The following excerpts
--
"Video Clip
(1): Laughin' Boy Appears in Your Living
Room"
"Episode
One: Mom and Dad Disapprove"
and "Video Clip
(3): Sic Semper Television"
-- are from the
novel Laughin' Boy by Bradley Denton,
published by Subterranean Press
(2005). (Artwork by J.K. Potter.)
Their places in
the novel are indicated in the book's "Channel
Guide":
Laughin' Boy , its "Channel Guide," and
all excerpts are Copyright 2005 by Bradley
Denton. Please do not
publish or post any part of Laughin' Boy
without the permission of the author.
Video
Clip (1)
Laughin' Boy Appears in Your Living Room
It was on TV, of course.
Everything here at the turn of the century is on TV. Celebrity
murder trials, fat-free enchiladas, trailer-trash trollops, animated
ducks, bobsled wrecks, Bryant Gumbel -- and the bloody convulsion
that was the birth of Laughin' Boy.
According to the
print media, it happened in Wichita, Kansas on Saturday, May 20,
2000 A.D. at 4:17 P.M. Central Daylight Time. But in virtual and
video truth, it happened everywhere and at every time, because
everyone everywhere watched it happen on CNN, ABC, MTV,
ACTIONNEWS.COM, and ten thousand other electronic outlets over and
over again. And then they bought, rented, borrowed, stole, and/or
downloaded it so they could watch it some more.
But no matter how many
times they've seen it, everyone remembers where they were and what
they were doing as they saw their first replay. They remember that
initial viewing with a glassy digital clarity that makes it seem as
if it's happening still.
And
somewhere, on somebody's monitor, it is:
Smoke from the
incendiary grenades blots the blue-sky background. Shredded
carnival-game and food-vending booths burn orange and black, as does
the abandoned bandstand. Torsos and limbs twitch like dissected
frogs alongside the green riverbank of the Little Arkansas. Here and
there the jerking camera finds a face ripped or obliterated from
bullets or shrapnel. The shrieks of sirens begin to mingle with the
cries of the injured and dying. A dog yipes incessantly.
Among the dying is the
man operating the camcorder. He is a retired dentist named Arnold
Steck. TV news crews will soon record the surrounding horror from
more professional angles -- but this video is the one we'll all
remember.
The view is
upward from the spattered grass of South Riverside Park, so
everything looks towering and immense. It's an amazing job,
especially considering that Arnold Steck has been hit in the chest
and will drown in blood before the tape runs out. The picture
quality actually improves as he approaches death. The jerking stops,
and the focus sharpens. It is as if Dr. Steck becomes determined, at
the end, to leave a good piece of tape as his legacy. Or perhaps
it's that the camcorder's autofocus programming takes over as Dr.
Steck fades away.
The camera pans over
the carnage, then stops and focuses on a kneeling figure who looms
like a giant in the center of the frame, perhaps ten feet away. The
figure is a shuddering man.
The frame
shrinks around this man as the camera zooms in. And then,
paradoxically, we see him not as a giant, but as a slender
Caucasian. His brown hair is mussed, and it gleams wetly. His age is
difficult to guess because his hands are pressed to his face.
And although we can't
be sure just yet, he appears unharmed. Given all else that we've
just seen, it's difficult to imagine how he could have avoided
injury . . . unless he was one of the perpetrators of the crime.
But we've had a
glimpse of them as they fled the scene, and they all wore camouflage
fatigues and black hoods. This man is wearing blue jeans and a plain
white shirt.
He is not one of
the perpetrators. He came to the park to hear the blues bands, as
did all the other innocent victims. We see now that his shirt is
speckled with red, and so are his hands. The gleam in his hair is
blood, too.
He kneels there
with his hands pressed to his face, and his body shakes. Perhaps
shrapnel has caught him in the eyes.
But there
doesn't seem to be enough blood for that. So perhaps, instead, he is
weeping at the tragedy. He may even be in hysterics. This would only
make sense, because he's seen the same horrible things that we have.
And he's had to see them without the twin buffers of television and
time.
