CHAPTER SIX

 

 

“There is a time to let things happen, and a time to make things happen.” — Hugh Prather

“My name is Legion: for we are many.” — The Gospel of Mark 5:9

 

 

Rows of swaying, stunned bodies stand wilted like corn stalks well past their harvest. Incessant humming fills the building. Almost insectile, but with the harmony of an orchestra’s string section.

The clapperboard reads:

 

Production: Withering Wyldes Infomercial
Director: Garth Childs
Date: 01/28/93

 

A quick snap of commercial-grade solid resin, and then a caption flickers across the viewing screen:

 

*Translated pro bono by dedicated followers of The Institute for the Pursuit of Linguistic Fetishism (IPLF)*

 

Heavily synthesized music seeps from monolithic speakers hooked to each corner of the warehouse, the volume adjusted so it is not disruptive to the filming.

A deceptively elaborate machine clicks, ticks, beeps and bops.

 

Translation Data: We seek your support. Sign below on the dotted line. Do not think this is a selling of desperate souls, that this is signing your life away. Au contraire, mon frère. Small efforts combined with diligent planning bring satisfactory results. Please make a donation. If you can spare it. Any penny helps. Or dollar. Or generous blank personal check made out to the Wylde Preservation Association. We also accept traveler’s cheques, francs, pesos and kronor. Just pass on your donation to any of our friendly representatives. You may—you will—see us wandering the desolate streets. Fighting the good fight. We do not rest. Rest is waste. Rest equals moments lost to the sands of time.

 

Garth Childs pulls away from his viewing screen, removes his headphones, whistles with his tongue behind his teeth and slashes two fingers across his throat. The portly cameraman in front of him ceases filming. The strange speaking halts. Papers containing the translated speech launch from a laser printer. Garth grabs them, scans the text, turns to the man next to him and says, “This is some great stuff. Nobody’s going to bother waiting past two a.m. to watch that old cunt with the turquoise jewelry after they see this. I mean, what’s the point?”

“Well, they are very persuasive,” says the head supervisor of the IPLF—a man known to Garth only as Harris. His voice is slightly muffled behind a fleece balaclava.

“So who’s that scrawny weirdo you’ve got working that thingamajig over there?” Garth asks.

“William Ekkert,” Harris says. “He’s the Institute’s newest intern. A very special boy, youngest we’ve ever taken on. Finished high school two years early. I’ve been very impressed with his work. I gather he’ll go far with this career. I’m almost worried that he’ll be good enough to make my position obsolete. Almost. He has a natural knack for languages. Speaks three fluently, not including, well, whatever it is you’d call that. No one’s been able to come up with an acceptable name for their language yet.”

William Ekkert sits Indian style near the boom operator whose cheap microphone droops like the limb of a heavily weighted citrus tree. William huddles tightly into his own body, as if he wants to invert himself and expose his slight musculature and the slickened sinews surrounding it. He is a captive audience of one, immersed in the obscurity of the words that drift from the ever-stretching reptilian mouths of the Withering Wyldes.

 

Translation Data: We are simultaneously autonomous and amalgamated. We are synergy incarnate. We serve no one.

 

William arbitrarily twists some knobs on the translation machine, adjusts the miniscule wireless microphone clamped to his lapel, attacks some keys on a crude keyboard. The frequencies of the voices in the warehouse are in constant flux. The machine at his fingertips only captures so much. The gears of his ears must take charge and become the technology.

He notices out of the corner of his eye that one of the Withering Wyldes has replaced another in the foreground and has begun to speak, its voice seamlessly blending into the speech from the last one. There is nothing to physically distinguish one from the next and the next and the next, so the first one soon becomes lost in the shifting crowd.

William sneaks a subtle glance at the next one’s crotch. As with every other time William has attempted to check, the genitals are shriveled away and hidden behind a bramble of pubic vines. Deflated balloon breasts dangle from almost all of their frames, so that has never been a helpful indicator of gender either. Some of the other Withering Wyldes prance and bounce in the background, moving in loose oval formations as if playing musical chairs. They continue to hum along to the electronic soundtrack. It is like watching a bastardized, sexless version of that Robert Palmer video William remembers being popular a few years back.

