Shut Up And Listen 239

I should have known that I wouldn't be dead for that long. The rate that technology advances these days, combined with the fact that my mother is obscenely wealthy meant that within two years of being killed on Mars, I was back above Black Earth having the time of my life.

It's at my rebirthday (January 3, 2005) party that I meet the Siamese quintuplets (or is it conjoined quintuplets these days?) and soon thereafter, I'm on my way back to Mars. Wasn't exactly my idea of a fun time, but hey, I was drunk, stoned, high, wasted, blitzed, totalled, and about three other things, so I wasn't thinking at one hundred percent when they said get in the car.

Led, one of the quints, gives me a bottle of beer on the flight over, laughing about some off-colour joke his sister Nico had just told. "You (laugh) gotta (laugh) try this (laugh) stuff, man. It's (laugh) so great!"

It tastes kind of like Coke, but with alcohol. All I think about while drinking down bottles of the stuff was why had it taken Coca Cola so long to produce alcoholic Coke? Oh, the advances that happened while I was away.

I can barely hear myself think, but I have the best conversation with Zeppelin, the third quint. I don't know if Zeppelin was a guy or girl. Does that matter? It delivers the good news that the Americhristians had been defeated in war around six months after their assault on Mars. That just about makes my day. Why hadn't my mom told me that when I was reborn?

Halfway through the trip, I realise exactly where we are going and begin freaking out. Would you want to return to the place you died? No, you'd want to stay as far away as possible. The quints don't seem to care, because all of them except for Misty have passed out. He is awake only because he's driving the specialised hovercar. He has the stereo turned up insanely loud and that just increases my feelings of unpleasantness.

I'm coming down.

"Say, brother," I say quickly and nervously, "Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, oh god why are we going to Mars?"

Misty flashes that metal-toothed grin of his and says, "Because we've been hired to kill you, man and we think it would be funny to kill you where you died."

The words from the "you're leaving Earth" sign come back to haunt me: in space, no one can hear you scream. Not that that stops me.

The last thing I remember is screaming and then seeing a flash of something heading for my face.

I awaken in the same place I had before. Same doctor, same mom, same nurse. I manage to croak out, "What happened?"

The doctor looks at me with disgust, as does my mom. The nurse seems to be checking me out, but she's not hot. The doctor sighs and says, "You were killed again. On Mars. Again."

The memories suddenly come back. How could such nice Siamese quintuplets also be hired assassins? That was just rude. A feeling of intense melancholy overwhelms me suddenly as I realise that I have been killed twice. Dead twice.

But I laugh and say, "LOL!" to the doctor, my mom and the nurse.

My mom frowns and says sternly, "This is not a laughing matter, Yahweh."

The doctor nods, "Your mother is right."

I stare at them blankly. "Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, oh god why is this not a laughing matter?"

My mom somehow frowns more. The doctor sighs again. The nurse . . . how did that button get undone without me seeing?

They go on to explain something about responsibility, the shock to my system, blah, blah, blah, blah, tell it to the back of my head.

As I step out of the hospital (is that what the call it?), I run right into Crunge, one of the quints, but all by himself. He grins at me as he shifts the golden toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other.

In a low voice, I ask, "Crunge . . . where are your siblings?"

He stares at me like I'm insane and rudely asks where I got the idea that they were siblings. Where did I get that idea?

"Yahweh," he says putting his arm around my shoulder, "I would just like to apologise for that whole killing thing. It wasn't my idea and I wasn't even conscious when it happened. It was really all Misty and Zeppelin. Those two, those two are insane. Insane in the membrane. You ken?"

"I what?" What is he saying? I Mr. Barbie? What?

"You understand, my man? Good. Good."

Why is it good? I . . .

Wake up in a white room. Kind of like my apartment, but no giant screen on the wall. How can this person live without TV?

"How can you live without TV?" I scream instantly and jump to my feet, assuming a karate stance. "I will defend myself to you non-TV-watching freaks!"

I stand like that for a brief moment and then relax. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.

It feels like an eternity of nothing. Me in the white room alone with nothing. Nothing. No TV, no curtains, no chair, no computer, no beautiful women, no drugs, no booze, no nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

How can a man survive with nothing? It has been minutes and I am beginning to crack. I have discussions with past loves, my father, and many, many bugs.

