THE MIND IN THE MICROWAVE

PART ONE: A CYBERNETIC CITYSCAPE

1

ANOTHER perfect day, Bryce Donahue thought to himself as he spread copious globs of smooth peanut butter across a pair of stale graham crackers. In his hole-spreckled grey pajamas, he stood in the dirty kitchen of his dirty one-room apartment. The busted shitter lay in two pieces to his right (beside the busted fridge), the victim of another barrage of explosive diarrhea. He grabbed his grinder off the counter, opened it and took out a pinch of weed, sprinkling the pungent, dank, ground bud across his freshly peanut-buttered crackers. Then he sprinkled a few more pinches. And another pinch for good measure. Better too much than too little, as he always said. He licked the crystals from his fingers.

Whistling something quite tuneless, he smashed both crackers together. The weed-laced peanut butter was still too cold and solid to really ooze out the sides. Don't want to waste it. Bryce smacked his forehead. A damn good idea just came to him. He found a box of tinfoil and unrolled the last six-inch sheet. He wrapped up the treat and gently set it into the microwave. Setting the microwave to 4:20—and geeking-out in the process—he took a step back and waited for his cheap edible to be ready. He had the munchies bad, man.

Bryce was in for a rude awakening. He'd failed grade-nine physics, was too busy skipping class and getting stoned with his English teacher. So when the lightning show started, he thought maybe he'd absorbed some of the THC through his fingertips or his tongue, or something.

But I'm a hardcore toker, maaan. It would take way more than a few pinches to get me ripped hard enough to hallucinate this.

He shook his head. This wasn't the weed. This must've been some sort of conspiracy. Government PSYOP, perhaps? Or maybe his dealer had given him a bunk batch of bud. Yeah, that seemed more likely. Probably laced it with something extra. Saw how much I've been buying, thought he could get me to buy a little more frequently if he spiced it up with little hard-to-see aluminum flakes coated in cocaine, or something. But Jay-Zee was a cool dude, he wouldn't do something like this. Or maybe being cool was just the character he played—maybe Jay-Zee was a professional actor, paid by the government to pretend to be a dealer and get people hooked on some new experimental drug. Then they take our minds and make us into perfect, passive, working slaves, asleep while we're awake. Sheep going baa while the world around us changes beyond our control. Yeah. Bryce thought he'd give Jay-Zee a call. Ask him what the hell was up.

By now, the microwave was ringing its completion. Bryce had been spacing out. He opened the microwave and wafted away the nauseating fumes. Damn, man. His crackers were on fire. Cool. He tried inhaling some of the smoke, just in case, but it didn't get him high—only made him choke for breath and left him with a headache. Not cool. Now he really needed to call Jay-Zee. Straighten things out. Nothing worse than weed that only makes your head hurt.

Leaving the fire to burn itself out, he walked the three steps to his bed—a bug-infested mattress lying on the floor, just next to the toilet—which he'd stolen from the dump with his buddy, local rapper Da Chronix Rippaz. He found his cellphone in the back pocket of the one and only pair of jeans he'd ever owned. He held down 1, the speed dial for Jay-Zee.

His dealer answered on the first ring.

"Yo." The heartbeat-like, bass-heavy, thump-thump pulse of rap music could be heard in the background.

"Hey, man, it's B-Money."

"Yo, Brick Dolla-Signs. What up, homey."

"Dawg, this bag you sold me is bunk, dude."

"Word?"

"Word, dude. For realzies. This shit be sparking within my microwaving device. You hear, Jay-Zee?"

"I hear, homey. One sec."

Bryce heard the bong percolating on the other end.

Jay-Zee came back coughing up his lungs. "Homey, come by my crib. I'll hook you up. No sweat off my sack." His voice was even slower and more relaxed than usual.

"Wicked, Jay-Zeezus. I'll be by in five."

"Make it four-twenty, Bryce Paddy."

"Hahahaha!"

"Hehehehe!"

"Ahahaheheheha!"

"Heh. Peace, playa."

They both disconnected.

Bryce looked out his window at the Weird Place blizzard beyond. An old lady hobbled down the street, shielding her face from the oncoming flurries of snow. One second later, she slipped on a patch of black ice and pounded the pavement, clutching her hip. She promptly went rolling backwards out of sight. He heard a car honk its horn, then the screech of tires. The sound of shattering glass. A trio of gunshots. Shrieks. Sirens wailing.

He wasn't looking forward to going out in that mess, but free weed was worth doing anything for. And, not only that, Jay-Zee would be guaranteed to let him rip a few bong hits, probably roll up a fat joint or two, fire up the vaporizer, maybe even bust out the hash oil if he was lucky, and possibly toss his way a couple failed-cancer-cure research chemicals taken from the dumpster behind some lab in Dokerton. So, yeah, this was a trip worth making. He needed to throw on some pants, though. He searched around for a bit and then realized they were right there at his feet. He sat down on the mattress and tugged the jeans up around his legs.

It was when he found himself falling through the jeans, shrinking smaller 'til the one-room apartment above looked bigger than the whole block—wind in his face, blowing his hair back from his forehead—that he realized he should've just smoked a bowl instead.


2

WHEN he'd finished falling through the pair of pants, he'd come out the end of one of the legs and popped into a whole 'nother world.

Now we're trippin' with gasoline.

It was like stepping into a life-sized computer. Bryce knew computers. He knew all the components to them, what they looked like, what they were used for. This world resembled a massive motherboard, with deep-green and cyan hues pervading everything. It was like being a kid and watching Dad tinkering with and building new rigs, how he'd pretend he was looking at a miniature city, wondering what the little computer people were doing each day of their lives.

Hey, hon, just headin' on down to the CPU for the night, clocking my overtime pay. Be back in four-twenty hertz.

Hahaha. Classic.

The round gold-silver battery-thing in front of him was the city's power plant. Had to be. It dwarfed most things around it. Big snaking wires connected from it to the surrounding buildings. And everything around him was aglow with fluorescent light, like walking downtown in the middle of the night and hitting up the red-light district. Lots of sleazy-looking stores down there. But here, it was everywhere. Robo-Toyz 4 Boyz. Girly Stuff 4 Girly Sluts. Buy 1 Hole, Get 2 Free. Peanut Butter Rocks 4 Sale. CineMental Movies 4 The Mind. And on, and on. Shopkeepers kicked the crap out of unruly patrons, sent them sputtering and spitting blood on the curb. People laughed, then ran screaming when the shopkeeper came back shaking a futuristic-looking rifle: sleek silver metal, luminous greens and blues coming from the dials.