Then his hands
fly away from his face, and he begins rocking back and forth and
slapping the ground. And his face, an ordinary adult-male,
Midwestern face, is unharmed. His eyes are fine. He is near the
center of the field of fire, but has miraculously escaped the sprays
of flame and metal that killed or maimed all the others.
His features are
streaked with blood, but none of it is his. Men, women, and children
have blown apart around him like water balloons, and this is the
result. Even seeing the red speckles on his shirt and hands hasn't
prepared us for what this foreign blood looks like on his face. It
is unnatural and hideous. It would look better if any of it had come
from a wound of his own.
That isn't what shocks
and enrages us, though.
What shocks and
enrages us are the happy bleats coming from his open mouth. What
shocks and enrages us are the curves of his cheek muscles and the
light flashing from his white teeth and aqua eyes.
What shocks and
enrages us is the sudden sure knowledge that he is neither weeping
nor in hysterics. There is no grief, horror, or insanity in what he
does.
He is, purely
and simply, laughing his ass off.
*
Episode One
Mom and Dad Disapprove
Danny lay face-down on
his old bed in his parents' house for the first time in years. He
had a musty pillow stuffed into his mouth as far as it would go, and
another clamped over his head. He was breathing through his nose,
and it made a whistling sound. He wasn't getting much air. He felt
dizzy and sick, and the whistling sound wove through the thunk-thunk,
thunk-thunk of the pulse in his
skull.
But even through the
pillows, the whistling, and the thunk-thunk,
even through the closed door, he could hear his father and the TV
out in the living room.
"Good God," his father
was saying. "God almighty. What in God's name? God in Heaven." As
far back as Danny could remember, his father had called on God like
this, no matter what the situation. When Danny had fouled out in
Little League. When his mother had miscarried what would have been
Danny's little sister. When the refrigerator had leaked all its
Freon, and the cottage cheese had gone bad. It was as if Dad thought
God had an equal interest in everything.
The words from the TV
were less distinct. But that was just as well, because Danny knew
what would happen if he heard them. It was all he could do to
control himself as it was. He couldn't decide whether the pillow
jammed into his mouth was helping, or whether it was tickling his
uvula and making things worse.
"For the love of God,"
his father said. "Louise, they're calling him 'Laughin' Boy.' God
have mercy." This was said as if Dad knew that God would do no such
thing.
It wasn't funny. It
wasn't funny at all, so Danny couldn't stop himself. The pillow blew
out of his mouth as he roared, and he scrambled to stuff it back
in.
"God help us," his
father said.
The pillow blew out
again. Danny slapped the mattress, howled, and rolled off onto the
floor. The walls shook as he landed. Then the door opened and
whacked him in the head. It hurt like hell, so Danny laughed even
harder.
"Oh honey, I'm sorry,"
his mother said as she came into the room. "What are you doing on
the floor?"
Danny flopped onto his
back and clamped a hand over his mouth as he looked up at Mom. She
was wearing her church clothes and peering at him upside-down. Her
face was framed by the star chart he had thumbtacked to the ceiling
twenty years ago, and her octagonal-lensed eyeglasses had slid so
far down her nose that she looked as if she had little Stop signs on
her cheeks.
Now the laughter
subsided, so Danny sat up and gulped air. His head was ringing, but
he couldn't tell how much of that was from laughing and how much was
from being whacked by the door.
"Thanks, Mom," he said.
"That was a bad one." He tried to stand up, but he was still dizzy,
so he sat on the edge of the bed instead.
Mom pushed her glasses
up from the end of her nose. They slid right back down
again.
"You have to see a
doctor, dear," she said. Her voice had the same strained tone as
when he'd wrecked the family Dodge on his eighteenth birthday. "It's
obvious that something has gone off kilter in your noodle. One of
your cannons is rolling around on your poopdeck." She hesitated. "It
probably has something to do with how badly that Karen has treated
you. You do have health insurance, don't you? Or don't they do that
at community colleges? I still think you should have applied for
that job at Wichita State."