 

Translation Data: Wait. This is incorrect. Information out of date. Please pardon any and all of our discrepancies. The hive is forever changing. Merging. Cross-pollinating. As activists, we often become too busy to keep our records current.

 

“Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Garth says as he reads the printout. “This sounds like they’re deviating from the script. What’s going on over there?”

From the other side of the warehouse a crewmember yells, “There’s a script?”

The cameraman turns to face Garth, shrugs, tries to shove his excess belly back beneath his belt.

“William,” Harris says, motioning to his protégé, “can you please take care of this minor digression?”

“Of course, sir.” William emits bestial, garbled sounds toward one of the Withering Wyldes near the front. Two of them drift next to the boy, lift him gently by his armpits, pull him aside and whisper soft, enigmatic syllables into his ears that send tickles across his bones. The flesh on their torsos is like vellum paper. William can see the outlines of their ribs, but also believes he can see the ribs themselves as well as the organs behind them. “I’ll be back soon,” he says to Harris. “I think they have something private to talk to me about. They seem to trust me.”

“Perfect,” Harris says. “Do try to hurry back.” William offers him a nondescript nod.

 “Okay, everyone. Take five,” Garth says as he waddles to the catering table. He asks the server, “Do you have any of those little cheesy bacon things I like? No? Well, why the hell not?”

The two Withering Wyldes each place a hand at the top of William’s back and guide him across the floor. The slight pressure makes him feel like he is wearing shoulder pads made of toilet paper. He listens closely to their speech and leaves the translation machine behind. He does not need it. It is an operational façade for the dangerously gifted. William understands every subtle nuance, every potential deceit in their altered tongues. The Withering Wyldes seem temporarily lost in their own sorrow, then regain their composure and take turns speaking to him, one voice sometimes switching over to the other mid-sentence.

 

Translation Data: Correction—we no longer serve anyone. Rest in peace, Dr. Dorian Wylde, our dear late king. Let your deceptively wispy ways inspire in the afterlife, oh father of our cause. Your wise man’s beard grows to great lengths in the tomb. Your struggle for the attainment of a supreme modern nirvana will not be in vain.

 

William understands what it is like to lose a father—his own committed suicide two years ago, not long after his mother spiraled into schizophrenic lunacy. He has lived with his aunt ever since.

The Withering Wyldes navigate him through their communal space. The high ceiling is decorated with helium-inflated balloons and party streamers, though William can see no sign of a ladder. They reach the back of the main room, which leads to a pathway protected by crushed-taffeta curtains. The Withering Wyldes pull the curtains back and allow him to enter a hollowed tunnel that does not look like it has any right to belong to the same building. The tunnel curves so he cannot see the other end, but he thinks—hopes—he sees tiny trickles of light in the distance. The texture of the walls within is similar to diagrams William has seen of the inside of a vaginal membrane.

 

Translation Data: We apologize for the doctor’s untimely death. It is our fault. No. It is not our fault. Our attorneys remind us that we had no hand in his passing. We plead the Fifth. Regardless, we feel responsible. Dear Doctor, you merely wished to cure society of its obesity plague. We promise to carry on your vision to the end of time, like a brilliant blue torch on the blackest of nights.

 

William wonders why they have suddenly ventured off on this tangent, referencing their founder in the midst of filming, then realizes—remembers from his research—that today is Dr. Wylde’s birthday. He would have been forty-five.

The tight, esophageal shape of the tunnel brings William to a near claustrophobic state, but is thankfully not as long as it first appeared. It soon opens into a dimly lit cave, and William steps into a private world the camera’s eye is contractually bound to not see.

Dozens of other members of the hive—those not fit for television’s consumption—are curled and woven into one another along the walls, legs to arms and arms to legs like discount tapestry. The insect harmony is more pervasive here. At first glance there appears to be some sort of orgy occurring, but William quickly discards that idea. There are no thrusts, no insertions, no pleasurable moans. The members of the hive concentrate on one another, speaking rapidly and in fresh tongues that even William has yet to master. He realizes the Withering Wyldes have likely escorted him back here in an attempt to convert him. They use kindness as their Kool-Aid. William feels it is a noble attempt, but he is only interested in them for linguistic purposes. He observes the activity in the cave for a few moments longer and changes his opinion again—this is an orgy. An orgy of minds.