Neon-lit towers rose high to a smoggy, black, starless sky. Where are all the stars? Bryce wondered. And floating there—just the nose visible, the rest obscured by one of those enormous buildings—was some kind of huge ship, bigger than any flying machine back home. It was, like, the size of an aircraft carrier. Bigger, even. Green-blue-yellow lights alternated between faint flickers and intense, seizure-inducing strobes.

This is a strange place. A constant hum to the world around. And it smells like fried circuit board. Sticks to the back of the throat and burns. Like the microwave.

It was the pants that did it, Bryce thought, or maybe it was the microwave. Maybe both the pants and the microwave were responsible for transporting him to this... this... alternate universe. Hell, maybe his entire life had been but one big, unfinished exclamation mark, and this trip to another universe within his own—or outside of his own; big mind-fuck, there—was the dot to complete the line. That isn't so bad, he thought. At least then I know this isn't my fault.

Too busy staring around in wonder to notice the coming crowd, someone shoved Bryce from behind.

"Step out the way, Sanie."

He went sprawling to the street, putting his hands out to stop his fall, grinding his skin against the smooth green roadway in the process. As he fell, he managed to catch sight of numerous badges on the front of the shover's jacket, like those weird metalheads back home with their band-logo patches.

Robots were all around Bryce, coming closer. One was practically a robotic broom, marching and sweeping with all four of its limbs. Then there was one whose sole purpose seemed to be making a mess for the broom-bot to clean. Another had a shiny yellow star on its chrome-plated chest. It also had a huge pistol holstered at its side. This one bent down, a silver hand outstretched to him. He took it, felt cold steel send a chill up to his elbow, and was lifted to his feet.

"Hello. Human. Took a. Slip?" A permanent smile. Perfect teeth sparkling in the night.

"Ah," Bryce said, hissing through his teeth as he stood, testing his weight. "Skinned my knees and my hands." He checked his pajamas for fresh holes. "That asshole pushed me for no reason, man."

"Step. Aside, human," the robo-broom said in a high-pitched voice, much like a ringing phone. Its front brooms were relentlessly sweeping Bryce's shoes, shining them.

"Oops, sorry, bro." He stepped out of the robot's way. "Funny little thing, that broom. Trippy shit."

"Hop. On, citizen," the cop-bot told him, bending over as if wanting to give him a piggyback ride.

"Woah! Taxi service, too?" Bryce climbed aboard the robot with the gun. "Trippy shit."

Immediately they took off through the car-crowded streets, overtaking the vehicles ahead. Bryce saw they were all the same model—yellow, like the taxis back home; but shaped like computer components, their architecture on full display—and being driven by people who looked like clones of each other. Someone ahead, on the sidewalk to the right, looked back over their shoulder and then bolted forward.

"Where we goin', bro? What's the rush?"

"To. Enact. Justice."

"Oh, cool. Who on?"

"The one who. Attacked. You."

"Ah, sick shit. Ride on, man."

The chase took them through grimy alleys and past graffitied walls. Whipped by addicts who nodded off under thin blankets and ragged clothes, fighting off the chill of a cold, heartless city with the unconditional warmth only hard drugs could provide. Mongrel dogs with bleeding sores barked at them from behind chain-link fences. Young women, scantily clad, proffered parts for penetration. A man stood in the alley, and when they passed, he said something about "gettin' your eyes past twenty-twenty." Out into the street again.

The shover moved at a sprint now, somehow gaining ever-more-impossible speed. Their legs pumped with such rapidity they were a blur to the eye.

"How the hell are they moving so fast, bro? Are they an Olympic runner or something?"

"I detect. Biological engineering. Nanomolecular. Technology. And probable. Cybernetic. Implants."

"Woah, dude, slow down! Is... this... some science-fiction bullshit? How can you detect all that from here?"

"I am a. Machine. My vision is. Augmented."

"Ah, true dat."

And with that, Bryce and his robotic steed picked up their own speed. It was hard to believe, because the ride was impeccably smooth. He didn't even feel the robot's feet—do they have feet?—pound the pseudo-pavement. He heard the pneumatic systems working, that quick sound reminiscent of those air-powered impact wrenches that mechanics used to take off tires. Vrrr-RRR!

They were trailing the shover, gaining on him with every half-stride. Then the guy took a sudden, sharp left and plowed through a group of people, sending them to the street shouting. The robot, not nearly as efficient in ignoring the safety of civilians, was slowed by this maneuver. "Do not. Be alarmed. Citizens." It worked on regaining its previous speed.

Bryce noticed some kind of moving wanted poster on the concrete wall to his right. It showed a guy with a black balaclava, staring at him through dark-brown eyes, keeping pace with them as they moved. "Who's he?"

"The serial. Killer. Peanut. Butter Bandit. Body count. Estimated at three. Hundred."

"Holy hell!" Three hundred bodies. Bryce was pretty sure that was vastly above any killer back home, not including dictators who'd ordered others to kill for them, of course. "Peanut Butter Bandit, eh. Weird fuckin' name, if I ever heard one. Then again, I hang out with guys named Lazy Charlie and Mac Daddy Wilson and Ch-EZ Nutz."

The chase ended when the shover entered a nightclub through a side door. It banged shut.

Bryce hopped off and gave the door a tug. "Locked."

"Step. Aside."

At first he thought the robo-cop was gonna shoot the door open, as it aimed that massive pistol at the doorknob, but then out of the muzzle came two little metal arms. The arms extended further, inserted themselves into the keyhole, started working the lock. A click-click-CLICK told him the lock was now open.

They opened the door and immediately they were bombarded with sound. Bryce took a step back, it'd taken him by such surprise. It was the mech-organic ebb and flow of techno-style music, though that really didn't do justice to its sound—maybe throw in some glitch and noise, the whirr of blowing fans, and hints of the classical-influenced video-game music from back home.

They went inside.

If the ship in the sky's strobing lights were seizure-inducing, then the lighting in this club would be enough for anyone to fall to the floor and start foaming at the mouth. The effect was surreal, as the multicoloured flashing lights made him feel like he was moving through the crowds in a jerky, start-stop manner. People danced around him as though they were participants in a fast-motion tableaux, statuesque poses shifting with every blinking, passing second.

