Ishmael Reed - The Terrible Threes

“You believe that? That you’re like Superman? Superman was Azhkenazi. He believed in truth and justice. You believe everything they say. Sure, they may make me take the fall for Operation Two Birds, send me away, have me killed, but they can do the same for you. And what did you get out of your role as Joe Beowulf? You couldn’t have received as much as Towers Bradhurst, the producer. He has a home in Santa Fe, Long Island, and a luxury apartment overlooking Central Park. He jokes to his friends that one day he’s going to convert you into twist-off caps for the soda company he owns.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re last year’s model. You can always be upgraded, with a more advanced piece of software. You’re nothing but a unit of plastic and aluminum. Why do you think that Bradhurst was so eager to lend you to the government for service? It’s because your movies are taking a dive at the box office, that’s why. He’s thinking about replacing you with a female superhero, Jane Beowulf. It’s been on the boards for two years.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Suit yourself.” They drove in silence for about five miles until they came upon a gas station. Beowulf slammed on the brakes.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to call Towers,” he said, twisting his head around to face Bob. “And if you’re lying to me, I’m going to break your neck. They won’t have to put on a show trial.” The creature whose response to every situation was force and violence headed toward the phone booth that was situated inside the gas station’s garage, while Krantz unlatched the door and fell out of the Suzuki Samurai and into the snow. He got up and started running toward the field of snow. He was weak and he staggered; the handcuffs made movement awkward. He walked and ran. He was breathing heavily, and was experiencing a shortness of breath. He saw a farmhouse in the distance. He kept running toward the house, which was surrounded by some black and crippled trees. It was getting dark. He reached the farmhouse door which was hanging off its hinges. It creaked as he opened it. Three mice scurried across the floor. The small farmhouse was abandoned. He went inside and sat down at an old table. He laid his head on the table and went to sleep.

The little Pennsylvania town was swarming with scientists who were there to study a crater that had been apparently caused by an extraterrestrial impact. In a remote farmhouse, Krantz was asleep sitting at the table, his head resting on the surface. When he awoke he saw two creatures standing before him. He recognized them as aides to the people who had sent him on the journey. They were the interrogators, and before he could say anything they asked him the first question. They were dressed in skin-fitting suits which covered everything but their eyes and lips. One was dressed in black, the other white.

“Why did you pick a name like Krantz in the first place?”

“I dunno, I think that I saw it on a paperback in an airport bookstore,” Krantz said, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Well, that was your first mistake, and then that episode with the cocaine,” the black one continued.

“I was experimenting.”

“And the conversion. You were only supposed to fake it, and then we caught you praying. Praying to one of their gods. The others wanted to eliminate you, but we overruled them,” the white one said, glancing at the black one. Their voices sounded like those of cartoon chipmunks.

“We didn’t do it because we thought you would come to your senses. Get over your addiction to things earthly, and concentrate on your mission.”

“I didn’t know that my life was in danger.”

“Do you remember the night you remained late in the White House, that four years ago, and you were asking for a sign from one of their gods, a red-eyed monster came running down the hall at you?” the black one said.

“Yes, I remember. I thought that I was seeing things. I rushed out of the White House.”

“It was Satan. He favors the image of the coyote. We didn’t want you anymore and were about to send a substitute, but then we decided against it. We figured that just as you got over your coke addiction, you’d get over your Pentecostalism and your dreadful right-wing politics.

“Satan does work all over the universe. He collects souls like a homeless surp down here might collect bottles or cans. He does us a favor, sort of like what the algae does for the clam. Imagine what would happen if the devil didn’t collect souls. The universe would be more cluttered than it is.” The black one stared at the white one, who had a tendency to poeticize.

“Now they’ve put you out of the White House, and we can’t find out what is going on,” the black one said.

“And you’re about to fall in love with a woman,” the white one said.

“This love they have — it makes you feel good all over. We could use some of this back home. Everybody there is so businesslike. So abstract,” Krantz said, moonily.

“He’s fallen under their power,” the black one said. “Maybe we should remove him from this assignment. This love thing has led to nothing but misery on this planet. Wars, feuds. They’ve never been able to create a great civilization because of this … distraction. I mean I’ve read this Plato, Aristotle, Hegel, and all the rest. If those are the best minds that they could come up with, then they’re better off blown to kingdom come. You can understand why they haven’t advanced technologically. They spent the first thousand years of philosophy trying to decide whether matter was real or an illusion.”

“We don’t have time to train another one. All of the time and effort we’ve spent on him would be wasted. All he’s learned about their habits and their ways of communicating,” the white one said.

“This is the third one we’ve lost to them. There’s something about this place. There’s just so many things to do. So much to see,” the black one said, in a sort of reverie. The white one gave him a reproachful glance. “Not that anything here can top what we have,” the black one added quickly.

“Krantz, I know that it’s easy to fall in love with this place, but you’ve forgotten what your original assignment was. Why you were sent here. The years you spent studying communications and nuclear weaponry. The barbarians are about to invade our planet. It’s being taken over by the yellows. We blacks and whites have no place to go. You were supposed to start a little nuclear action here so that these cockroaches on two feet would be removed and there’d be room for us. But you’ve become sidetracked over such issues as loyalty and now love. Loyalty to Reverend Jones because he saved you from a burning sports car. And love for this woman,” the white one said.

“I just don’t think that I can betray Jones. He saved my life.”

“That incident merely inflated what was already an overlarge ego,” the black one said.

“But now he’s turned against me. At one time, he was like a father to me. I’ve never met anybody as … as pure as he is. Sure, he has some crazy ideas, but all of the rest of the televangelists, with their theme parks and their constant whining for money, and their prostitutes and gay lovers, the wives and their mascara farms — Reverend Jones cleaned all of that up.”

“He’s responsible for the death of his mother. It’s bound to come up sooner or later,” the black one said.

“He what?”

“He hired an orderly to abuse her in a nursing home or something. Anyway, we checked him out,” the white one said.

“Maybe that will cure you of your addiction to earthly habits. Phony. They’re all scoundrels. Not one of them without larceny in his heart. The sooner we get rid of them the better,” the white one said.