The two Withering Wyldes accompanying him offer a rickety chair. He sits and it bows dangerously downward even under his waifish weight. Both of the tall, thin, sentient trees whisper into his ears. His body temporarily locks up. His throat tickles as if he is contracting laryngitis. The Withering Wyldes shove a framed photograph into his lap, the first real aggression they have shown. An image of the late doctor, relative youth forever trapped within the stained wood and smeared glass. His face chiseled like the monoliths at Easter Island, subtle wire-rimmed spectacles, a perfected five o’clock shadow, a creamy white lab coat and pinstripe bow tie.

 

Translation Data: Look. Can you see? Dr. Wylde was fashion forward. Always remember. Never forget. Of course we will never forget. We are he and he is we. The Withering Wyldes. A media-bestowed moniker. A badge we wear with pride.

 

William nods and sets the frame down on a folding table. He murmurs some guttural grunts that almost reach the grace of a primal song. Thank you for sharing this with me. He stands and begins to make his way back to the main warehouse. Before he reaches the tunnel he passes an open pantry stockpiled with pill bottles and a padlocked mini-fridge. He knows leaving so quickly will not offend the Withering Wyldes. They are not much for small talk. They have already joined the others along the wall. Living, breathing hieroglyphs.

Once William arrives back on the set, he finds that the filming has continued without him.

“Where have you been, kid?” Garth asks. “I can’t tell what the hell these freaks are saying.” A sudden hiss tears through the warehouse, a sound like an angry quiver of king cobras.

“Just because you don’t understand them doesn’t mean they don’t understand you,” William says.

“The boy is right,” Harris says. “You might want to be more cautious with your words in the future.”

Garth darts his eyes and adjusts his testicles. “Okay, let’s keep this circus rolling!”

William returns to his machine, to his miming, mimicking act. The remaining Withering Wyldes simmer down and face the camera once more.

 

Translation Data: We feel fat. The world is a greasy tub of lard. America is porcine. Obese. Gargantuan. Butterball. Humanity is Epicurean. We do not wish to follow the gluttonous path, for we are right. Righteous. We seek the higher taste. We prowl the streets. Never sleep. No time for winks, for REM, for crusted, sandy eyes when we have a laudable gospel to spread.

We distribute hand-assembled pamphlets stating our hopes for the universe. Perhaps you have been given a copy by one of our representatives or viewed one pasted to a telephone pole. Thirty percent recycled paper. Biodegradable inks. Environmentally friendly adhesives. The Withering Wyldes are green. Our flesh is a desirable green-grey-blue. We create petitions. We seek to add Witherix to required Daily Food pyramids. No flesh. No filth. No toxins. We start small. We start local. Today, Sweetville. Tomorrow, the People’s Republic of China. No borders. No limits. No excuses.

 

“Hey, Harris,” Garth whispers, “Between you and me, I’ve never been too fond of these creeps. Self-righteous diet crap. I mean, I’m a man who likes a good burger, you know?”

“I don’t doubt that you’re in the majority, Mr. Childs. Sweetville may wear a veil of tolerance, but I’ve had enough direct experience with this city and its denizens to see things with a bit more clarity. It’s unfortunate, but it’s also reality. Why bother choosing to work with them, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Well, the pay is pretty damned nice.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

 

Translation Data: We will settle for nothing less. The future of man relies on our plan. Open your mind, you might successfully view the blinding light.

 

“You know,” Garth says, “this sure is going to be a hell of a lot of text to have crawling across the screen.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harris says. “The Institute employs an excellent voiceover expert. He’ll take care of it.”

“He’s the one who sounds like Bela Lugosi, right?”

“If you say so.”

 

Translation Data: Do not fear us. Do not believe the news fed to you by the television cube. We are not media monsters. We are calm. We are gentle. We are koi fish. We are tall. We are alpine. We are eucalyptus trees. We are thin. We are lithe. We are high-fashion models. We are not weak. We are beautiful.

 

William nods. He agrees, he believes.