The cop-bot opened a way through the people before it, like that bearded dude in the Bible who parted the seas and shit.

There was an unmoving crowd standing in a circle. Bryce and the cop-bot pushed through.

And there was the shover. Sprawled on his back, dead and staring. His mouth was covered with a glob of peanut butter. Some dried foam made two lines down his cheeks on each side of his mouth, changing colour with the lights.

The cop-bot bent down and examined the corpse. It stood up and turned to Bryce. "I will. Phone. It in."

"Wait, bro! What if I get asked questions? Y'know. Like, as a witness."

"Beep-beep-bip. Boodle-bip-bip. Boop-boop-beep." The cop-bot's LED eyes flickered a few times over the course of a second. "Done. You are. Free. To go, citizen. Justice has. Been. Served."

"Woah, seriously? Okay, cool. Thanks for the lift and stuff. Peace, bro." Bryce nodded, impressed, and turned towards the door he'd entered from. The crowd parted before him, then made their way over to the body. He pushed open the door and went back outside. Felt that crisp, bad air enter his lungs. Much better after being in the hot and heavy club. He turned to make sure the door was closed tight.

And when he turned back, a masked man wielding a butter knife stood before him. And on that knife was peanut butter.


(I)

JAY-ZEE—real name: Jamestown Conroy Ziebmojcikskiewicz III—was worried. Actually, "worried" wasn't really the right word to use, since he was way too baked to even come close to being worried. But he was curious as to what was taking B-Money so long.

They'd joked about him being over in four minutes and twenty seconds. It actually took closer to seven or eight minutes to walk from his place to Jay-Zee's, especially with the winter storms going on. But it was now a half-hour since the end of their phone call. He'd shot Bryce a text (Yo dawg, u gettin Wendy's or sumfin?), and that was five minutes ago.

No response.

Jay-Zee loaded up another bong hit and tried to focus on Harold and Kumar getting sent to Guantanamo Bay. This was one of his favourite movies, but it didn't seem to make him laugh. Not tonight.

Hell, maybe "worried" was a perfectly good word to use.

He called Bryce's phone. No answer.

Deciding if Bryce didn't show up in fifteen minutes then he'd go over there, Jay-Zee tried really hard to sit back and laugh at the movie.


3

"YOU mean, you, like, haven't heard of Violent Sex Offender Necro Fuck Squad? They're only, like, the greatest underground brutal-death, rapecore, pornogrind band to hit the scene since Demented Cockmachine Whistlesnatch. They've released, like, just one two-minute demo that's only been, like, heard by the band members themselves, and their friends and family. But I've heard it. Yeah, I, like, know the lead screamer. I had a drunken screw with him once. We ate, like, curly fries with peanut butter while we did it."

The others surrounding the bragging female bobbed their heads in appreciation. They all had matching jackets with patches on them. Each patch was fairly unique, though some were identical on each wearer.

This group began walking past the alley where Bryce was being held hostage by the apparent Peanut Butter Bandit, whose hand was wrapped around Bryce's throat.

"I, like, banged the bassist from Girlcunt once," one guy said.

"Ewwww, like, the bassist!?"

"What! She's, like, hot!"

The group disowned him, throwing him into oncoming traffic. He was soon a mushy, twitching red smear. The group bolted before the authorities could arrive.

The Peanut Butter Bandit snorted at this exchange, relinquished his grip from Bryce's throat. His eyes rolled within that balaclava. "We call them Loonies," he said, his voice dry like sandpaper. "They're a gang, I guess you could say, but there's no leadership. It's more of a clique, a club, a social cult. Everyone who wants to be seen as 'different' dresses like that, though I'm not too sure how dressing the same as everyone else can be considered unique. Those patches on their jackets? Badges of honour. All their made-up psychological problems, self-created deformities and diseases, through bioengineering, nanotech or software installations. Fuckin' idiots, if you ask me. But I can tell you're not from around here," he added, eyeing up Bryce's clothing and stunned expression.

"Dude," Bryce said, eyes darting from the butter knife to the fresh, steaming hamburger meat in the street. "I'm from a little town called Weird Place, bud. I've been transported here somehow. I-I-I dunno... What fucking country is this, man?"

"Country...? We don't have country here. Not even sure what that word means..." He paused as if in thought. "But Weird Place, huh? We've got a Weïrd Plās, a little island to the south-west. But this is Peburia City, the shining jewel of the Mainland. A scar on society's ass."

"Peburia City? The hell is that? Never heard of it, man. And, dude, how do you not have a country? Everybody's got a country. I'm from Canada, bro. Born and raised," Bryce added proudly.

"Um, you are from Peburia, aren't you?"

"Dude, the fuck is Peburia? You just said it was the city. Is that the name of a clothing brand, or something, man? An animal you guys love? The hell, dude? I'm lost here, man."

"That's our planet, dude. What planet are you from, man?"

"Earth, man. Big blue-and-green globe. Goes spinning 'round and 'round the Sun. We've got the Moon going 'round us, too." He looked up at the pitch-black, starless sky. No Moon. Very weird. "Where's your Moon?"

"Earth? The Moon?" The Peanut Butter Bandit shrugged his shoulders. "Never heard of them. And I've never heard of a planet you can see from the outside, either..."

"I dunno, man, it's science. Dude, can you, like, stop waving that knife in my face?"

"Sure. You seem cool enough. Weird as hell, though, since I guess you'd technically be an alien, if what you're saying is true..." He licked the peanut butter off the knife and tucked it inside the front pocket of his blue sweatshirt. "Mind you, aliens are supposed to be fiction. Little green humanoid reptiles that live underground."

Feeling a little more at ease now, Bryce said, "Shit, if I'm an alien, then so are you. By the way, I saw your work in there, my man." He cocked a thumb back at the nightclub. "That asshole made me skin my knee, so I'm glad he's dead. But, uh... I gotta ask: Why peanut butter?"

"Why not? I was watching when you appeared out of nowhere. Thought maybe you had some new experimental tech my brother never told me about. Then I saw that Loonie push you. Figured I could take him out and meet you... You intrigue me, stranger."

"Well, here I am, dude. Name's Bryce. Bryce Donahue."

"Albert Milton. Junior."

"Cool, Albert. I'll call you Al... Say, uh, you know where can I score some weed?"