Danny's dizziness began
to fade. "Karen hasn't treated me badly," he said. It was mostly
true. She had kept their house and insisted on custody of their
five-year-old daughter, but she had also taken over the mortgage
payments and hadn't asked Danny for anything except child support.
And she let him see Lindy almost any time he wanted. "Besides, we
split up over a year ago. Whatever's wrong with me now doesn't have
anything to do with her."
His voice was hoarse,
his throat hurt, and he was exhausted. He hadn't slept more than an
hour in the past twenty-four.
"I don't understand why
you always stick up for her," Mom said. "Unless that's a symptom of
whatever illness she's inflicted on you."
Danny knew that arguing
was pointless. His mother had the gift of looking past the obvious
in order to focus on the irrelevant, and that ability overwhelmed
any argument. It was also what had gotten her through Dad's layoffs,
her miscarriages, and her parents' deaths from carbon monoxide
poisoning. Among other things.
But skirting the
reality of the current situation might not work out so well. "Mom, I
think my 'illness' is more likely the result of what happened
yesterday. Don't you?"
He had to suppress a
chuckle as he spoke. Just mentioning yesterday's events made him
visualize them all over again, and that in turn provoked the urge to
laugh.
Mom frowned. "Daniel,
the Lord saw fit to spare you, so you should thank Him and let Him
take the burden in your stead." She put her hand on the doorknob.
"Now you'd better get cleaned up if you're coming to church. Just
because your father's decided to lie around instead of giving an
hour to Jesus is no reason for you to do the same. Especially if
you're staying in my house. I'm leaving in fifteen minutes, so hurry
up."
Danny stared at her.
She was amazing. Her dark blue dress had a flower pinned to its left
shoulder. Her graying hair was shellacked and gleaming. Her face was
powdered to luminescence, and her lips were as red as a Jolly
Rancher cinnamon square. She was ready to go out and face God and
everybody. She was ready to sing "Bringing in the Sheaves," chant
the Lord's Prayer, and recite a Psalm or two. Either she was
incredibly strong in her faith, or she didn't have a clue. But she
had always been like this, and Danny had never been able to figure
out which it was. Or whether there was a difference.
He started giggling
again.
"Stop it, Daniel," Mom
said. She sounded peeved now. "If you can't, maybe you shouldn't
come to church after all."
Danny tried to keep it
down to a giggle, and he succeeded long enough to say, "I think that
would be best."
Mom made a noise in her
throat, turned, and left the room. She closed the door behind her so
hard that the rush of air made the star chart billow and rattle. The
sound reminded Danny of his youth, and of the fact that Mom had
always seemed disappointed in him. For one thing, she had always
wanted him to go to church. And although he had gone, he had never
been able to pretend that he'd liked it.
But the thought of
attending services today, of all days, was more than merely
unappealing. It was appalling.
Danny had seen fathers,
mothers, brothers, daughters, and babies ripped apart like pink
tissue paper yesterday, and by now every TV viewer on earth had
watched him laugh about it. This was no time for him to be showing
his face in public.
He already had proof of
what a bad idea that would be. Yesterday evening, after the police
had taken him to his car at the impound lot and then released him,
he hadn't been able to get to his small rental house on Dougherty
Street because of a cluster of news vans and a mob of angry citizens
clogging the street. The police had told him to expect the news
vans, but the mob had come as a shock. In less time than it would
have taken him to drive to Topeka, he had become the most hated man
in America. Maybe the world. And to top it off, his mother was
annoyed with him for his reluctance to accompany her to church as if
nothing had happened.
Meanwhile, a large
number of Wichita families had funerals to plan.
It was tragic, so Danny
laughed. He didn't know why he kept doing that, but he knew he
couldn't help it. Once those people at the River Festival had
started dying, laughing had been the only thing he could
do.
Yesterday evening,
after fleeing Dougherty Street before the news cameras and enraged
citizens could spot him, he had driven to his parents' home on 53rd
Street still wearing his blood-spattered clothing. He had borrowed
sweatpants and a T-shirt from Dad, and then Mom had taken his shirt
and jeans, shaken her head, and said that she didn't think any of it
would come out in the wash. Danny had waited too long, she'd said.
