Made in China Chapter 23

Zombie Adolf Hitler was quietly knitting sweaters for orphaned animals in Jerusalem when a boyish guard named Julian came in to tell him that the jury had announced they had reached a verdict. Julian was very kind because he was young and didn’t like history much so Adolf Hitler was no different to him than Julius Caesar, or Alexander the Great, or Harriet Tubman. An hour or so later Adolf was in court and the jury members strode out to the jury box like peacocks in a parade. Cameras took their picture at every step and they walked like they knew it. They had deliberated for six minutes and twelve seconds. Most of that time was spent in silence.

It should come as no surprise that despite his hotshot lawyer, Hitler was found guilty of over six million counts of murder. His sentence was to be put back to death by hanging, which didn’t work. Firing squad; lethal injection; drowning...nothing worked. So, the decision was made by the Israelis to bury him alive in an inescapable casket without a marker. Adolf didn’t object. The story of his natural life made him weep. He got in the casket like someone gets into a canoe and waved goodbye to everyone and tried to make himself comfortable. It would be a long nap. When he closed his eyes he remembered his dogs from his other life but nothing else. Not even Eva Braun and the suicide. He would stay in the casket until someone decided he should be forgiven. To pass time he told himself the story of Hansel and Gretel over and over.

....

Through Nevada I was placing fifth. More cars piled up along the route, burning still. Some dead in the seat, other men had crawled to the road and lay there waiting for vultures to pick them apart. I didn’t pay much attention to them. As I tore past I could hear their screams. I refocused on Zula Zane whose picture was still on my visor. I had the love gun tucked in the waistband of my pants and I would zap her as soon as I saw her.

Around Las Vegas, which has been Sin City for a hundred years give or take, there were crowds of people watching along the sides of the roads. There were people with the old American flags waving them proudly and some with signs I could make out that said my nickname or name. The cars in front of me were all professional drivers and the unfortunate part is that from Las Vegas to Malibu there were not supposed to be many obstacles to face. So if they have made it this far there wouldn’t be much of a chance that I could catch them. Still, I pressed on. I gassed up on the Vegas strip and there were robot hookers and China girls all over the place. The place was filthy. There were vendors selling the heads of Betties for ten dollars to weary travelers. They called them Go Blows. They promised they could be mounted to any standard-sized steering wheel with relative ease but safety wasn’t assured. They were hung up by their hair with clothespins on a large white board like they were freshly beheaded. I thought of dear Marie Antoinette.

I didn’t make it through Las Vegas. I was stopped by a swarm of police and a motley group of Sanitation Workers in orange suits, leftovers from the Rosenbloom administration still searching for gingers to kill. They were like a snake with its head cut off. I wasn’t a ginger, yet they flatly accused me of being one. They said I dyed my hair but that was a phony charge debunked by a further assault upon my modesty. I was turned over to the Secret Police and taken to an extravagant casino to stand trial for another charge, which turned out to be murder and aiding and abetting Frances Fucking Fury, who after Mesa Musa Ali was the most wanted criminal in Merica. They had video from the Pussy Hut, a camera lying fortuitously on its side for the prosecution in a pile of rubble and plastic pussies. Usually murder only warrants a citation and a small fine but I guess they decided to throw the book at me. They had doctored video evidence of me and Frances making out. I shook my head and knew then that someone was out to hang me.

Justice was swift. The jury was composed of tourists who acted as though it was a part of their vacation. Half were drunk; the other half was depressed and angry about losing their children’s college fund on a craps table or to hookers who wouldn’t even kiss. The courtroom was a large pearl-colored banquet room in the casino and there were giant naked statues of Venus, Aphrodite and Astarte. The judge was in a Hawaiian shirt and suffered from dementia and repeatedly asked, “Where am I? Who are you? What did you do to my cheese?” to random people. There was a young fat fellow in glasses with a balding head who orchestrated the court, floating around like a bird stuck inside looking for an exit. I was convicted of all charges in less time than it took a Jerusalem jury to convict zombie Adolf Hitler. Four minutes and thirty nine seconds. My sentence was death when the dementia-ridden judge finally delivered it upon me, remembering to bang his gavel on his desk after striking himself in the forehead with it twice. The manner in which I would die was yet to be determined. Neither the Roman, Greek or Phoenician gal seemed much interested.