"Weed?"

Bryce started weeping, pulling out clumps of his hair. "Oh, jeeze. No. Goddamnit, no! No weed. Oh, fuck." He wiped his eyes. Rubbed the snot from his nose. "No weed!? How does a guy have fun around here? What about booze? 'Shrooms? Mescaline? Acid? Coke? Speed? Crystal? Fuck—PCP? Any drugs here at all, bro?"

"Ah, drugs! Why didn't you say so?" Al pulled out what looked like a cellphone or an iPod, or something. He pressed a button and said, "Computer. Need a pickup."

A sedan-like car, with its black internal architecture on display, immediately rumbled into the alley and came to a stop. The driver's-side window went down. "Hello, Master," said the well-dressed man driving the car. He had a big brown goatee. His voice was mildly robotic-sounding, but not quite as robotic as the cop-bot. "I trust you have found your quarry?"

"Yeah, this is him," he replied, opening the rear door. He motioned for Bryce to get in.

Bryce hesitated. "You're not gonna, like, serial-kill me or anything, right?"

"You'd already be dead, believe me."

"True dat." He got in and scooted over. It was a very luxurious interior, with squeaky leather seats and even drink dispensers.

Al came in beside and closed the door. He took off his balaclava and gave his dark-brown, almost-black hair a shake. He had a couple days' stubble on his cheeks and chin. An upturned nose. A heavy brow. "Computer, find our friend Bryce here a drug dealer." His voice was different now, smooth and intelligent-sounding. Like he put on a phony voice while he wore his face mask, for some reason.

Computer, the man—robot?—in front, nodded. "Searching... Searching... Subject found. Three kilometres east in Abber's Dabber. 182 Westpoint Street."

"Please take us there, Computer."

"Yes, Master."

The car backed out of the alley—wheels slightly jouncing over the remains of the dead body, grinding meat against the green circuit-board street—turned itself around and drove off.


4

ABBER'S Dabber was colloquially known as The Slums, Al told Bryce while they drove. It may have been the years of daily, all-day weed smoking—or maybe inhaling the burning tinfoil in the microwave—but the phonetic similarities to the nearby town of Abberdenabber (back in his world) didn't click in for him until they'd nearly arrived at their destination. Abber's Dabber—Abberdenabber? That was some trippy shit, dude!

Gang members, warming their hands over trashcan bonfires spread along the dirty streets, aimed loathsome looks at their vehicle when they travelled past. According to Al, there were three rival gangs in this province of Peburia, all duking it out for supremacy. Though one gang was actually from the region east of Abber's Dabber, Doker's Point—now that name clicked in very quickly for Bryce; it was remarkably similar to Dokerton. The three gangs were the Abber Westside Krew, the East Dabber Boiz, and the Doo-Wop Klan. All very violent, according to Al. People didn't venture outside their apartment complexes around here, not unless they enjoyed the risk of being mugged, beaten and murdered; or they were with the gangs doing the mugging, beating and murdering.

The car stopped outside a dilapidated apartment complex. Rotting boards hung from some of the windows. Others were just plain broken. A layer of grime coated the place. There were bloodstains on the staircase. Dried rainbow puddles of puke and brown ice-cream swirls of dog turds on the grass out front. So, all in all, it felt like home to Bryce—matter of fact, it was a bit of an upgrade; like going from a snooze in your beat-to-shit Ford hatchback to a Hilton with blow in the salt shakers and your own personal collection of grade-A whores to bang. He happily alighted from the vehicle. The thought of getting stoned put a bounce in his step. He just wondered what drug it was he'd be getting stoned on, and how would he get it into his system? Smoke it? Inject it? Drink it? Eat it? Shove it up my ass? How?

"Better stay mobile, Computer," Al was saying, bending over to talk to his robo-driver. "Wouldn't want any of these gangs to take their anger out on you. Not sure what I'd do with myself if I found you lying in the street, just a head saying, 'Master, Master,' over and over again. Probably kill myself."

"Certainly, Master," Computer said. "I do not wish to die, as you well know. And I do not wish for you to die in retaliation for my demise, as it goes against my core programming to see you in any way injured, maimed or assaulted, however gravely. Good luck, Master, and do call if I am needed. Love you."

"Love you, too, Computer."

Possible gay romance? Bryce wondered. He didn't get this whole robot–human dynamic—though, to be fair, he didn't get a whole lot about this world. This part of Peburia looked far more similar to his own world, not one gram, quarter- or half-ounce to be seen of the cybernetic cityscape that was Peburia City. No neon, no towers, nothing but a long-forgotten ghetto in dire need of some government funding. Like the big technological upgrade never reached this lonesome locale, the people left to live in their perpetual state of squalor. Naturally, with no real opportunities—no chance at real success; at making it—the people had been forced to resort to crime, whether it be against others or the self.

A sad state of affairs that seemed to transcend universal boundaries. A constant across at least two universes. Bryce wished he had a bowl to smoke right about then. Those were some trippy-ass thoughts.

Al met him by the stairs, his mask back on. He tossed a red one to Bryce.

"What's this, man?"

"Put it on." Back to the growling voice.

"Why, bro?"

"Because we don't want to be identified. How do you think I've been killing people for so long?"

"I dunno," Bryce said, pulling the red balaclava over his face. He tried mimicking Al's voice, constricting his throat to sound as though he'd choked down ten bong hits in quick succession. "How's my voice?"

"Don't do the voice. That's my thing and it doesn't suit you."

"Damn."

"Anyway, to be truthful, I've got a special contact who controls all the androids—even the Mobile Police models—and they know not to arrest me. My brother Xavier. So that helps... And, if I'm allowed to brag, I did write the code for the OS all those tin cans are running."

"Al, isn't that, like, cheating, dude?" It sounded like cheating to him. A serial killer who had no fear of being arrested? Cheating.

Al pointed up at the sky. A blinking green light could be seen in the darkness above the skyline. "See that, Bryce? That's the Control Tower. You shut that down, the androids get shut down, too. The Leader Of The World lives up there, in his lofty haven above us mere mortal men. Fuckin' prick."