He should have soaked his clothes in cold water and detergent right
away. But he hadn't, so the stains had set.
Danny had known Mom was
only lecturing him about the stains so she wouldn't have to think
about what they meant. So he hadn't replied. But what he'd wanted to
say was that he had seen the top of a little girl's head fly off
like a golden-curled Frisbee, and that he had sort of forgotten
about the basics of stain removal after that.
In fact, he had sort of
forgotten about everything except how that little girl could have
been Lindy . . . if he had insisted on his usual Saturday afternoon
with her instead of letting Karen take her to a Disney movie with
his ex-mother-in-law instead.
Now Mom thought he
should go to church and thank God for sparing him.
"Hoo boy," he said,
gasping. His chest ached.
The golden-haired
little girl's death wasn't recorded on the videotape the networks
were showing, but her body was visible near the spot where Danny
could be seen whooping it up. So he was pretty sure that if he went
to church today, the Methodists would nail him to a pew, drink
gallons of grape juice, and take turns pissing on him. At least,
that was what he would do if he were them.
At that thought, it
occurred to him that the Methodists might not treat his mother too
well, either. After all, she had given birth to a man who laughed
when little girls were killed. And there was no telling what the
non-Methodists out there might do. They might decided to treat the
mother of Laughin' Boy the way the men in camouflage fatigues had
treated the people at the Festival.
Even as he guffawed,
Danny managed to lurch up from the bed. He got the door open after
three tries, and then he staggered down the hall to the living
room.
Mom wasn't there, but
Dad was sitting in the La-Z-Boy, watching the tube. A grim news
anchor was announcing that the death toll from the Festival attack
had reached 87.
"And that," the anchor
said, his jaw tense with fury, "is no laughing matter."
Danny almost fell
over.
Dad, wearing an orange
jumpsuit, his cheeks aglow with razor burn and Aqua Velva, turned
and glared. The old man's eyes were enormous.
"What in God's name has
gotten into you, Daniel?" Dad asked. He sounded disgusted,
frightened, and grouchy all at once. Disgusted and grouchy were
normal, but Danny had never heard Dad sound frightened
before.
Danny struggled to get
himself under control enough to speak. "I guess I'm -- yeeeawhawhawuh -- sick."
Dad looked back at the
television. "The news people seem to think you're crazy. My God,
you're not crazy, are you, son?"
Danny didn't answer,
because he was afraid that maybe he was.
Out in the driveway, a
car engine started. Danny had assumed that Mom was in the bathroom
-- but no, she had decided not to wait the fifteen minutes she had
promised. Danny had chosen not to thank God, so neither God nor Mom
was going to cut him any slack.
Mom was going to face
the wrath of the Methodists alone.
Danny turned away from
his father, yanked open the front door, and ran outside. Mom's Chevy
Lumina was backing out to the street as Danny's feet hit the porch
-- and at that moment, a blue-and-white police car began pulling in.
And Mom wasn't looking backward. She was looking at Danny. So Danny
tried to yell for her to stop, but she had her windows up.
The Lumina's rear
bumper crunched into the police car's grille, and both cars stopped
dead with a whump.
Then a black sedan
pulled in and hit the police car from behind.
There was a sound like
a siren and then another like an explosion, but those sounds didn't
come from the police car or the black sedan. They came from the
other side of the high wooden fence that separated Danny's parents'
tiny plot of land from the rest of the world.
Danny fell off the
porch laughing as the first firebomb came sailing into the
yard.
*
Video Clip
(3)
Sic Semper Television
Selected segments from the syndicated daytime
talk show Stan Symmons and Friends!, broadcast live
from Chicago on the afternoon of Friday, May 26, 2000:
THEME MUSIC
FADE IN TO:
The silver-haired HOST
(down at first-row-AUDIENCE level, looking stern): Good afternoon,
ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this special live edition of
Stan
Symmons and Friends! I'm your host, Stan Symmons.
AUDIENCE: [Cheers,
applause, and whistles.]