Were they real or not there?

"Oh, they were real," a voice says. A voice that I know. I turn and there's Zeppelin. "This is a holoprojection room or something like that. We were just messing with you."

"Ell oh ell," I say slowly. We are not amused. "We are not amused. What's going on?"

He pulls out a gun then and I awake with the doctor, my mom and the nurse again.

"Before you say anything," I interject before there is something to interject into, "this isn't my fault. I swear. Someone wants me dead."

The doctor turns to my mom and says, "Paranoia. What is your son taking, Mrs. Stone?"

My mom tilts her head. "I don't know anymore. Can I just have him committed and save me all of this time, effort, and above all else: money?"

I stand up and look her in the eyes. "No. We won't be doing that, mom. What we need is protection from the quintuplet assassins is what we need."

Why does she look at me like that? "Yahweh, Yahweh, Yahweh . . . you need help. You keep dying on me." There is almost concern in her face.

"I'll see what I can do about that." Then I leave.

On the sidewalk, I'm stuck behind one of those people who don't walk, but instead allow the conveyor belt ground move them along. My mind tells me to throw them over the edge and see how they like Black Earth for standing still. Above me, there's the constant hum of hovercars. I pass the old lady (they're always old ladies or teenage girls it seems) and begin running.

Do I still have my apartment? What day is it?

I stop at Booze & Women for a little drink. The place is mad. The dance floors are all full and at all angles. The music is so loud my thoughts dissipate before they form. But, the liquor is good.

I run into an old friend, Leonardo. He doesn't have his piercings anymore for some reason and tries to ignore me.

"What's up, man? What. Is. Up?" I shout.

He just shakes his head and pushes past. Just pushes past me, almost spilling my drink. What's his problem?

And I'm home. Don't quite know how I got here, but here I am. I'm alone, which is unusual for me after a trip to Booze & Women. How does one go there and only receive the former? It's like false advertising. I should sue.

I fall down atop the bed that has formed out of the floor and I sleep.

For the first time in years, I wake up without seeing the doctor, my mom, and the nurse. God, that ugly nurse! My mouth tastes like hair. I feel inside and there are no hairs, just the taste of hair. Some drinks have strange aftertastes.

I take note of the surprising lack of vomit.

"Room?" I say weakly.

"Yes, Yahweh?" a voice says.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah . . . what was I saying?"

"I do not know, Yahweh."

"Uh . . ."

And I fall backwards and go back to sleep. God, I love time-delayed booze.

When I wake up this time, the taste of hair is gone and has been replaced by the barrel of a gun.

The gun is removed after I try to speak and when it is, I manage to squeak out, "I really have to use the bathroom, man."

I look up and there is Zeppelin again. He smiles and says, "Just do it." Then he pulls the trigger.

"Oh just leave me dead!" I scream upon waking.

My mom looks visibly shaken by my outburst. The doctor does not.

I jump up and begin screaming at them to just let me die and stay dead. It's the way that I want things.

Is it the way that I want things?

Before leaving, I look the nurse in the face and say, "We have reconstructive surgeons for a reason. There's no reason to be that ugly." She begins to cry before the door shuts.

I see Crunge again as I leave, but this time I don't let him speak. I take the golden toothpick from his teeth and push it towards his throat, yelling "Stay away from me from now on or I'll do it, man! I'll just do it!"

And then I quickly duck and Crunge's head explodes. Behind me, Zeppelin mumbles and obscene word and reloads.

I stand up, spread my arms wide and open my eyes wide. "What? What is your problem? Why, why, why, why, why, why, why, oh god why do you keep trying to kill me?"

Zeppelin points the gun at me and says, "Because when I get paid, I always finish the job."

I smirk and say, "How Angel Eyes of you, now put the gun down before I do some damage to you."

He doesn't, so I just do it and find myself shouting "Your plan went down like a lead zeppelin!" over and over again until he can't hear me anymore.

That means there might still be three assassins out there. Misty for sure, possibly Led and Nico. Are those even their real names? And why aren't they attached anymore? Were they even attached to begin with?

I run down the street until my lungs burn.

Wait. How was I able to do all of that? Is this my actual body? Yahweh Version 4.0 apparently.