"Leader Of The World? That sounds like some straight-up New World Order–type shit, man," Bryce noted. "You guys got a Bilderberg Group here, too? Pulling all the strings? Turning us into good little sheep with the fluoride in the water I don't drink and the super-rare-and-deadly-disease vaccines I stopped getting when I was nine... Telling us dinosaurs died out before we came to be, when really the dinosaurs evolved into reptilian hybrid creatures who now wear suits and masquerade as men... Brainwashing us with music and movies and science textbooks... That's why I only watch underground stuff, bro. The Illuminati don't pull those strings, man. They can't find 'em. Don't know what needs pulling, dude. Yeah..."

Al blinked twice, opened his mouth, closed it. He gave his head a little shake and shrugged. "I'm not gonna ask." He started walking up the stairs, toward the apartment's entrance. "Come on."

Bryce caught up with him and they went inside, then up the stairs. Didn't even look at the name attached to each room. Al seemed to know where he was going.

They stopped on the fourth floor. Room twenty-four. Al hammered on the door, his hairy knuckles and hairier hands on display.

The door opened a crack. A pair of wild, rolling red eyes appeared. The door swung open.

A man with more scabs on his face than skin stood there, grinning. "Heeeeeey guys come the fuck in!" His voice moved faster than his wandering eyes. He waved them in and then yanked an uncertain Bryce inside. "Cool fucking masks guys super-cool doing the whole don't-want-you-to-know-who-the-fuck-I-am thing I can respect that these are troubled fucking times we're living in here yessir don't know who the fuck you can trust anymore but you guys are cool I can tell oh oh oh you want your drugs fuck yeah DRUGS do 'em all the time one sec chill somewhere."

Bryce and Al, masked and anonymous, stood in front of a TV with a bullet hole in the centre of its cracked screen.

Bryce gave Al a nudge with his elbow. "You know this guy, man?" he muttered under his breath. "He seems a little cray-cray."

"Nope. Just he's a dealer, according to Computer's database."

The dealer came back with a bag of brown-coloured rocks. "Yo which one of you guys is the crack smoker JUST KIDDING both of you dudes are am I right fuck yeah DRUGS!" He suddenly fell backwards, collapsing into the couch, and started snoring. The bag of rocks hit the dirty floor with a thud.

"Crack?" Bryce asked, picking up the bag. "You guys got crack, too, man?"

Al was too busy jamming peanut butter into the dealer's wide-open mouth to answer. The dealer woke up with a jerk, arms flailing, but by that point he was choking on the peanut butter. With a jar in his other hand, Al just kept shovelling more and more in. He stopped mid-shovel, holding out the knife. "I'm sorry, did you want to have a try?"

"Nah, man," Bryce said, giving his head a shake. "Not for me. Killing random people is your thing. But you keep doing what you're doing."

The dealer's face turned red, then purple. Then he was dead. Al got off.

Tearing open the bag and examining a rock, Bryce carelessly shoved the dead dealer off the couch with his foot. He sat down in the dealer's place. He sniffed the rock. Smelled like peanut butter.

Al removed his mask and wiped sweat from his forehead. His hair stuck up in points. "We call it crack because of the way you smoke it, Bryce. Are you ready for this? How far will you go to get high, my friend?"

"I'll do anything and everything, dude," Bryce said, eyes wide. He took his mask off. "I'd even shag that corpse—which, by the way, dude, is really starting to stink already. You mind dragging his ass out?"

Once the corpse was gone, Al came back with a couple long tubes, their insides blackened with resin.

Bryce saw the tubes and grabbed one. "This shit use a hookah?"

"Since I don't know what that is... No. Anyway," Al explained, taking the rock from him and popping it into one end of the other tube, "pull your pants down and shove one end of that up your ass. You might need to moisten it with your spit."

Without dwelling too much on the deepest, darkest depths to which he'd sunk, Bryce did exactly that. He sat with his pajamas at his ankles and a long rubber hose curled at his side. Al grabbed the other end of the hose and smacked it against the remaining end of his hose. The two tubes seemed to snap into place.

"Now what?" Bryce asked.

Al had a cylindrical device in his hand. He flicked it and a blue flame shot out. Like a groovy butane torch. He held it against the tube, melting down the rock inside. The rock bubbled and burped. Thick black smoke billowed about inside the tube. "Now, uh, clench and unclench."

Bryce's face scrunched together, his upper lip raised. "Done."

The smoke snaked its way through the tube.

"Keep doing it," Al said, burning the last of the rock.

With a mix of fascination and anticipation, Bryce saw the smoke nearly reach the unseen frontiers of his anus. How would this high feel? He'd only done a drug rectally once, and that was accidentally at the airport. He took a deep breath as a warmth spread throughout his lower region, rising. A tingle in his scalp. A widening of his eyes.

—He looks down at my disintegrating hands—

—I see his fingers vibrate in the air, wispy tendrils spiralling from the tips—

—We lift from the couch, like the gravity in this world has changed—

Rising. Rising. Into the air. Out of this apartment. Out of this room. Floating through the chilly night.

A shape is a shape is a shape. Nameless. Wandering. Meet my maker in the outer reaches far beyond. Space–time coalesces in ways never before considered. A blink of the eye, a beat of the heart. And impossible distances are traversed.

A ship. A beacon. Rocking to and fro under this vacant heaven.

Lights show me. Teach me. This is where God lives. This is what it means to know.


(II)

JAY-ZEE turned off the movie before the infamous cockmeat-sandwich scene. He just couldn't get into it. Calling Bryce's phone again, and again getting no answer, he'd decided to pack his shit and head on over. With any luck, they'd bump into each other on the way over. Then they'd laugh, come back and chill at Jay-Zee's crib. Smoke a jumbo-sized doobie.

He could only hope.


PART TWO: THE MIND IN THE MICROWAVE

5

THE electrodes slid off his temples and he knew the movie was over. It'd filled in some of the blank spots in his memory that'd formed after smoking the drug. But there was still a duration of time that hadn't been filled—namely, his state of unconsciousness, which came as a direct result of smoking the peanut-butter rocks. The initial high had been some pretty trippy shit—flying and stuff—but what had followed was the furthest thing from fun. Panic. Then... nothingness. He was glad it was over. Now, if only he could get his hands on some weed. Good ol' ganja. Those thoughts naturally led him back to his old life. He wondered if he'd ever get back home.

Bryce got up from the Sensi-Chair and twisted the knots out of his spine. He threw aside the blue velvet curtain and stepped out into the hallway. Al was in the next booth over. He drew back the drapery and saw Al rubbing his eyes. The 'trodes hung from their slot in front of the screen.

