Eat'em Page 3

  “Are you a philosopher, Jacob?” Isaac took a seat, tossing his coat tails to either side, and opened the paper. “There are some great philosophy classes if you are into that kind of thing. They talk about how different people view the world. Some see us all as part, as one with the universe, whatever, all kinds of stuff. I find it fascinating. So many people with different points of view, different perspectives of the same events. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to see life through all of these different viewpoints. The world is becoming more connected all around us. It almost seems as if this should be the natural order of things. Together we can achieve much more than as individuals.”

  “Nut job!” Eat’em blurted. “Can we visit the soda fountain?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “No?” Isaac lifted an eyebrow and again grinned like a whale eating krill. “I didn’t mean that as a question. I definitely am not trying to start an argument.”

  I sat. “I just have to disagree with your philosophy. There’s value in individuality. Historically, individualism has had some of the greatest contributions to cultural growth, right? I mean, our foundation is built by those who’ve denied societal constraints. Darwin, Edison, Jobs, Van Gogh…”

  “Aren’t you two perfect for each other,” Valentine scoffed as he found a seat and ogled a group of passing girls.

  “Merely men!” Isaac ignored Val, “And men are like cells. We’re part of the bigger picture. The arm doesn’t mourn when a cell dies. It just makes more cells. Yours is an interesting perspective, though. You should take philosophy. I think you might change your point of view. You’re a smart kid…”

  “A regular John Forbes Nash,” Val said.

  A ripple of excitement rushed through Isaac’s face. “I like you guys. We should carry on this conversation again sometime after you’ve both taken a few classes. Maybe then you could teach me a thing or two. What kind of girls you like?”

  “I don’t know,” I said at the same time Val answered, “What kind of girls don’t I like?”

  Dating would be impossible with Eat’em lingering. Even before Val finished the question, Eat’em belched and chirped, “Girls suck!”

  “Well, find out and get back to me,” he smiled. “I’m glad y’all moved in next door. You know how it is; us geniuses get all lost in our heads and get bored. Need other geniuses around to keep things interesting.”

  “Don’t be his friend, Jacob,” Eat’em pleaded as he leapt from atop my head onto the table. He stood between us, trying to block my view. “I don’t like him. He’s smelly? Check. He likes girls? Check. He has big boring conversations? Triple check! Yes? Yes! And he smells. I don’t want you to be his friend… please? Please, please!”

  “Sure,” I said. “Geniuses stick together, I guess.”

  “No!” Eat’em yelled. “You fool! This is the beginning of the end! Put me in a box and ship me to wherever this isn’t, because this sucks, yes. SUCKS!”

  Isaac’s teeth glinted in the dull light of the dining facility. “Good, man, now what do you got? What’s your first class? I’ll help you find it.”

  Chapter 5

  MASS MURDERER’S IMAGINARY MENAGERIE. That’s the headline that accompanies my reveal of the Grotesque Infection during my trial. The catchy title does a good job of making me out to look like a lunatic. The article itself is farce. The journalist, David House, wrote it as if I am suggesting a microbial alien invasion of fungus people landed in my backyard. It reads like a smug movie review. He even compares my defense to an M. Night Shyamalan film.

  The jury is expected to remain impartial and not be swayed by the media. But the week after “MASS MURDERER’S IMAGINARY MENAGERIE” made the front page of the Star-Telegram the prosecution compares my every word to quotes from various silver screen killers.

  Standing trial sucks. It’s long and pointless and entirely unfair. I didn’t get to go home and rest between court hearings. Which would make sense since I’m allegedly innocent until proven guilty. At Mike’s suggestion, I explain everything to the jury except for Eat’em. They look at me as if I suggest I should be allowed into their houses at night to exterminate their children. My throat tightens and I stammer on, “The Grotesque Infection isn’t caused by trees or plants or funguses or whatever. It’s a bacteria or virus perhaps um… a little help?”

