can live with that.” Fejod nodded understandingly at Duiszk.

Duiszk didn’t even try to get it. Especially since Fejod had just proven he was proportionally 60 times smarter than the rest of the human race, himself included. (8″ diameter of a skull vs. 20′ radius of Fejod’s influence.)

“Um, yeah,” Duiszk offered vaguely, again proving himself to be the simpleton Fejod thought he was. Duiszk’s brain hurt. He wished he’d never thought this whole plot twist up. It had been his damn idea, but now he didn’t get it. He looked over at Fejod, standing all smug in his 20 foot radius of supremacy. He wanted to feel jealous, or bitter, or compassionate, or something. He couldn’t make up his provenly insufficient mind, so he changed the subject.

“Ya know,” he began, “we really should get out more. This day’s gone awfully slow and, well, I just thought that we should, you know, do something,” he sputtered to a halt.

“Yeah!” agreed Fejod. “It’ll keep me from getting bored again. You know all about that from last issue with that ‘Swiss Duiszk’ line I liked so much.” They sucked down their coffee, put on their respective leather jackets, and out they went.

They only made it as far as the foyer, the architectural limbo between inside and outside. A space through which all people must pass when crossing over from public space to private space. Or vice-versa. Fejod stopped. Duiszk stopped. It was impossible to tell what else stopped because it was dark. Foyers are notoriously dreary and impersonal places, and this was but one more foyer conforming to the norm of foyerdom. Time seemed to elongate. What seemed like seconds could have been months of non-productivity. Time passed…

Duiszk watched time pass. He whistled tunelessly and thought uselessly circular thoughts. He waited for Fejod to decide what to do next. The answer, “Let’s go,” seemed rather simple, but recent evidence had shown him to be rather simple, so he waited. “I understand I don’t understand all this implication stuff, but how hard is it to go outside?” Duiszk thought bitterly. Sourly, he spat, “Well?!” Fejod paused momentarily to appreciate the fine spat, then rounded on him. Duiszk squared his jaw.

“This is dull!” Duiszk said sharply.

“This is pointless!” Duiszk pointed out.

“I’m thinking…” Fejod replied thoughtfully.

Ponderously, as if slowly realizing itself, the world took shape around them. What had been a dreary foyer in a previous paragraph was now becoming a warm, cheery entranceway. Subtle, indirect lighting drenched them in soothing incandescence. Discreet ventilation ducts buffed them with warm, dry, mildly pine-scented air. Clever niches hinted at potted plants in periphery.

“Tasteful decor,” Duiszk understated, smacking his lips.

A warbly rendition of the Star Trek theme began playing from out of somewhere, and Fejod updated, “Let’s see what’s out there.” With that, and a few other things that will be mentioned later, they were off.

Subcutaneous Carsick Blues

Together Fejod, Master of His Own Spatial Existence, and his sidekick of reality, Duiszk, Babysitter of the Gods, began a new chapter in their storybook adventure of Life, Love, Groovy Tunes, and The Search for Everlasting Joy and Happiness.

“Pizza,” Duiszk identified. “I want pizza.”

“I’m Questing for the Peaceful Co-Habitation of All Species in a World Full of Loving, Caring, Environmentally-Conscious Individuals Understanding and Utilizing the Full Potential of Free Will, and you want pizza!!” Fejod screamed in title caps.

Duiszk shrunk. Condensed to a dense lump o’ Duiszk on the sidewalk, he replied is lowercase, “sorry, i’m hungry.”

Fejod stooped to his “friend’s” level to converse with him.

“You don’t understand, I have an uncertain responsibility to the persons within my jurisdiction of Godliness. I have the ability to enlighten or darken the souls within my sphere. With each passing mood, I cloud or elevate the minds within my circumference,” Fejod rambled.

Duiszk, once again filled with the hot air of self-importance, resumed his original dimensions. Fejod, on one or two of the other hands, was slowly sinking into the pavement whilst contemplating his big, heavy thoughts. Duiszk turned to the non-existent crowd of interested onlookers and quipped, “Deep, huh?”

Fejod reached a point of equilibrium when he stood groin deep in crumbled concrete. He had found an answer. Or at least he’d found a rationalization that would suffice, for now. Then he professed his profound proclamation, “I think I need to get laid.”

It was kind of a letdown, but Duiszk and Fejod were both up for it.

“Something is wrong,” Duiszk stated as they walked on.

“To what, exactly, are you referring?” Fejod inquired.

“I dunno…” Duiszk mumbled, “I know the concept, but I can’t really vocalize it, ya know?”

Fejod analyzed the sentence piece by piece. “To break down what you’re saying: You feel that something pertaining to our current status doesn’t jibe with…”

Fejod stopped abruptly. Linguistically, as well as topographically.

“What the hell am I talking about?” Fejod stood amazed.