"How was your first mind movie?" Al asked him.

"Trippiest shit ever, dude," Bryce said. They walked out of the screening area and made for the exit. "It filled in some of the blanks, but, guy—I still don't remember what happened after."

"After you smoked the rock and started flying, you mean?"

"Yeah."

They were on the street again, just outside of the Doker's Point CineMental theatre. In the distance, the Solar Tree Forest lit-up in the night, expending a fraction of the energy it had acquired throughout the day.

"So on my end," Al said, "you weren't floating so much as having a spaz on the couch. Your eyes got all funny and started dancing left and right, twitching sort of. Then you passed out. I eased the tube out of your asshole and pulled your pajamas back up. Carried you out and Computer drove us here, to Doker's Point. By that point you were conscious and saying you couldn't remember shit, so I hooked you up to the 'trodes and you got to watch what led to that point of blacking out. Clear?"

Bryce nodded. "Makes a bit more sense, yeah. I think that shit was a little too much for me. Wish I had some damn weed, dude... So where we goin' now, man?"

"Solar Tree Forest. It's pretty at night. By day, it's a little hard on the eyes, since the solar panels fuckin' blind you. But at night, it's like walking around a fairy tale."

When they arrived, he saw what Al had said was completely true. It was like a fairy tale, like living inside a real-life Disney movie—that was the scale of the sense of wonder this place instilled. Heavenly white light emitted from every solar-panel leaf on every solar-panel branch of every solar-panel tree. Each panel had a high-tech glass ball—a sort of magnifying glass, Al explained—which moved with sophisticated computer programming in concordance with the Sun's light to allow for maximum energy yield. And of course the leaves and branches moved, shifted, still tracking the Sun, despite it being night time. The forest danced, shaking its many arms, twiddling its many fingers. It was surreal to see.

They sat down at the base of one tree, watching the forest and its beauty. Al busted out what looked like a joint to Bryce. He clung to Al's leg, tugging on his pant material, practically humping him.

"You've got weed, man!? I NEED THAT DRUG!!!!"

Al looked shocked, maybe even insulted. "This ain't a drug, pal. It's medicine. And it's not 'weed.' It's peanut-butter oil. Powerful stuff. It's wrapped in paper-thin, see-through sheets of circuit board. Some of the most innocuous material ever made. Perfectly safe." He sparked the tip of the joint with his butane torch. Took a long—and what looked to be satisfying—hit. Thick white smoke curled off the burning end. Smelled like roasted peanuts. He started coughing and passed the joint Bryce's way.

Greedily, Bryce accepted the joint. He sucked down smoke like a drowning man sucks air, anything to stay alive. He took a breath and held the smoke in, pulling it deeper into his lungs, trying to achieve the maximum effects. Immediately, he felt that typical sensation he loved. A mellowness. Like everything was A-okay. All he needed to do was chill, and smoke more. He giggled to himself, and he couldn't stop grinning.

Al took the joint back. "Be careful with that. It's potent stuff, Bryce."

"It's just like weed." And he howled laughter like a hyena after a kill. And that mental image—of a red-eyed, shit-faced hyena, grinning from ear to ear, chuckling like Scooby Doo—made him laugh harder than ever.

Now Al was laughing, too. When he'd regained his composure, he said, "You're gonna brown-out if you don't take it easy."

They passed the joint some more. Bryce took Al's words to heart and took it even harder. A brown-out sounded fun. When the joint was finished, they got to talking deep subjects, pouring their hearts out to each other.

"Dad abused me," Al was saying, sobbing in between words. "Beat me. Swore at me. He was a raging alcoholic. Alcohol's that shit they make from rotting peanut butter. Some true poison, buddy. He was never the same after Mom left us. But it was his fault! All his fault! If he hadn't started drinking, Mom never would have left! She didn't like it. She said it made him unpredictable. And then he hit her one night. And she was gone. And after that, he started hitting me and Xavier. Guess he needed a new punching bag or two. We were scared of him. But we loved him. And still so scared..."

"Dude. That, like, uh, sucks, man."

Al turned his head and spat, "Yeah, dude, it does, like, suck, man. Can't a guy talk about his shitty childhood without hearing dumb, half-assed comments like that?"

"Sorry," Bryce said. "But one thing I learned while getting ripped on weed is, keep the sensitive subjects off-limits. This stuff can make everything funny as hell, or it can turn you into a crying clown, bro." He searched the spacious horizons of his mind for a different thing to talk about. The world, maybe? "Tell me about Peburia, Al. Anything cool about this place I should know about?"

"According to the Church of Glasomil, we're all stuck inside a computer simulation," Al said, matter-of-factly.

"That sounds like some Matrix-type shit, man."

"Matrix?"

"The Matrix was a killer fucking movie back from my world. The world we live in is a... a sort of computer construct, you feel me? But we think it's real. Then it showed the actual real world, dude, and they were these sad-sack people living off creamed wheat inside their ships and fighting against these machines that looked like squids."

"That sounds a little too far-fetched to me, Bryce."

"Same, man, but here I am, in an alternate universe. So it seems like, well, like things are a little crazier than we thought. Truth is, uh, stranger than fiction. Can't remember who said that."

"You did. Just now."

"True dat. So who's Glasomil?"

"God, basically. He created the universe, created Peburia and all its people in his image. He had a brother, Pebusa, who would eat children. So they say. I don't believe a word of it."

"That's pretty intense." Bryce pointed up at the sky, where the ship with the crazy light patterns still lingered. "Man, what the hell is that? Saw it when I first arrived. Tripped me out."

"We call them the Watchers. According to historians, that ship suddenly popped-up in the sky one day. Nobody's ever come out. It's never landed. Just sits up there... Watching us."

"Aliens?"

"Aliens are supposed to live underground, Bryce. Not in the sky."

A silence passed between them, where they both dwelled on their own existences, thought their own thoughts but didn't speak them.

Then Bryce said: "Think about it, man, You've got ten hot dogs in a pack, and yet you only get eight buns, dude. Who do they think they're fooling, yo?"

Al ignored that.

"Yo, fuck-boys," a voice said from behind. They spun around, taken by surprise. One of the gang members was there. Scars all over his white face. Missing teeth. He had a gun. "Having a little heart-to-heart? Or should I say dick-to-ass?"