FADE THEME
MUSIC
HOST (adjusting
necktie): Thank you. Thank you. Now, we've all seen the videotape
shot by that poor dying dentist in Wichita, Kansas last Saturday.
We've all seen the nightmare scene that surrounded him --
Cut to AUDIENCE. They
are men and women, black and white, yellow and brown, old and young.
Their expressions match that of the HOST. Some are nodding as he
speaks.
HOST: -- and we've all
seen the man who was laughing at the carnage.
The AUDIENCE tenses,
and their expressions become angrier. Some snarl. Some hiss. Some
boo. Some mutter words we can't hear. But we can read their
lips.
Cut back to HOST, who
steps up onto the stage, where a platform holds five chairs arranged
in a curving row. The infamous dying-dentist video of Laughin' Boy
begins playing on a giant screen behind the chairs.
HOST: That man doesn't
look ill or hysterical, does he? He looks as if he has his wits
about him and is enjoying what's happening, doesn't
he?
AUDIENCE: Yeahhh! [Plus
assorted disparaging remarks.]
The video running on
the giant screen zooms in and freezes on Laughin' Boy's face. This
image will provide a backdrop of blood-streaked hilarity for most of
the show.
HOST: Well, our first
guests today claim that this so-called "Laughin' Boy" does in fact
have a previously unknown mental disorder, and that his behavior is
therefore not at all his fault!
AUDIENCE:
Booooooo!
HOST: They also claim
that two of their other clients suffer from similar disorders, and
that these people also bear no moral responsibility for their
actions. Yet one of them behaves like a sniggering racist at a cross
burning, and the other deliberately makes herself vulnerable to
sexual assault!
AUDIENCE: [Disbelieving
murmurs.]
HOST: It sounds
bizarre, but they swear it's true! So ladies and gentlemen, please
welcome renowned radio-show advisors and self-proclaimed Shrinks to
the Damned, Drs. Ralph and Carla DeWitt!
The DeWitts emerge from
backstage to a chorus of applause, cheers, and denunciations, some
of which are pre-recorded and pumped into the studio through
loudspeakers. The DeWitts are wearing their trademark his-and-hers
gray suits, and they smile and wave as they step up onto the
interview platform. They sit down in the second and third chairs
from the AUDIENCE's left. DR. CARLA crosses her legs.
The HOST waves the
AUDIENCE and the loudspeakers to relative silence, then puts one
foot on the platform and leans toward the DeWitts, shaking his
head.
HOST: I have to say,
Doctors, that the story you're telling sure sounds like more of the
same blame-the-other-guy syndrome we've heard for so long now. But
most Americans are starting to realize that it's high time people
took responsibility for their own behavior. Do you feel
otherwise?
DR. CARLA: Not at all,
Steve. But the people we're talking about aren't shirking their
responsibilities. On the contrary, they're doing their very best to
overcome their afflictions.
AUDIENCE: [Skeptical
mumbles and an isolated Bronx cheer.]
DR. RALPH: Dr. Carla is
absolutely right, Stan. In fact, once America hears the true stories
of how these people are struggling for normalcy, I believe they will
be seen as heroes.
AUDIENCE: Bahhhh!
Booooo!
HOST: Heroes? Really?
Do you mean to tell me that you see that man (he indicates the
frozen blow-up of Laughin' Boy) as a hero?
DR. RALPH (without
looking at the blow-up): First of all, please remember that Daniel
Clayton is not a suspect in that awful incident. He, like those who
died, was simply there to enjoy a carnival. He was, as the cliche
goes, an innocent bystander. And his reaction to what happened there
was the result of a disorder that Dr. Carla and I are now attempting
to treat.
HOST (shaking his head
again): I dunno, Doc. His reaction just looks cold-blooded to me.
Those people around him -- men, women, and children -- were torn to
pieces, and instead of trying to help them, he yukked it
up.
AUDIENCE: Yeah! Yeah!
[Applause.]
DR. CARLA (loud enough
to be heard over the applause): Steve, those people were beyond
help, and Danny Clayton himself --
HOST (scowling at DR.
