R.Scott Bakker - Disciple of the dog

“We’re having a pig roast this Saturday aft, if you’re interested. Everyone’s welcome!”

This was the conversation that marked Molly’s conversion, the moment when she finally grasped the genius behind my kooky MO. Striking up relationships with people is as easy as can be, especially people who harbour a secret loneliness, like Tim or Jill. All you really need is a pretext. Once you’re attached, it’s simply a matter of creeping out along their six degrees of separation.

Like selling life insurance.

Friends, as Sean would say, beget enemies. And that’s what every good case needs.

A bad guy.

“Oh… One last thing, Tim-er, Dutchie. What time does the Kwik-Pik close on Saturdays?”

“Midnight… Why?”

I tapped the pack of Winstons in my cargo pants. “Smoker… You know.”

“Nasty habit,” he said, raising two nicotine-stained fingers in a peace symbol. I called Nolen shortly afterward, around 9 EM.

“Whatare you doing?”he asked after our mutual hellos. He was chewing something, and I could hear a television droning in the background. I saw this image of him and his family hunkered down in their living room, their faces blank and blue, their eyes reflecting some televised atrocity.

“I’m at the library, going through microfilm,” I lied.

“Library? What time is it?”

“I’m in Pittsburgh. Researching the Framers.”

“Oh,” he replied with a shamefaced laugh. “No rest for the wicked, huh? ”

I snuggled back into my pillow, blew a stream of pungent smoke at the idle ceiling fan. “No rest for the wicked.”

I told him about the Morrows’ encounter with Jennifer the night of her disappearance. “My gut tells me there’s probably nothing to worry about, but I got the sense that you were a man who minded his Ps and Qs.”

“That I am,” he said with daft pride. “Thanks for this, Disciple. “

More crunching on his end-chewing. Some people, I’ve noticed, keep their eyes glued on the screen while watching the tube and talking on the phone. Others look down and out, to better concentrate on what is being said. Nolen was obviously the former.

“Not a problem.”

A crunching, crackling pause while he chewed. The bugger had used my reply to sneak another chip into his yap.

“We’re going to do this, aren’t we?” He swallowed, then added, “We’re going to save this girl. ” Sure, I thought. One potato chip at a time. Track Seven

Thursday… The thing that kills me about you people-and by that I mean everyone but me-is how you’ve built the world to compensate for your shortcomings. Everything, but everything, has to always be the same. Same Exxon. Same Kwik-Pik. Carbon-copy brands in carbon-copy stores on carbon-copy streets in carbon-copy towns. As bad as an old Deputy Dawg cartoon.

Sure, you complain about this too. And yet you keep queuing up, keep ordering your Chicken McNuggets with two too many sweet- and-sour packets-just to be safe. You talk a good game when it comes to the unexpected, and yet you keep paying for more of the same. One of the great gifts of forgetting, it seems to me, is that it absolves you of the need for any consistency between your words and your wallet, not to mention your Scripture and your porn collection.

It all comes down to the bottom line, doesn’t it? You childproof your existence to better secure your illusion of control, and so continue gliding on autopilot while you focus on your appetites and your vanities. All of it-the mass-production franchises, the shake-and-bake blockbusters, the commercial-jingle pop songs, the seen-one-seen-them-all subdivisions-is simply an extension of your sloth and your amnesia. Stretchy pants for the fat ass of your soul.

Did I tell you I was a cynic?

I say this because I want you to understand why I was sick of Ruddick before I had even arrived-and why I found walking from door to door, across lawn after neat, orderly lawn, so painful.

Fawk.

Why sometimes simply breathing bored me to the point of contemplating suicide. And why the hairy tongue of my soul had been numbed beyond the ability to taste, let alone to crave or appreciate. The contents of the world are like words: repeat them enough and they lose all significance. Even Molly, as young as a college diploma, as fresh as only a wannabe can be-even she was beginning to bore me. She brought her laptop with her to breakfast, eager to show me her small capsule story the Post-Gazette had printed for that day’s edition. “Page A13,” she said with a shrug, “beneath a story about a mad cow hoax in Amish country.” She bounced her head back and forth with a grin. “Imagine being beat out by a cow.”

“My sister was quite the heifer,” I replied with a What-are-you-going- to-do? squint.

She laughed in that way women use to tell you you’re being mean and they love it. “Here,” she said, sliding her laptop around. “Check it out.” Cult Member Still Missing Ruddick, PA-Jennifer Bonjour, a 21-year-old member of a small New Age cult called the Framers, went missing last Saturday. She was last seen leaving a local bar at approximately 11:30 P.M. Despite extensive searches of the surrounding brownlands, authorities report no leads. Anyone possessing information regarding her whereabouts should contact the Ruddick Police Department.

“Huh…” I said.

“Not much,” she admitted, crinkling her nose. “I fairly screamed at Cynthia, my editor, to include the term ‘female’ in the header, but she pooh-poohed the idea. They usually hate it when hacks try to upsell their stories.”

“It would have been better if they’d run a larger photo,” I said, “one that showed her wearing a tank or something like that. But it’s the cult stuff that’s the real hook. Trust me, they’ll be back for more.”

Molly pressed a sheepish face into her forearm. “God, I hope so… “ For whatever reason, door after door went unanswered that day-as if we had stumbled upon the gainfully employed subdivision or something. It was pretty much a waste of time, as the ever-helpful Molly pointed out on more than one occasion. I had resolved to return to the Framer Compound, of course, but I wanted to steep myself in the town that encircled them first. Like I explained to Molly, it’s hard to figure out a fish when it’s flopping around on the dock of your assumptions. You gotta get wet.

I was also waiting for Albert to get back to me with his research.

Because so many doors ended up being duds, the two of us had ample opportunity to talk, about Dead Jennifer some, but more about ourselves and our “aspirations.”

Molly possessed an optimism that could only be called young. Had she been in her thirties, I would have said stupid-or maybe naive if I happened to be in a forgiving mood. But she was still smoking the bong of possibilities, and had yet to hit the hard bottle of fact. She wanted, wanted, wanted. Prizes. Fame. Ultimately she hoped to work for none other than The New York Times, the newspaper of selective record. To live in Manhattan, where the beautiful go to enjoy the labour of the ugly.

Otherwise, she was pretty much the product of what you might expect. She had a west coast education to correct her east coast reserve. Her siblings lacked her vision. Her friends were, like, the coolest ever. Her parents sunburned easily.

Every once in a while she even said “Daddy.”

She admitted that her motives were probably as crass as could be when it came to Dead Jennifer. A cousin of hers who worked as a trainer for the Pittsburgh Penguins had caught wind of the story for some reason, and she had thought, “Eureka!” Jennifer Bonjour had all the elements that made news news, which is to say, a missing blond hottie, a crazy cult leader, and no relevance whatsoever to the lives of those who would be interested.