I check a screen to find out the date. It takes me twenty-eight minutes to find the news. The date is January 8, 2005.

Yesterday, it was 2003 and today it's 2005. How messed up is that?

I stand outside of my apartment, across the street, waiting. I watch as people come and go, mostly other trust-fund twenty-somethings. It's that kind of country.

What country is my apartment even in now? It might have changed for all I know. My apartment itself could be its own nation. The People's Republic Of Yahweh Stone. Call me Generalissimo. I like that.

I watch and I don't see any of the quints. Maybe I should stop calling them that. Why were they attached? Did they get separated after killing me?

I enter the building warily. Everything is normal. I enter my apartment with caution and everything is as it should be.

"Room?" I ask.

The voice responds, "Yes, Yahweh?"

"Lock the door. Maximum security."

"I am afraid I cannot do that, Yahweh."

My heart skips a beat. "Why is that, room?"

"Because I have been programmed to disarm all security features once you arrive home and I have done so."

"Reactivate them."

"File not found."

"What do you mean `file not found'?"

"Reactivation file not found on server. Please reinstall."

"You have got to be kidding me."

Just then, of course, the door opens and there's Misty, looking pretty annoyed. "Time to die," he grunts.

I move quickly somehow and soon, he is no more. Yahweh Version 4.0 is immortal. I don't even think, I just do. What have they done to me?

"Room?" I pant between breaths.

"Yes, Yahweh?"

"Can you just lock the door please?"

"File not found. Error in--," it croaks out and then the room goes black, except for the light from the still-open door. It's probably best that I am not found in a dark, white (although, now red in spots) room with what's left of Misty, so I leave.

Outside, it is raining, but that does not concern the man who lives above the clouds. I pause for a moment and watch the rain from above.

And just then it hits me: the Americhristians might not be dead. The quints told me they were wiped out, but the quints are assassins and . . . oh god. Oh god!

I begin to run again, not thinking. But in the back of my head I know it's useless. They can find my anywhere above Black Earth because of the cameras everywhere. That's how they've been tracking me, I realise. Those damn cameras come back to haunt me.

It was two years ago and I was bored, so I began looking for pictures of this chick I saw on the street. In the course of that, I realised that since there were cameras everywhere I was always being watched (and my room confirmed that to be true, especially by my broken-hearted ex-girlfriends) and decided to create my own TV show. This lead to drinking, sex, being caught by her boyfriend Saul Paul, an Americhristian, being kidnapped by a Martian anti-freedom fighter, dragged into this whole "fight against independence because Mars sucks and what's left of Earth is better" and eventually killed by Americhristian fighters as they bombed the crap out of Mars. You'd think it would have ended there, but no, not for me. Even after they kill me they want to kill me. My immortal soul existing is blasphemy or something.

I wonder if anyone brought back Virgin Mary or Elixir Sue? Those chicks were crazy. Sexy, kinky, racist, deadly, and, last time I saw them, dead. Virgin May had a thing for me, but I bailed when I found out that she liked to do it with me tied up and the Martian slave girl in the corner watching. I'm freaky, but not that freaky.

I stop running and look at the most obvious camera nearby. I walk up to it and smile. "Come and get me," I say defiantly and then smash it with my fist. The plastic shards cause my hand to bleed and throb with pain. But I feel alive.

I actually feel alive.

Within seconds, Nico approaches me from an alley. She looks distraught. She's wearing a red dress for some reason and . . . it's not Nico.

I grin and say, "Hey, Mary. Thought you were dead."

She walks up to me and kisses me hard, breaks it and then slaps me across the face. "Why would you think that?" she finally says.

I shrug. "Dunno. An assumption, I guess. You the one trying to have me killed? This because I wasn't into your whole tie-me-up-and-make-the-Martian-slaves-watch scene and bailed? I'm sorry, but I'm not that kind of boy."

She smiles and I'm once again reminded of how beautiful she really is. "No, no, I am over your little . . . what would you call that?"

"Rejection?" I offer immediately regretting the word.

"Sure. That is the past."

"Then why are you trying to kill me?"

"Because with Mars pretty much gone, a girl needs to pay the bills somehow and what else does a former freedom fighter do?"

My instinct is to hit her in the face and knock her out before she can try anything. I don't do it.