  Eat’em paces on the desk in front of me, the lawyer I wish I had. He points at the jury with his tail and declares, “Grotesques belong to a phylum of the animalia kingdom known as Platyhelminthes. Some of the parasites in this…”

  “Parasites!” I shout, cutting Eat’em off. “They’re more like parasites.”

  “Parasites,” District Attorney Dale Gomes leans back against the partition that separates the stand from an inappropriately sized audience of people with whacked ideas for entertainment. Some of them are students of law, or journalists. There are a few witnesses and some mourning family members I can’t bear to watch. Lt. Hershel Thibodeaux Bellecroix holds his head in his hands at the back of the auditorium. He’s sitting with a few other cops I don’t recognize. Gomes looks at a clipboard and reads from it as if he’s quoting me. He isn’t. “Fungus, bacteria, viruses. You’re so certain that this sickness needs to be eradicated; yet you’re absolutely uncertain as to what it is. What makes you an expert on disease control?”

  It can’t be much more than sixty-five degrees in the courtroom and my shirt is all but soaked through with sweat. I want to scratch my face, but if I remember correctly, that’s an admission of guilt. Maybe I saw that on a cop show, I don’t recall. Still, I resist the urge.

  “Doctors,” the DA continues, “don’t seem to share your opinion on the existence of Grotesques. None of your victims tested positive for anything. The only thing that seems to coincide with your story is other stories. Fiction, Mr. Brook. Movies. Video games.”

  “Objection!” Eat’em jumps onto the pulpit. “Objection, yes! I call mistrial. Leading the witness. This jury bores me! Jacob, come on, let’s go… just plead guilty already!”

  My little red lawyer doesn’t quite understand what is at stake. Mike looks more interested in my answers than he does in defending me. I take a deep breath. “My life is at stake here. You want people to assume I’m a liar because of comparisons you’ve made to some bad zombie movie? Like They Live or World War Z or Last of Us? Well, clearly you stole your life from To Kill a Mockingbird and we can all assume you’re full of shit too then, right?”

  Judge Brentt, a string bean looking guy who ducks under doorways and walks with a giraffe’s gait, likes to remind me I can be held in contempt of court. My outburst brings the courtroom to chatter, which the Honorable Brentt breaks up with a gavel. It plays out like a scene from Law and Order with the exception of the little demon humping the air and pumping his arm with an exuberant, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  The commotion dies down and I gather my thoughts. These eyes of ridicule, looming over me like hungry vultures. I’ve been through too much to die without them knowing. I search my soul for the perfect words to help them understand, but I come up empty.

  Eat’em grows restless. He paces up and down the aisle going through purses and testing the gum stuck to the bottom of chairs for freshness.

  What makes me an expert on disease control… My mind returns to the question that was asked.

  “I don’t claim to be an expert on disease control. All I can say is that whatever actions I may have taken were based on what I thought in the best interest of safety of others.”

  “Do you care to elaborate Mr. Brook?” Gomes is setting me up. He knows I have not thought this response through. We are boxers in a ring and he has me on the ropes, waiting for that wild haymaker so he can counter and put me down for the count.

  “The ‘victims’ as you are calling them… I have come into contact with several of them, there is evidence of that. These people were infected. The infection makes them violent and dangerous, striking out at others, infecting others. If igno
red, we’re all at risk. These people…”

  “People!” Gomes cuts me off. “That is an interesting choice of words Mr. Brook. Because that is exactly what you are on trial for. Killing people.”

  “They were people,” I continue, “but once infected they are different. They are dangerous…”

  “None of the people you’ve killed were expressing any kind of violence, though,” Gomes raises both brows. “Is that not the case?”

  Bellecroix turns his head away at this. He fidgets in his pew. I know he can feel my eyes on him, but he refuses to look up. He knows this accusation is bullshit. People are only violent until they die… then they’re only missed. Someone could be a sociopathic jerk, liked by no one, but in death, they’re tragic heroes. Nothing prevents people from mourning the lost except for the outcome of a “fair trial.”