Duiszk just stood. Fejod was speechless, for once, and looked intellectually stumped. Duiszk was speechless, as usual, and looked pretty much as he always did.

“Something’s wrong,” Fejod said.

Duiszk gave him a “Good Lord, where have you been?” look. Then both were startled. They looked around them to see if they’d missed the point somewhere alone the line. They looked at each other to find the other looking back.

“Ummm…” Fejod began.

“Er…” Duiszk continued.

Without a word, Fejod stepped to the right of Duiszk, and Duiszk stepped to the left of Fejod. They looked at each other and the wrong was righted.

“Did we just find ourselves, only to discover that we are each other?” Fejod whispered fearfully.

“Either that, or we just discovered you’re the R-mode and I’m the L-mode, together forming one thinking unit which should never, under any circumstances, have its wires crossed,” Duiszk considered.

Fejod agreed, even though he had no idea what analytical concoction Duiszk was up to.

“Let’s never do that again,” Fejod offered. Duiszk agreed.

They stood shuffling their feet, swaying their arms absently for a moment, getting a feel for themselves again. Fejod sighed and suggested, “Let’s go get laid.”

Duiszk nodded and added, “Let’s get drunk first.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting board with this game called Life. There seems to be no Risk left. All this Trivial Pursuit, and for what? I haven’t a Clue, not a fucking Clue, why we even Continue with this Mousetrap. All this Concentration, for what? So some Taskmaster can have his Monopoly on our Trouble? This is…”

“Enough, Fejod, I get it,” Duiszk moved, checking his mate.

“Yahtzee, Asshole,” Fejod Trumped in, “I was on a roll.”

“I get it! I get it!” Duiszk tried to lay his card on the table.

“No, fuck you. I want to play this one out. I finally get a good hand…” Fejod countered, slipping an ace out of his sleeve.

“Fuck-double-Fuck You. And no trade backs to infinity. I thought we were going drinking?” Duiszk matched, beat, and moved on.

“Oh yeah…” Fejod tapered off.

The two of them sauntered off in a random direction, which happened to be West. No one ever seems to mind heading West, and West has never put up much of a struggle. West probably did put up a struggle when all the darn settlers wanted a piece of what the Indians had been smoking for generations, but now it had given up and let any drunken, drug-crazed space-shot head out that way.

“What time is it?” Duiszk asked.

“How the hell should I know? I’m not even sure what spoons really look like. But I can tell you anything you like. Better yet, I can make you believe me. And better still, I can make me believe me, thus making it anytime I want. Why do you ask?” Fejod replied.

“Never mind. I just wanted to know if bars were still open. Hang on.” Duiszk ran ahead to check the time. He ran and ran, for what seemed like a quarter mile.

“What are you doing?” Fejod inquired, strolling one pace behind Duiszk.

“I’m trying to check the time. Now let go of me,” Duiszk huffed.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Duiszk took one more step and was blasted with a burst of sunlight that could only belong to a bright early morning. The pain squirt through his eyes like grapefruit juice, causing him to recoil into the twilight zone of The Wonderful World of Fejod.

“Ow. Ugh. Erg. And other interjections of discomfort. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m sure they’ll be open,” Duiszk sighed in defeat.

Fejod soon grew tired of walking. “Duiszk, let’s just be there.” So they sat down in a booth.

“Where the hell are we? This looks like the bar scene in the original Star Wars movie. Look, I wanted to go to a place with cute college girls, no, girls with two breasts and one head, loud music on the jukebox, and be served by a waiter or waitress, what is that?, that has the same number of appendages as me, and doesn’t have all those lights and Jell-O looking things dangling…”

“Shut up and drink,” Fejod commanded.

Duiszk gave up, placing what under certain lighting might look like faith in Fejod. He followed Fejod’s lead in picking up the shot glass that had appeared before him out of thin air, or from beneath the robe of their waiter/waitress (or was that another layer of skin?), and poured it down his throat. What appeared to be a standard one-ounce shot glass somehow had the ability to pour a liquid column of Fejod-only-knows-what down his throat.

“Now Fejod, just where exactly are we? I mean, in reality. I mean, in relation to everyone else‘s reality.”

“Probably in our living room. I’m still trying to decide whether you exist or not,” Fejod responded, then continued to pour large quantities of he-only-knew-what down his throat.

Chaos is Not Tax Deductible

As if out of nowhere, a lamp fell over, shattering in a dazzling display of glass, wood, wires, and a very bent shade.

“Hey,” Duiszk yelled at the person who’d pushed it, “What the hell did you do that for?”

“It’s my job,” the newcomer introduced.

“As if that clarifies anything! What do you mean by that? Who are you? What are you doing here? And various other questions people ask when confused and caught off guard,” Fejod added.