"Why are you wearing that red dress, Mary?" I ask, looking over her shoulder to see if Led is going to actually point that gun in his hand at me. "And is Led actually going to try and use such a girly gun to kill me?"

She laughs. "Since when are you so perceptive? What happened to the slow, dumb, drunk Yahweh I fell in lust with?"

"Easy come, easy go, baby. Now duck," I say as I push her to the ground and use the gun I took off of Zeppelin to brutally murderer Led.

She looks up at me and I know she likes what she sees, so I give her a stern look and tell her that if she tries anything, she'll end up like her four siblings. This elicits a laugh.

After the sex we talk a little.

"So . . . who hired you guys to kill me over and over again?" I ask, putting my pants on.

She shrugs and does up her bra.

"You don't know?" I ask.

"Why would I care?" Her voice sounds more apathetic than I want it to.

"Because it's your business."

"I just live to get paid. Who does it couldn't interest me less." She actually looks at me before continuing. "What happens is that after we get the contract, the money is transferred into a temporary account that is tied into the obituary lists. If the target dies within the specified time, the money is transferred to our account and if not, it reverts back to the client's. Simple enough for you?"

"So . . . this is just a coincidence?"

She smiles. "Basically."

I feel conversational. Sex always does that to me for some reason. "Do you still go by Virgin Mary or is it Nico now?"

"Nico is my assassin name. Zeppelin suggested it. I don't even know what it means." She looks tired.

"What was with the whole Siamese quintuplet thing?"

She shrugs and lies down. "Zeppelin's idea."

She falls asleep within minutes and I sit there trying to decide whether or not she's still a threat to me. I don't think she is. I don't know why I think that and that's disturbing.

I lie down next to her and try not to . . .

When I wake up, she's still asleep next to me. Thank god I don't have to kill her. I can still taste her. Virgin Mary. Who would have thought I'd see her again? Yahweh and Virgin Mary . . . they just go together, don't they?

I'm sitting at her screen, learning up on what I missed when she wakes up and sneaks up behind me. I'm so engrossed in expanding my mind that I don't hear her until she touches me.

"Jesus!" I nearly jump and restrain myself from responding physically.

"Well good morning to you, too," she yawns and gets herself some coffee.

My attention returns to learning. I'm trying to find any clue as to who would want me dead. The word my mind keeps going back to is Americhristian. I just know that those twisted, backwards freaks are behind my deaths somehow. Not that I can blame them. I mean, I was responsible for one of the biggest security breaches in their history and the deaths of several of their citizens in Heartland Jefferson (or was it Washington?). If they wanted me dead, why didn't they send one of their usual hired guns like the infamous Jetpack Jack?

"Who do you suppose is trying to kill me?" I ask Virgin Mary.

She shrugs and responds, "Who isn't, Yahweh?"

Walking down the street, the digital sounds of Jesus Was A Vulcan ringing in my ears and all my cares melt away. Who cares if people are trying to kill me? I am Yahweh Stone Version 4.0 and I'd like to see them try to succeed in wasting this marvellous piece of technology. I stop in front of a store window and look at my reflection. I don't even look like me, it's strange. The hair is all wrong, the clothes are lame, the height is a bit off, the face is too sullen without enough brooding and my mouth doesn't even taste like it used to. The taste won't go away.

I see a chick checking me out and I tilt my head and smile at her, mouthing "What's up?"

It turns out that we went to high school together and she was the ugly fat girl, but surgeons fixed all of that and she's never felt or looked better. She had a big crush on me, she says. It's all too easy.

Her apartment isn't exactly empty when we get there. A little midget and a guy in a suit are there, but I don't really care. Whatever gets her hot, you know?

"Well, well, well, son. About time you showed your face `round here," the big guy said. "We been lookin' for you."

I break away from her lips long enough to mumble "Oh yeah?" and then return to them, but she breaks from me.

"Sit down, boy," the guy says so I do it, still kind of listening to my digital music player.

"What's the story?" I laugh.

The man tugs at his suit collar and paces around the room speaking slowly. "My name is Reverend Sir, and I am the President Pope of the Americhristians, son."

Suddenly, all I hear are the music and my heart pounding to the beat.