  I shake my head and plead toward the jury. Eat’em nods back and forth from the jury to the judge, a lawyer through and through. “No,” I say. “That’s not the case. They know that’s not the case. Officer,” I shout to deaf ears, “Lt. Bellecroix! Tell them that’s not the case!”

  “If this infection spreads through bite,” Gomes says, “Why don’t the victims show bite marks? No such indications showed up in the coroners report.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The infected seemed to hea..” I stop myself mid-sentence as Mike gives me a cautionary glare. He is not ready for all the information to be thrown on the table or he doesn’t want it coming from me. It would be stronger coming from someone else. I change direction. “My intention was never to kill people, my intent is to protect us from a parasite."

  “You are not on trial for killing parasites, Jacob.”

  “I know, but…”

  “You are on trial for killing people,” Gomes raises an eyebrow and discretely cracks his knuckles one at a time – a challenge - implying nothing I say matters. Mike stares blankly.

  “You understand the concept of burden of proof, Jacob?” Gomes rattles me with each word. Not only does he make me look the fool, he gives me a lesson in law while he does it. The burden of proof should be on him. He’s the accuser. But I’m not on trial for what I’ve done, rather why I’ve done it. And his telling expression says it all. No excuse appeases my actions in their minds. “Nothing suggests any real threat to humanity. Nothing suggests anyone you killed was a risk to anyone at all.” He lies. “Nothing suggests you’re anything more than a common murderer.”

  “…but,” I said.

  “But nothing, Jacob,” the only objection he gets comes from Eat’em. He lectures and berates me while the circus watches intently. “This morning we were presented with autopsy reports of several of your victims. Nothing lives in them. Nothing controls them or eats their brains. No parasites. No bite marks. Why should we continue to believe you when these reputable sources have shown there’s no such thing as the Grotesque infection.”

  “Continue to believe me?” I belt out, “When did you believe me? Hardly anyone believes me. How can I prove to you what you can’t understand?” I am no prophet, but I can relate to the plight. Still have to try… “I can’t explain it, but I see things others can’t. I can see the infection. Dilated pupils, quickened pulse…”

  “Am I infected Mr Brook? Maybe I’ve been sitting in a dark room watching scary movies…” Gomes continues to mock me.

  “No… That’s not how it works. It’s not that obvious. Listen, in this courtroom I cannot show you an infected if there are none here, but I can show you my ability. I can tell who in this room failed to wash their hands just by looking at them. And I can do that sitting right where I am. They just have to hold their hands up. You only want to believe what you can see, but I’m asking you to try to understand what I can see. I can do things that nobody in this room can do. I’ll prove it to you and then decide if you choose to deny me. But it will be because you don’t want to believe me. Is it too much of a stretch for you to think you don’t know everything?”

  I look out at the sea of faces. I’ve lost them with my incoherent rambling. They fear me. They think I’m a danger to their families. To them.

  “Alright… Tell me, Jacob, have I washed my hands today?” Gomes holds up his hands briefly but continues before I can answer… “I fail to understand how the ability to assess a person’s hygiene leads to the right to take a life.”

  Chapter 6

  I sat in on a philosophy course instructed by Dr. Reeder. It surprised me nobody noticed I didn’t answer during role call. Dr. Reeder didn’t seem to care. Perhaps since he figured we paid out of pocket to be there, it made no difference if we were taking his class or not. Still, I welcomed anonymity.

  Technically, I should have been in math, but five minutes in the class bored me out of mind. All I needed to do was show up for tests and have Eat’em read off the answers while I filled in the blanks. My teachers in high school thought my grades were a reflection of hard work, when truthfully I couldn’t get through basic arithmetic on my own. I decided a better use of my time was to follow Isaac’s advice. Philosophy surely couldn’t be worse than redundant equations.

  Dr. Reeder was a goateed man with blond hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a black dress shirt and a brown leather jacket. His mannerisms seemed to reflect the behaviors of my invisible demonic buddy, from his inexplicable excitement for barely interesting subjects, to the constant affirmation he asked at the end of each sentence.