CARLA): My name is Stan.
DR. CARLA: I'm sorry.
This is the third show we've done today.
DR. RALPH (grinning):
But by far the most important!
The HOST and AUDIENCE
laugh, and the AUDIENCE applauds.
HOST: With the best
audience in the business!
AUDIENCE: [Goes
wild.]
The HOST waits twenty
seconds, then waves his hand again to quiet the AUDIENCE.
HOST: All right, then,
Doctors, let's bring out your first, um, patient so we can make up our own minds.
Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Ms. Amanda Larkin!
A slender, pale woman
with short auburn hair steps out from backstage. She is wearing a
plain navy blue pantsuit and flat shoes, and she is carrying a large
black purse on a shoulder strap. She looks out at the AUDIENCE with
obvious apprehension as she crosses the stage, and she stumbles a
bit as she steps up onto the interview platform. She takes the
fourth chair, which is beside DR. RALPH.
HOST (moving to crouch
in front of the newcomer): Well, Ms. Larkin, I understand that some
in the media have taken to calling you "Porno Girl," as if your
affliction were a super power of some sort.
AUDIENCE: [Nervous
chuckles.]
PORNO GIRL (holding her
purse against her abdomen): One of the tabloids did that. I don't
care for it much. But it seems to have stuck.
DR. CARLA: I'd also
like to point out that it's the tabloids that call me and my husband
the "Shrinks to the Damned." We've never referred to ourselves as
such.
HOST (ignoring DR.
CARLA): So just what is it that's earned you that moniker, Ms.
Larkin? I must say that you look perfectly normal. In fact, you're
quite attractive. But there must be something --
PORNO GIRL
(matter-of-factly): I have a compulsion to seek out and view graphic
and perverse sexual images. I make use of both photos and videos, as
well as images from the Internet, so long as they depict real people
performing the most extreme and sometimes repugnant acts imaginable.
In order to find such material, I often venture into what most
people would consider dangerous, or at least unsavory, neighborhoods
and businesses. For reasons of personal safety, I would probably use
the Internet exclusively -- but too many porn sites on the Web are
either too expensive, too tame, have pitiful bandwidth, or use
altered images. And part of my problem is that I have to see the
real thing in quantity, and I go out of my mind waiting on slow
downloads.
AUDIENCE: [Mutters and
groans. Some are clearly disapproving, but others merely sound
disappointed that PORNO GIRL's affliction is so dull.]
HOST: Have you appeared
in pornography yourself?
PORNO GIRL (visibly
disgusted at the suggestion): No. I'm an attorney, for crying out
loud.
HOST: Well, then, do
you have sex with the men you meet in the places where you buy such
material?
PORNO GIRL: I don't
have sex at all.
AUDIENCE:
[Gasp.]
HOST (shocked): You
mean you're celibate?
PORNO GIRL: I mean I'm
a virgin.
AUDIENCE: [Louder gasp.
Sounds of disbelief.]
HOST (looking baffled):
How old are you?
PORNO GIRL:
Thirty-two.
HOST: Do you mean to
tell me that you're a thirty-two-year old virgin -- and you love
pornography?
PORNO GIRL: I don't
love it. I don't even like it. And I certainly don't experience any
sexual impulses as a result of looking at it. I'm not even sure what
such impulses would feel like. But ever since I was twenty, I've
been compelled to seek out perverted sexual images. If I don't, I
become physically ill. I can't eat, and I can't sleep. I have to
have it, or my health suffers. After a day, I start throwing up.
After two days, I lose bowel and bladder control. In fact, I'm
convinced that if I had to go three days or more without at least a
glimpse of group sex or double penetration, I would lapse into a
coma and die.
AUDIENCE:
Wauugggh!
DR. CARLA: You see,
Steve? This is a perfectly decent woman in every way. Prudish, even,
and intelligent. She finished at the top of her class at Baylor
University Law School. She takes no pleasure in her behavior. She
is, in fact, essentially asexual. Yet her family has disowned her,
and the Dallas law firm that went out of its way to recruit her has
now fired her -- all because of this compulsion. And the only reason
she has been condemned instead of treated with compassion is because
her disorder is virtually unique.