“First; it’s my job. Plain and simple. Second; I am Alex. And third; you summoned me,” the man stated.

“Look, Alex,” Fejod began, “you look like a simple enough kinda guy.” And he did. He looked like the kind of guy you’d order a muffin from at your local bakery. “So explain to me what right it is that you have that you should materialize in my living room and smash my lamp.”

“You are drunk, both of you, and it is my job to see to it that things get broken, thus enabling you to have a good time. We all know it’s not a party until something gets broken.”

“Thaz all wel’n’goo, but…” Duiszk slurred in the general direction of the three overlapping newcomers.

“Quiet, drunk one! I am The God of Chaos! (optional echo effect) It is my job to ensure destruction wherever I go. My followers are glorious drunks and assorted clumsy people. Now bow to me without hitting your heads on the table, and let’s get on with smashing stuff!”

“I like this guy,” Fejod and Duiszk agreed.

“Hah Ha!” SMASH, tinkle, tinkle.

“Hah!” CRASH, jingle, jingle.

“Knaves!” BASH, flicker, flicker, flam, pow.

“Come on, swine. You scum-sucking pigs, you sons of motherless goats! Have at these expensive and highly fragile furnishings and assorted knickknacks!” Alex roared.

“Ya know,” Fejod exclaimed (SLAM, titter, titter) “I haven’t had this much fun since we road-tripped to Sticky Ricky’s Neon Monastery in Cherry Berry, Zimbabwe!”

“What?” Duiszk queried. (DISPLACE, fester, fester.)

“I SAID, ‘I HAVEN’T HAD…'” Fejod screamed. (THWAP, boing, boing, boing.)

“No, I mean, ‘What?’ as in `What in Never-Never Land are you talking about?” Duiszk expressed. (UNFOLD, nag, nag.)

“Oh,” Fejod sulked, and then unsulked animatedly. “Hey!” Fejod trumpeted, a bit off key, but not much, “Were you there that time the Quiche Junkies and I hitchhiked from Never-Never Land to the Pigeon Punters Festival in Limafish?”

Duiszk made to respond negatively, but Fejod positively rambled on.

“Remember when we ran into the Lettuce Lover from La-La Land, what an odd bunch, huh? Makes you wonder who eats their greens, doesn’t it? Remember we went to that club, The Eclectic Duck Fart, or some such nonsense? We got that hip-hop-happ’nin’-goober-geek-funk-muffin waiter to serve us Fig Newton Pizza and Pepperoni waffles. ‘Leggo my Leggo.’ Oh wow, and remember Sticky Ricky’s band, The Rock Cats, got to open for Emotional Pate, Sluts With Guts, and The Gurus of Ineptitude? Man, what a show, huh? The egg salad was good, the wandering kazoo minstrels were exceptional, and admission was admitting you didn’t know yourself or anyone else there.”

Fejod shut up for a moment, lost without a gas station in sight in his thoughts, thus giving Duiszk a chance to pull his rationality back together. And wipe the kitty fur off the upholstery. When Fejod went off, he went off.

“Fejod?” Duiszk began hesitantly.

“Hmmm?” Fejod answered dreamily. Time elapsed.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?!?” Duiszk screamed in italic uppercase.

Fejod stopped and looked up. He looked down. He looked all around. He did the Hokey-Pokey and he… Then he stopped again.

“What do you mean?” He asked meaningfully.

“What’s all this neon monk in bell bottoms brain spew?” Duiszk huffed and puffed and wheezed unattractively.

“Isn’t that in my character? I was trying to develop a sense of three dimensionality. Flashbacks add depth,” Fejod explained.

“But I wasn’t there. I don’t remember any of that stuff,” Duiszk complained.

“Hmmm. Must’ve been before I met you,” Fejod pondered.

“I existed first. Remember, we opened with that ‘Iced Tea in the Nostril’ bit? That was mine. I came first,” Duiszk argued, his memory throwing a monkey wench into the plot. After purchasing a male monkey to coax the twisted bitch out, they’d forgotten what they were arguing about.

“You guys are tapped,” Alex stated and left.

“Who was that?” Fejod asked soberly.

“That was the God of Chaos. (again with the silly echo)”

Fejod and Duiszk searched for the echo, found it hiding beneath the sofa, and sent it on its way.

“Annoying little bugger,” they agreed.

“Wait a minute,” Duiszk exclaimed.

After a minute had gone by, Fejod asked, “Why’d we do that?”

“We’re missing something. I was hoping that in that minute we could figure out what it was.”

“Did we find it?” Fejod asked, missing the point without even noticing it.

“No. God, if anyone, knows, and he hasn’t returned any of my calls. I either get his voice mail, or get put on hold for eternity. They play pretty lousy music, too.”

“You know,” Fejod began sheepishly, “I’ve been thinking of replacing The Big G.”