 

Translation Data: Do not accept the accusatory hype. We are not a cult. Cults offer false solace. We are the future. We are evolution. Be like us. Be us.

 

A balloon pops somewhere in the warehouse, followed by an animalistic shriek. Both sounds morph into a single echo.

“We can cut that in post-production,” Garth says. “No problemo.”

 

Translation Data: We offer a stable dietary plan free of charge for any new members of the fold. Our plan is suitable for any man, woman, boy, girl, infant, elder—insert preferred identifier here. Abstain from most examples of traditional sustenance. Read our pamphlet for more specific information on what is acceptable and what is not. Subsist almost solely on Dr. Wylde’s miracle drug Witherix. Resist temptation to binge and purge. It will only come back to haunt you later. Follow strict regimens of caloric restriction. Reference our impeccable, infallible charts for proper intake. Weekly fasting offers promise of euphoric mental states. Attend any of our Wednesday meditation meetings if you seek group support. Fly higher than a Rüppell’s griffon vulture and never feel required to stay glued to the ground. It may initially be rough to harness your willpower, but soon you will be sublime. You will be blessed.

 

The Withering Wyldes shift positions again. The one who is now in front wiggles and points a caricature of a finger directly at the camera. Something that resembles a shell of a devious smile molds onto its lips.

 

Translation Data: A message to the devoted pill-poppers: we know you are plentiful. We appreciate you more than we can ever express, for you are our flaxseed bread and non-hydrogenated coconut oil. We recommend avoidance of all forms of Sweet Candy. This drug is equal to heresy. Witherix is to be deified and revered. The only exception to this rule is Witherix Lite. Featuring a hint of aspartame, this version is designed for those with severe allergies to natural sweeteners.

 

William stops pretending to use the machine to translate. He scratches at his upper lip, brushing at the beginnings of a half-hearted mustache. He feels a slight tugging sensation near his temporal lobe.

 

Translation Data: Do not be frightened by our appearance. Witness the feathered wings of an angel estranged from Heaven for the first time, it might be startling as well. But you would eventually grow accustomed to even that. The fantastic becomes mundane. Commonplace. We are peaceful, pacifistic. We teach by example. We are the next natural progression of human existence. Darwin would be in awe. He would take extensive notes. Vast volumes would be written about our perfection and how to mimic it. Someone will write our tale. Perhaps it can be you.

 

William whispers to himself, “Yes, of course, why couldn’t it be me? I’m more than capable. It should be m—” Another jarring jab inside the left of his skull.

 

Translation Data: Do not despair. The Reverse Cocooning Process—hereby referred to as RCP—is harmless. Less restricting than has been reported in the past. No casualties. Not anymore. The process has been perfected. Practice for the eventual act with this popular simulation: bathe your body in warm white glue; make certain you have a long straw to breathe through while your face is submerged; allow glue to dry completely, then peel the tight layers back to reveal fresh, smooth epidermis. It is imperative that this be done slowly. RCP is akin to this experience, only more wonderful and with proven results.

Surface regression becomes human progression. You must abandon the need for traditional fashion, for any learned sense of archaic language. Allow your natural scents and pheromones to lead you to your multitude of mates. It is not noisome, but natural. Aluminum in antiperspirants causes Alzheimer’s. Parabens in toothpaste lead to breast cancer. Our approach is holistic. The body, the mind, the spirit of we. The few function as a collective one. The hive is sacred.

 

William stands up, his fingers massaging his temple. He looks lost, dazed.

Harris offers a token look of concern, but does not lift himself from his chair. He whispers, “Damn.” He has witnessed similar effects on lesser minds and knows his helping hand will be for naught.

 

Translation Data: This does not vary from individual to individual. Idiosyncratic concepts do not exist in our belief structure. We as a whole are one. We are connected. You will never feel alone. Through withering we will persevere. Join us. We promise you will never regret the most important decision of your existence. Welcome to the new world. Welcome to your—

 

William topples to the floor, foam rising from his mouth like volcanic matter.

A sound like a tongue endlessly flapping dominates the room.

“God damn it!” Garth says. “Who the hell forgot to bring the extra film stock?”