DR. RALPH: In other
words, Stan, if Ms. Larkin had diabetes, for example, and she
required insulin injections to maintain her physical health, no one
would think any less of her. But because what she needs, through no
fault of her own, is regular exposure to extreme sexual images, she
has become an outcast in our society.
HOST (ignoring both DR.
CARLA and DR. RALPH): Amanda, when you say you're a virgin, do you
mean that you've never even had oral
sex?
PORNO GIRL (making a
face): Of course not. That's disgusting.
HOST (turning toward
camera, bug-eyed): And on that bizarre note, let's take a break to
flush out our brains! We'll be back in a few moments, first with the
only man to have ever been burned in effigy at a Rainbow Coalition
convention . . . and then with the infamous Laughin'
Boy!
AUDIENCE (and
loudspeakers): [Thunderous applause.]
FADE OUT TO:
Commercials for
feminine hygiene spray, taco seasoning, disposable diapers, low-fat
yogurt, odor-fighting insoles, food processors, and a psychic
hotline. There's also a teaser for a late-night newsmagazine show
that will focus on the search for the Wichita terrorists . . . and
investigate just how sure we are that Laughin' Boy wasn't in cahoots
with them.
FADE IN TO:
HOST: We're back! Now,
you might not have been too shocked by the DeWitts's first "damned"
patient today -- after all, compared to some folks we've had as
guests on this show, a thirty-two-year-old virgin who's addicted to
violent pornography might as well be Mother Teresa!
AUDIENCE:
[Chuckles.]
HOST (facing camera):
But our next patient is another story. He once wore a bulletproof
vest as part of his job, but now that he's unemployed he still has
to don Teflon if he so much as steps outside to buy a quart of milk.
You'll understand why when you meet . . . Robert Royce, the Racist
Ranger!
A handsome Caucasian
man in a dark suit emerges from backstage and strides to the
interview platform with the easy grace of an athlete. This is the
RACIST RANGER, and the AUDIENCE doesn't know how to react. From the
HOST's setup, they were expecting someone they could boo. But this
is the sort of man they have been trained to admire. This guy is a
cross between Matthew McConaughey and Harrison Ford, with a touch of
Arnold Schwarzenegger at the shoulders and biceps. So a few members
of the AUDIENCE boo, and a few applaud. But most of them murmur and
shift around in uncomfortable confusion.
The RACIST RANGER takes
the chair on the far right end of the row, next to PORNO GIRL. He
gives the AUDIENCE a dazzling grin. His teeth are impossibly
straight and white. The murmurs in the AUDIENCE
intensify.
PORNO GIRL gives the
newcomer a sidelong glance. There is no hostility in her look, but
there's nothing else either. She is unimpressed. The RACIST RANGER's
gorgeous presence has no effect on her. There are gasps from the
AUDIENCE as they realize this.
HOST: Now, this may be
difficult to believe, ladies and gentleman, but the man you see
before you, a former Texas Ranger turned FBI agent --
DR. CARLA: That's not
quite right, Steve. Mr. Royce was never a Texas Ranger. He grew up
in San Antonio, so he's a Texan, and he was indeed an FBI special
agent. The rumor that he was once a Texas Ranger was started, again,
by the tabloids so that they could dub him the "Racist
Ranger."
HOST (visibly annoyed,
without looking at DR. CARLA): My mistake. Stan
stands corrected.
AUDIENCE: [Nervous
titters.]
HOST (turning quickly
and thrusting his microphone toward the RACIST RANGER): But you're
not an FBI agent anymore, are you, Mr. Royce? You were drummed out
of the Bureau because you are a racist, aren't you?
The RACIST RANGER's
smooth forehead crinkles, and he turns to look at DR. RALPH and DR.
CARLA.
DR. RALPH: It's all
right, Rob. I understand your reluctance. But go ahead and
answer.
HOST (fiercely): Yes,
Mr. Royce, let's hear it! Are you or are you not an
African-American-hating white supremacist?