            ....

            Ruby was placed on display beneath a halo of lights in the lobby of Lucky Cat Cigarettes Hotel and Casino. The giant cat with the arrow shot through it logo was on a tall neon sign on front of the building. Operation Kitten Lips was turning out to be a real disaster so the sight of the Lucky Cat logo was becoming unpopular, yet the casino and the brand remained. Ruby was washed, polished, waxed and looked the way one of those virgins in Heaven probably looks when the terrorist who killed a thousand unsuspecting infidels approaches her. Her hood was open and a long line of tourists from all over came to see her. They were allowed to sit in her and snap pictures of themselves grabbing her wheel pretending they were driving. I thought of Marie Antoinette and the long line of tourists who drove her. Rumor has it Ruby is to be the prize of a lottery and all that you have to do to have a chance to win her is to buy a pack of Lucky Cats. The serial number on the bottom of the pack is your ticket number. Sales went through the roof, which was a genius ploy by Heathcliff Bernard due to the aforementioned effect of Operation Kitten Lips and the subsequent lagging sales. They no longer had a monopoly. Someone was selling cigarettes with a racecar driver on front called “The American,” which were becoming popular. I didn’t endorse them but clearly they were meant to depict me. Rumor said the drawing for Ruby would be in twenty-four hours...

            Before giant cats terrorized the world, Lucky Cat Cigarettes became so popular that the Merican flag was changed from having the gold star and the words “Wang’s Instant Noodles: United States of Merica” to having the Lucky Cat logo and the words “Lucky Cat Cigarettes: Made in MERICA” on it. They also added a yellow tasseled border. The new flag raised the ire of people who had been victimized by the giant cats of Operation Kitten Lips, of course, but in the words of zombie John Adams, in that bumptious Ivy League University, who preferred the cat, “You can’t please everyone...”

            I was being held in a small cell in the casino dedicated to some ancient Gods. I thought about those goddesses in the courtroom. I wondered if it was true what they said about the Statue of Liberty. Was she a lesbian? Does it matter? Surely not. But it is something to pass the time to think about. When I was taken into custody, I remember seeing Poseidon in front in a large fountain waist up holding a trident like Bobby Bubonic holds a javelin on the sides of those sardine cans. He was in white marble and looked rather angry, especially by the way they did the lights. I was given an obligatory “last meal” which I was able to choose from a menu of my imagination. “The sky is the limit,” the strange pudgy man told me as though that would make everything better. “What’s more,” he continued excitably, “there is a glory hole over there!” He pointed to a hole in my cell wall I hadn’t noticed. It was bright like the others I had seen. I cringed at the sight of it.

            Of all things in the world to choose for my last meal I chose French fried scorpions, salad with tomatoes, chives, onion and cheese, honey mustard dressing, and vanilla ice cream. Maybe in choosing the main course I was persuaded by Bela Lugosi’s velvety-smooth entrancing voice. Besides the last meal and the unlimited access to the glory hole, I was offered a final romp with a Bettie, also from a menu of my imagination. I would have one full hour to do with her what I may in whatever manner I chose to do it. I decided that I would accept that offer and I crafted in my head what I thought might be the most beautiful woman I could think up and I wrote it down per the gentleman’s instructions on a little card with a little pencil, like the ones used to keep golf scores. When I finished I handed the little card and little pencil to the little man and he assured me in about an hour she would walk down the long dark hallway to my dimly lit cell and the door would open and we would have a full hour of privacy. “Relative privacy,” he said looking up heedfully at the camera in the corner of the room. I listened to his feet walk away which sounded like donkey hooves and I determined that my cell door was twenty yards from the exit, for what it’s worth.