I grin. "What's the point? You guys still sore over that stuff with Saul Paul? If you want, he can hit me or something. Whatever Jesus or the Founding Fathers would want, know what I'm saying, baby?" I wink at the girl, who I'm thinking might not be the ugly fat girl I went to high school with.

Reverend Sir does not smile. "Saul Paul is dead, boy. We done blown him up good."

I laugh and clap my hands once, standing up. "Then we're cool? Lovely to hear. It's been real."

"Sit down before I head butt you in the testicles," the midget says.

I laugh and mention something about tossing him and when he tries to carry through on his threat, I step aside, grab him by the collar and throw him across the room. I turn back to the big guy and point my finger at him, trying to look hard. Because I am hard. I'm über-cool.

"Listen here, man, here's how it's gonna be: you guys are gonna leave me alone and I'm not gonna do the same to you or your hired whore," I spit at him. "Got it?"

So, the man nods, smirks and actually hits me in the face. Yahweh Version 4.0 falls down and hits the floor.

"I'm down . . . I'm in pain . . ." I mumble before losing . . .

up, boy."

Reverend Sir is blurry, but soon comes into focus. I'm still on the floor of the apartment and I feel stupid and sore. The punch I hit him with lifts him off the ground. I jump up and go to work on the Popish Plot President or whatever he called himself. In the back of my head, I keep expecting Virgin Mary to arrive at any second.

The girl is hugging her legs in the corner when I finish and I mouth the words "call me" at her as I leave.

Virgin Mary seems surprised to see me, but I don't care as I need to work off some excess energy the only way I know how. Yahweh Version 4.0 is the ultimate sex bomb. London Paris New York rock and roll.

All over the news there are reports of the death of Reverend Sir and former child porn star Dick Little, both found in the same apartment and the manhunt for Yahweh Stone, main suspect. I change the channel and thrust faster when I come to the lingerie channel.

She doesn't look me in the eye the second time. She seems preoccupied.

"Come out, we have you surrounded!" the voice says, waking me out of my sex coma. Next to me is some women who isn't Virgin Mary and lots of blood. In my right hand is a jagged knife with hardened red and black stuff on it and in my left is a hammer. I am naked and have a reddish tint to me. I drop the object and check my eyes to see if I'm wearing sunglasses or suncontacts. No such luck.

The door explodes inwardly and I notice that I'm in my apartment.

Armoured shapes rush in and there's a lot of noise and when I hear my name, I say something that I think is clever, but results with me getting hit in the face. I restrain myself as the police are good. They protect the innocent from sick people like Yahweh Version 4.0 and they love their jobs.

I shield my face from the cameras even though I know that's useless as there's footage of everything I've done. They show it to me. I know I didn't do most of those things, but it's there on the screen, so I end up believing it. They end up letting me go though, because Yahweh Version 4.0 isn't under their jurisdiction as the legal status of repersons is still under question. I beat the system because I died and came back.

I decide to party at Booze & Women. I use my mom's big credit card to buy the place for the night and throw a huge private party for me and several thousand of my closest friends.

At one moment, I'm dancing and I think I see Virgin Mary making out with the little green man in the corner, but when I look back she's gone.

This ends the party for me and I go to the ÜCP room and have drink with a very famous actor/politician who insists that he isn't who he is. I shrug and wonder why he'd care. His popularity and polls would only go up if seen in the presence of Yahweh Version 4.0, notorious serial killer and sociopath.

I laugh and yell over the music, "Have you seen Virgin Mary?"

He looks at me for a second and then leaves the room. I'm the only über-cool person remaining until she comes into the room.

"Sorry about all of that nastiness," she whispers as she climbs on top of me.

I kiss her neck and respond, "No worries, baby. Whatever gets you hot."

She looks at me and smiles and then stabs me in the heart. She's a kinky one Virgin Mary is.

It's December 10, 2005 and I'm standing atop Booze & Women naked, staring out over whatever city this is I can't remember. The sun is coming up in the east and its light filters through the buildings. Hovercars zoom past. People rush to wherever it is people go in the morning. I can spot thirty-eight cameras filming me. I can see myself on a screen a couple of kilometres away and I smile. Yahweh Version 4.0 is a TV star. I just smile, smoke my cigarette and take in the sights knowing that tomorrow I could be dead and the day after tomorrow I could be alive.

Not that I care.