Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson Page B

figure?”
    “Excuse me.” A security guard placed his meathook on Dr Teufelsdröckh’s shoulder. “Proof of singlehood please?”
    “Yes, sir.” Distressed, Dr Teufelsdröckh rifled through his pockets, the guard’s long mustache brushing against his head like a dead snake.
    He found the ID. He handed it to the guard.
    The guard ran a fingertip over the ID and stopped on a small pink box in the lower right-hand corner. The words in the box read:

     
    DESPERATELY
SEEKING SUSAN

     
    “Thank you.” The guard gave the ID back to Dr Teufelsdröckh, then leaned over and gave the woman a long, loud kiss. She complied, more or less, struggling half-heartedly. Dr Teufelsdröckh observed the kiss like a car crash on the roadside.
    A flock of ironclad trapeze artists swung overhead. A flock of acrobats in winged Alligator People costumes pursued them. The trapeze artists eluded their antagonists for half a minute before pulling out cartoon Buster swords. The Alligator People impressionists countered with ray-guns. In seconds, a full-throttle wuxia pan battle royal erupted…
    The woman dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Strangers take advantage of me.”
    A clump of burnt flesh landed on Dr Teufelsdröckh’s knee. He slapped it off. “They do?” He didn’t know what else to say to her. The security guard derailed his nerves. Authority figures always had that effekt. “That seems normal enough, I suppose.”
    Stand up and leave, he told himself. Get up. Sofort . Do it.…But he couldn’t do it.   He tried to place his thoughts elsewhere, to breathe in and out, to anaesthetize his mental core, to think about food, the perfect gourmet meal, a utopian spread, a French spread, herb p âté for an appetizer, a frisée salad with goat cheese and balsamic syrup, a main course of Épaule d’agneau aux anchois , and for dessert, hmm, what the hell would he eat for dessert?…
    Her gaze moved up and down his body and settled on his lower region. Was she staring at his love handles? Couldn’t be. He was wearing a Blubsucker. He had only bought the shirt last week, an anti-love handle apparatus that constricted flab at the waist and redistributed it to the groin. Was the shirt defective? Did he still have the receipt? If not, would the department store from which he purchased the shirt refund his money? Would the store refund his money in any case?
    “I’m building a monster!” he blurted, eyeballing a freak in a spiked cage. Outside the cage, a clown with a spear stabbed at the freak and forced it to impale itself on the spikes, which faced inwards.
    “What’s a monster?” She put her hand on his leg.
    His heart skipped a beat. “What’s a monster?” He contemplated the question as the freak hemorrhaged impossible quantities of celluloid from multiple wounds…He said: “The OED describes a monster as a mythical creature that exhibits both animal and human qualities or combines elements of one or more animal forms. Frequently this creature is of great size and ferocious appearance. That’s an antiquated notion, however. Contemporary perspectives of the monster reveal an imaginary creature that may be large, ugly, or frightening. For the record, my monster won’t be large , per se. It will, however, be equipped with the capacity to transform into a daikaiju .”
    “What’s a OED? What’s a ferocious appearance? What’s a contemporary perspectives? What’s a dai … dai …?” She moved her hand up his thigh. Cries of agony overhead, below, everywhere…
    As each sentence exited his mouth, he sat up straighter in his seat, gaining confidence, becoming more passionate and electric. He was in his element now. “It will appear human. All too human. It will be a crossbreed. A Mischling, if you please. Nobody has done it before. Monsters have been made, no doubt, but not of this caliber. Certainly not of this imaginative Größe . I will give the world what it needs, what it desires. What it despises. And when the sun