"Haw-haw!" They spun around again and saw another guy with a gun. This one was microcephalic and Asian-looking. His head looked like a baby's on top of his adult-sized body, the forehead practically microscopic. Eyes swollen and facing opposite directions. He tilted his head to the side when he laughed. His profile showed off just how pinheaded he was.

"Shut up!" shouted a third guy who'd entered the picture. This one was black. He smacked Baby-Face and sent him spilling to the ground. Baby-Face's gun went clattering off to the side.

"Hey, Shithead," the first guy was saying, "stop fucking up our own men."

"Sorry, Topher," Shithead said bashfully, kicking pebbles on the ground.

Topher grabbed Bryce by the scruff of the neck and threw him to stonework below. He saw Al press a button on his mobile device. Was he alerting Computer?

Unfortunately, Topher also saw what Al was doing and knocked the mobile device from his hands. "No fucking calls!" He aimed his pistol at the phone and blew it to smithereens, shrapnel going flying. One of the bits of debris took out a solar panel—the affected light went dark. "Now, shitbirds, I believe I saw you two dildos give us the stink-eye in your fancy fucking car. Shithead, did I see them give us the stink-eye?"

Shithead nodded violently.

"Baby-Face, did I see them give us the stink-eye?"

"Haw-haw!" Baby-Face replied.

Topher dragged Bryce over to Al's side and booted them both in the gut. They went keeling over, gasping for air.

Bryce felt the barrel of the gun press into his temple. Then it dug into his ear, twisting and turning to dig in deeper. Cold metal. Just one twitch of the finger and it was all over. His brains would be splattered across the ground, on Al's face.

"Now, tell me, fuck-boy, why I was wrong about you giving me the stink-eye. I'll make this real easy for you. I can be convinced." Topher unbuckled his belt and started unzipping his fly. "Watch and learn, ugly," he said to Al, "because you're next up to bat."


(III)

BRYCE'S apartment building was a shit-sty. Jay-Zee had been there before, and every step was an exercise in avoiding having your clothes dirtied, your shoes sullied and your self-respect tarnished. He heard people shouting inside their rooms, loud enough to get through the closed doors. And then there were the arguments that extended out into the hallways themselves.

Not cool. Jay-Zee was glad he was sufficiently baked, or else this would have been a real trip for the mind. At least the greenery numbed all that other crap out a bit. Gave him a safe little corner just for himself, where no man or devil incarnate could touch him.

He found Bryce's room on the second floor. He knocked. Waited. No answer.

"B-Money? What up, dawg? It's Jay-Zeezus."

No response. He gave the doorknob a twist. It was unlocked.

He pushed open the door, fearful of what horrors he might see inside.


6

TOPHER'S dick was like a baseball bat, which made his little joke to Al all the more revolting. He watched as the prick's engorged prick slapped against the side of Bryce's face, trying to get into his buddy's mouth, strings of semen stuck to his cheeks. Toying with him. Bryce was doing everything in his power to avoid blowing Topher, even potentially at the cost of his own life.

Al hoped help arrived soon. Until then, he needed to buy his buddy some time.

Baby-Face was supposed to be on lookout, but he just seemed to be finding blood-tinged green-yellow snacks up in his nose to munch on.

"Leave him alone, faggot," Al said. Shithead was guarding him, and he felt the guy's gun dig into his own skull.

"What did you say?" Topher asked him, turning his drooling weapon Al's way now. "Because I thought I heard you say, 'I'd like to blow you first, Lord Topher.' Is that what you said?"

Al kept quiet.

"Is that what you fucking said? Shithead, did you hear him say that?"

"Yup."

"Baby-Face, did you hear him say that?"

"Haw-haw!"

"Then we're all in agreement. It's your lucky day, friend! Good thing I like my blowjob-units with black hair. Feels more exotic that way."

Bryce grimaced as he watched Topher now force himself on Al, who was putting up the same kind of fight he was, even going so far as to slap the monstrous appendage. Sadly, that only seemed to make Topher more aroused, if appearances were anything to go by.

"Yeah, spank that shit. But not too hard! Or else it's gonna go everywhere early. And then I'll be really mad."

BLAM.

Baby-Face dropped forwards, lifeless, the back of his head looking like a bowl of mushed-up strawberries.

"What the f—!?" Topher screamed, wheeling around to see who—or what—had fired the gun. He struggled with his own gun, as his focus seemed to be on getting his baseball bat back into his pants.

Shithead was crying beside Baby-Face's exploded head.

BLAM.

That shot took him in the chest, blowing a chunk of bloody flesh out his back, and sent him sliding backwards a few feet. He slumped back, hitting his head on the stone ground. Dead.

The scent of gunpowder was in the air.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit!" Topher waved his gun around. "Alright, fuck-nose. Get the hell out here, you piece of shit! You killed Baby-Face and Shithead! Baby-Face would've been some greaseball's screw-toy if it weren't for me! He was an innocent kid! And Shithead only wanted to be like me, lord of these lands! So come on out, fuck, or I'll blow these two queers to pieces!"

A cop-bot walked out from behind a solar tree, chrome pistol still smoking. It fired again.

BLAM.

Topher's left arm—the one whose hand held the gun—was ripped off by the shot. He screamed in pain and reflexively grabbed his now-bleeding stump, howling out about how much it hurt. He sat down beside his severed arm and tried to stop the blood from flowing.

Al laughed, picked himself up, wiping his face. "You got my message, Quentin?"

The cop-bot, Quentin, nodded. Blew away the smoke pouring out the barrel of its gun. "I most certainly did, Albert Milton, Jr. And based off the situation I stepped into, it appears as though I came in the nick of time."

"You can get up, Bryce. We're safe now."

"Wait, this guy's a robot, too?" Bryce asked, standing up. He wiped his own face with his shirt. "But he talks like one of us, man!"

"I am a higher-ranking Mobile Police android," Quentin said. "We are given the luxuries of advanced speech and greater levels of autonomy." It came over to Topher, who was now quite pale and shivering. "Shall I blast this human trash into the Sun?"

"No," Bryce found himself saying, much to his own surprise. Al looked at him, eyebrow cocked up. "I'd appreciate it if you could let me, dude."

Al took out his butter knife and a jar of peanut butter from his front pocket. "Care to use this?"