            Sure enough, an hour later as promised I heard a door open and down the hall some twenty yards walked a beautiful pair of black stiletto heels. She was fluid and perfect. No imperfections. I watched her turn the weak fluorescent light into bright sunshine, a basement into a palace, and a cell into a room with a view. The acrid smell of my dingy confines where other men and women languished, victims of the same kangaroo court, was vanquished by her sweet scent. She exuded the smell of sex, or female masturbation. Her name (which I chose not to choose) was Delilah and she came into the cell and sat across from me on a metal folding chair that quickly became a pedestal. She wore black stockings, black heels, a black skirt, a black tight blouse, and a string of lucky pearls that danced across her delicate neckline. Her hair was long, silk black, her eyes blue, and she didn’t stop smiling. Of course the camera ran without blinking, hoping to film what filth is anticipated for live TV. Someone kept yelling down the hall however many minutes until the show, every ten minutes or so. I was down to fifty by the time we exchanged words. Across from her I looked rather shabby. I was in a pair of gray prison pants and a white t-shirt. I had chosen her to be aggressive and the first words out of her mouth were filthy.

            “Well, are you going to fuck my mouth or what?” It was certainly an appealing proposition. The thought had occurred to me that there are worse ways to go. But I had no intention on having sex with her. What lasting impact would that have on anyone watching? I knew children watched and I was ashamed for not selecting a good girl for a moment or no girl at all, until I remembered why I selected this wire and circuit tramp. What would it matter to me in forty-five minutes, as the man calls, if I had sex with her? Such memories you cannot take to the grave but a person can go with pride and respect of his companions and countrymen. Then maybe they will give you a marker and write something decent and in a hundred years someone may say “Hey, this guy wasn’t such a schmuck.”

            I was back to not having a pot to piss in.

            “So...” she says. A “so” that hung in the air waiting to be beaten around like a piñata in expectation that it might crack open and drop conversation.

            “Do you love me?” I asked bluntly, firmly. She got the look of a politician in the headlights of truth or morals. She stared at me for a long moment without blinking. Her circuits were firing inside and the computer program of her brain, her CPU with all the right junk, was diligently processing that question.

            “I love you,” I said coolly. “Do you love me?” Her brain at last connected the probability that a question beginning with the word “do” is one which should beget either a “yes” or a “no.” And so it was a fifty-fifty bet at that moment but the next word “you” and the last word “me” made a positive response, “yes,” a far more likely or desired response. Scientists’ brains and those unduly influenced by science and math work this way as well. They are all neurotransmitters and chemicals and no soul.

            “Yes,” she said after a long pause. Then she put the recorded phrase back into a sentence of clear affirmation. “Yes. I love you.” Being told you are loved by someone who doesn’t love is worse than being told you are hated by someone who hates you. Marty Martian said something to this effect in one of his books.

            “I love you,” I said again plainly.

            “I love you,” she replied plainly. Then I said it angrily and she replied angrily. I said it excitedly and she replied excitedly. I said it yawning and she said it yawning. We went back and forth in every mood conceivable for twenty minutes. She looked so sincere and perfect. If I had met Delilah on a train or in a coffee shop I would never have been able to tell that she was a robot. We had a conversation about the world and about politics and American history. Her brain had high-speed internet and was downloading answers and replies as quickly as I could ask her questions. But she lacked opinion. She was all fact and a series of “on the other hand,” or “though contrariwise...” Then abruptly without warning or cause, I grabbed her head and ripped it from her shoulders much to the horror of the dope yelling however many minutes to the show and the security team. They hurried down the hall and fumbled with the keys to open the cell door manually. Wires fizzled and sparked dangling from her beautiful neck. Her pearls lay on her shoulders. One of the guards fell to his knees outside of the cell in horror. One still fumbling with the keys vomited twice looking in at the scene. I held her head up by the hair for the camera to view then I tossed it at the security guards who stormed in finally after a long struggle with the keys. I screamed, “Anything can say I love you! Anything! Love is not a computer program! Love is real!”

            I was stunned with an electric shield and pinned to the ground by some heavy guards who seemed made to anchor erratic prisoners to the ground and little if anything more. I lost consciousness. The next thing I knew I was in a gray jumpsuit on a lit-up stage in front of a live studio audience. Zombie Tattoo was smiling vividly and making his way down an extravagant illuminated stairway flanked by four beautiful, tall, thin women who were dressed as sexy peacocks.