Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson Page A

wouldn’t touch the caramel corn; buying it was a good faith formality he practiced whenever he attended the circus. Shasta, on the other hand, was his favorite soda. He sipped it through a straw in powerful, overjoyed bursts.
    Question Mark Circus’s seats had been divided into sections based on viewer identity and desire. There was a BOURGEOISIE section. There was a MEATEATERS section. There was an ESKIMOS section. There was a PLAQUEDEMICS section. There was an I © ROWDY RODDY PIPER section. There was a BAD HAIRDOS and a BLACK BELTS and a THUMBTACK CONNOISSEURS and a PEOPLE WITH METASTASIZED EYEBALLS section…Failure to emulate the title of one’s section of choice resulted in punishments ranging from small fines to public floggings and immolation.
    Dr Teufelsdröckh selected an empty seat in the SINGLES (ENGLISH-SPEAKING) section.
    …It took him nearly ten minutes to work up the nerve to talk to her. She was just his type. Big eyes. Big hairdo. Big ass. Lots of makeup. And a certain abused quality.
    In the center of the ring, a nervous-looking group of lion tamers dressed in cheap tuxes waited in line to have their heads bitten off, one at a time, by a Nephilimic lion standing on its hind legs. The lion disposed of the heads in a giant brass spittoon at its side. Each lion tamer’s body gushed the same blood from its neck hole.
    “They’re talented individuals,” said the doktor, leaning towards the woman. She didn’t respond. “They sure are talented.” He pointed at the lion tamers.
    The woman glared at him. “Did you say something?”
    “Yes.”
    “I swear I heard somebody say something. Was it you?”
    “Yes. It was me.”
    “I could have sworn somebody said something.”
    “They did. I did.”
    “Did you hear that? There it was again.”
    “I said it.”
    “Probably my sinuses. When they get clogged I hear all kinds of crazy shit.”
    She looked away, massaging her nose.
    The lion bit off a head and exclaimed, “That’s for all you sucker MCs perpetrating a fraud,” in Czech-German.
    The woman clapped. “That was exciting. I wonder what he said.” She turned to him. “Do you know what the lion said?”
    Dr Teufelsdröckh’s mouth went dry. He spoke Czech-German fluently, but he didn’t know what a sucker MC was. He deflected the question with another question: “Care for some caramel corn?” He tipped the bag towards her.
    She scowled at him. He smiled. She squinted at him, as if he might be standing at a distance, as if to bring his contours into focus, as if to lift the rubbery flap of his selfhood and reveal the shrieking insecurities beneath…He diverted his gaze, unable to look into any woman’s eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. He had trouble looking into people’s eyes in general, regardless of gender, affixing his line of vision on ears, chins, hairlines, cheekbones, background scenery, anything but the eyes…
    “No thank you,” she said disinterestedly. “What’s your name?”
    He couldn’t remember…then bleated, “Dr Teufelsdröckh!” He mechanically stuck out his hand. She put her fingers in it. He squeezed the fingers and moved them up and down. He waited for her to give him her name. She didn’t.
    A hunchbacked Cyclops stumbled into the ring and tackled the lion. It grabbed the beast’s jaws and tore it in half like a piece of cloth from mouth to anus. Then it attacked the lion tamers.
    “You’re a doktor?” said the woman. “What of?”
    Again his memory failed him. Her breasts made him nervous. If he were to reach out and touch one of them, he might die. They were so nice-looking. So big and nice-looking…“I don’t recall,” he replied. “I acquired my Ph.D. long ago. But I do things. Doktor things. And I have a Ph.D. I procured it from Stick Figure University under the esteemed guidance of one Professor JP Timecrash. I remember that much. Are you familiar with Professor Timecrash’s scholarship?”
    “What’s a stick