Bryce accepted the tools of Al's trade. He unscrewed the lid from the jar, tossed it aside. With the knife, he scooped out a helping of peanut butter, then advanced on Topher. The asshole backed away, or tried to, anyway. He seemed to be getting damn close to a state of shock. Bryce set the jar of peanut butter down next to him and pulled down Topher's lower jaw. He shoved the peanut butter into Topher's mouth, getting it in deep, right to the back of the throat, piercing skin. Topher lacked the strength to fight back, just a weak lifting of his remaining arm—it dropped back down instantly.

When Bryce was done killing Topher, Al admired the work. Blood mixed with saliva and warm peanut butter, ran down Topher's chin. "Looks like The Prophet was right."

"Hmm?"

"The Prophet said you'd become my apprentice, Bryce. Looks like he was right."

"Who's 'The Prophet'?"

"I could tell you about him, but I think it's better that you meet him for yourself." He took out another mobile device, identical to the one that'd been destroyed, pushed the button and said, "Computer. Need a pickup." Then he pushed the button again. "Prophet? It's Albert."

Bryce went over and looked at the screen. A man in a tan trenchcoat was visible. He seemed to be sitting at a table with the wall behind him. The hood on his jacket was up. His face was shrouded with a mass of black shadow.

"You were right about Bryce," Al continued. "He did what you said he'd do."

A gravelly voice answered: "Of course he did, Albert. Hello, Mr. Donahue. Pleased to finally meet you. You can call me The Prophet. We'll talk more at the Doker's Point Henry's. I'll be waiting. May the prophecies guide you." He disconnected.

"That was some trippy shit," Bryce said as Computer pulled up with the car.

"He told me you were coming," Al told him while they got in. "Quentin, you mind cleaning up?"

Quentin the android nodded. "Always a pleasure, Albert Milton, Jr."

"Take us to the nearby Henry's, Computer."

"Certainly, Master."


(IV)

HE saw nothing. Just an empty apartment in dire straits. A fridge without a door. A toilet right beside that, cut right down the middle with hardened shit all on the inside of the bowl. Clothes scattered around the mattress on the ground.

Jay-Zee realized then what bad shape Bryce had been in. It was disgusting, to be perfectly honest. He wouldn't have been surprised to see cockroaches go scuttling from corner to corner. Or a dead hooker to be lying behind the bed. "Bryce? You in here, dawg?"

Nothing, just as he'd been expecting. B-Money was gone. No word as to where or why. He checked around for a note, something that might give him an idea as to what had happened to his friend—but when he was certain no note would be found, he made to leave.

That's when he saw the microwave door hanging wide open.

He looked inside and nearly puked. It was only because of the weed that he hadn't.

Within the microwave, partially wrapped in tinfoil, was a human brain.

Still smoking, too.


7

HENRY'S Peanut Butter Sandwich Shop—Henry's, for short—was a fast-food franchise in Peburia. There was at least one store in every province on the Peburian mainland, and also one in most of the provinces down south, on the Isle of Ý. Peburians loved their peanut butter, evidently, which made sense—peanut butter readily flowed from the ground. It was like Italians with their tomato sauce. Jamaicans with their ganja,

Henry Milton—the founder of the franchise—was Al's grandfather, interestingly enough. There were pictures of him on the walls of each establishment, grinning wide for the camera, his cheeks always thickly covered with bristles of reddish-brown stubble.

Bryce and Al sat in a corner booth. The TV in the place was set to Channel 3 News, where the anchorman Dale E. Newstory informed viewers of the recent Peanut Butter Bandit killings. He said there were no leads yet, though Mobile Police were working the case and were certain something would come up soon. Bryce had to smirk at that.

After their introductions, The Prophet had gone to the bathroom to "freshen up." He was an interesting dude and, no matter which way the light was hitting him, his face somehow never seemed to lose its mask of shadow. He came out of the bathroom and sat back down opposite Al and Bryce. Though there were others in the restaurant with them, nobody appeared to notice The Prophet.

"So, where were we, you two?" he said to them. "Enjoy your sandwiches?" Only a few crumbs remained on Bryce's plate. On Al's, there were a couple strips of crust. The Prophet's sandwich was left untouched. "You can have mine, if either of you like. A thoughtful gesture, getting me one, but I need not eat."

Bryce grabbed for it, started devouring it. Peanut butter and mango jam. Mmm.

"Now, Bryce, you may think it was a random coincidence that you arrived here within our world. I can assure you, it was anything but. You have a purpose here, in this world, alongside Albert. The agents of Glasomil conspire against this planet and its people, they seek to poison its wellspring of life, of freedom. It may appear they are winning. And perhaps they are. For now. One thing you should know: Albert is not a serial killer, he is a contract killer. And I have been his employer for some time now. And I would like to employ you, too. Do you accept?"

Licking his fingers, Bryce said, "Got nothin' better to do, man."

The Prophet chuckled at that. "Excellent. I knew you would accept. You'll work alongside Albert. Albert, you should allow Bryce to train in your VR unit, help perfect his skills."

Al nodded.

"Which leads me to my job for you two. Albert, you and I have been working towards this goal for a few good years now, haven't we?

"What is our mission, Prophet?" Al asked, hanging on to every word the man spoke.

"I want you two to kill The Leader Of The World."

Bryce snorted. "Can that be done, man?"

"It can, but it will take time and great care. You will need to train yourself, Bryce. And we will take this one step at a time. One head at a time, perhaps. For you may know, Albert, that The Leader Of The World surrounds himself with able-bodied men, men who are quite capable of taking lives to achieve the goals of their glorious Leader. Some may do it through surreptitious means, via matters of faith or through a supply of drugs; while others may instead achieve those goals in a more brazen manner. Prepare yourselves, you two. I will be in touch when the time is right. May the prophecies guide you."

The Prophet left the restaurant like a phantom, silently and unnoticed by all except those aware of him.

"Pretty trippy shit," Bryce said.

Al nodded. "You ready for this?"

"Not sure, but I kinda think this is my destiny, dude."

"You'll need a name for yourself. An alias, like me."

With peanut butter and jam sandwiches in mind, Bryce grinned. "How about... 'The Jelly Jackal.'"

Laughing, Al said, "I like it. The Peanut Butter Bandit, and his sidekick the Jelly Jackal."

"Wait— Sidekick?"

"Come on. Computer can drive us back to my mansion. We'll start your training."

Getting up and exiting the shop with Al, Bryce asked, "You have a mansion?"