  A direct conversation between Dr. Reeder and Eat’em would sound something like: “Critical thinking is good, yes?” “Yes.” “Yes, yes?” “Yes, good, yes, yes, yes.” Ad infinitum.

  Eat’em sat on the edge of my desk, leaning far forward. The thick quills down his back laid flat and his large pointed ears perked up with every word from Dr. Reeder’s mouth. Every so often he’d turn around, smile, and nod.

  “Excuse me?” a shorthaired brunette with purple highlights pressed her hand to my shoulder. She sat directly behind me and I had to strain my neck to see her. The brunette’s natural bronzed skin might have been more beautiful if her makeup weren’t a couple shades too light. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

  “Dr. Reeder?” the question sounded stupider with the addition of the crack in my voice. Her face mesmerized me, in spite of being makeup heavy. She must have been half Asian… maybe Japanese. A good mix none-the-less, with striking features that lacked symmetry. “Yeah,” I continued, “Well, no… not really. Honestly, he lost me the third time he said, ‘yes’.”

  “Me too,” her cheeks blushed beneath the pale makeup. “I don’t think I’m going to pass this class. If it’s anything like this, anyway. I’ve heard his tests are impossible.”

  “I think you’ll be fine,” I turned to Dr. Reeder, whom paid us no attention. Whatever he talked about had him in another world. I probably could have flipped the desk without being noticed. “But, if you’re worried about it, maybe I can help you. I’m pretty good at this stuff.”

  “Philosophy?” she asked.

  “School in general,” I said. “But yeah, philosophy too, I guess. We’ll see.”

  She nodded and finally took her hand off my shoulder. “I’m glad someone is. What’s your name?”

  “Jacob.”

  “I like your contacts, Jacob,” Instead of correcting her, I decided to simply say thanks. She touched her hand to her chest, where a tattoo of a black orchid seemed to grow from her fingertips. “My name’s Dixie.”

  In addition to wearing too much makeup, she wore more perfume than she needed to. A strong scent of ocean mist wafted past my nostrils.

  Dixie expended a lot of effort for attractiveness where none needed to be extended at all. She radiated natural beauty and covered it with distracting accessories and an overpowering smell. Part of her uniqueness spurned from a creative spirit, but something told me she hid a deeper secret beneath her bleached cheeks than just a pretty face.

  Dr. Reeder lectured on, channeling the ever-attentive demon, and I
might have given philosophy a pass, except for the intoxicating aroma behind me, which I suddenly felt entangled with. The cool breeze from a rattling air condition unit brought me to a tropical beach with just a hint of Texas Dixie. I felt compelled to learn a bit more about philosophy than I cared to before.

  Eat’em curled his legs up beneath himself, sitting on my abdomen as he clung to the side of my shirt. He bounced joyfully with my every step as I searched the campus for Isaac, Valentine and then hopefully our ride home.

  “Gottfried Wilhelm von Leibniz said all of everything is monads, yes!” Eat’em pushed off my chest, digging his dexterous toes into my beltline. “Leibniz said monads don’t die and we’re monads so we don’t die! Yes. Also monads are un-interacting Leibniz said, so I’m a monad and I’m un-interacting. You’re a monad too, but by the miracle of a pre-ordained harmony, you’re programmed by a different set of instructions governing your eternal Self! Communication between any two things first starts with the connectivity of monads as a reflection of the whole universe.”

  I imagined the Infinite Ocean and short, scissor-cut purple hair.

  “See,” Eat’em threw a sweeping gesture to a hallway of people paying no mind to the crimson-eyed eighteen-year-old and his even redder quill-covered companion, “they’re all monads, floating in empty space, yes! Your monads and my Monads, they’ve met, so we met, yes! It all makes perfect since. My Monads met the Monads of the Pepto-Bismol and your Monads already met the Pepto-Bismol so then my Monads, your Monads, and the Pepto-Bismol’s Monads make us all the same person!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I found myself blindly strolling the middle of the campus, and half-listening to Eat’em regurgitate his version of the lecture we’d just sat through. A more pressing matter grew at the pit of my stomach as it became urgent I find a bathroom.