RACIST RANGER (looking
past the HOST at the camera): Nossuh, Mars Steve, I sho' ain't. Kase
dat truck dah is trash, en don' you be jawin' 'bout dat no
mo'.
The AUDIENCE explodes,
and we see a shot of their reaction. Many of them come to their
feet. The camera zooms in on several of their faces in succession.
They are angry.
To say the
least.
HOST (facing AUDIENCE,
holding up both hands in a plea for calm): All right! All right! I
don't blame you one bit! But if we can try to keep our feelings in
check for just a moment, perhaps the Shrinks to the Damned can tell
us what the Sam Hill is going on in the Racist Ranger's head to make
him behave this way!
The AUDIENCE simmers
down to a low growl and retakes their seats. The HOST turns back to
the interview platform.
DR. RALPH: All right.
Please listen. You see, although Mr. Royce's speech patterns may
seem calculated to be offensive, they are in fact the result of an
affliction beyond his control. Like Ms. Larkin, he suffers from a
rare disorder --
HOST: You mean he's a
racist and he's addicted to porn?
DR. CARLA: No, Steve.
Mr. Royce's disorder is similar to Ms. Larkin's only in that it is
unclassifiable and unique. At first it was thought that he might be
suffering from a variation of Tourette's syndrome, but it soon
became clear that what was wrong with him was something else
entirely.
HOST: Just what would
you call it, then?
DR. RALPH: We've been
tossing around some suggestions. "River Raft Syndrome" is the one
we've come back to most often.
HOST (puzzled): He's
afraid of water? Or of drifting?
RACIST RANGER: Not one
ner t'other, Mars Steve. Kase ah talks jus' like de character Jim in
dat book Adbentures o' Huckleberry Finn, we's been
a-callin' it Ribber Raf' Sinderome. Dat's on 'count o' ol' Jim, he
spen' mos' o' his time in dat nobbel floatin' on de raf' in de
ribber.
As the RACIST RANGER
speaks, the camera cuts away from him to the HOST, then to the
AUDIENCE, and then back to the RACIST RANGER again. The HOST and
AUDIENCE are staring, their mouths literally hanging open, as if
they cannot believe what they're hearing. The AUDIENCE gives the
impression that they are letting their shock and hatred build so
that it will be all the more righteous once they let it out
again.
As for the RACIST
RANGER, his facial expression and hand gestures do not match the
grotesque sound of his speech. Visually, he appears no different to
the camera than he did when he entered. If any of the viewers at
home have their TV sound turned down, they have no indication (other
than the reactions of the HOST and AUDIENCE) that the RACIST RANGER
is being offensive in any way.
HOST (as if it is all
he can do to keep himself from physically attacking the RACIST
RANGER): I must say, Doctors, I find it hard to believe that such
behavior is the result of a "disorder." Mocking, offensive speech of
this nature seems entirely deliberate -- and therefore deliberately
insulting to African-Americans.
AUDIENCE: [Shouts of
"Yeah!" "You tell 'em" and "Burn the racist bastard!"]
DR. CARLA: Both of
those assumptions are false, Steve. First of all, Mr. Royce was a
nineteen-year veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigation when
his affliction first manifested itself, and it ruined his career.
We're talking about a man who received seven commendations, was
wounded twice, and who was responsible, among many other things, for
infiltrating the Ku Klux Klan in Mississippi and putting four
Klansmen behind bars for a series of church-burnings. He had
everything going for him in his career, and his service record
indicates that he is anything but racist. So why would he
deliberately engage in behavior that would ruin both career and
reputation? The answer, of course, is that he wouldn't! His
behavior, therefore, must be the result of an
illness.
DR. RALPH: As for your
second assumption, Stan -- that Mr. Royce's speech patterns are
insulting to African-Americans -- I must point out that the
character Jim in Huckleberry Finn is arguably the bravest
and most admirable figure in all of American letters. Now, I'm not a
literary critic, but I do know something about human behavior, and
Jim's is exemplary. For one thing, he struggles against all odds in
order to gain his freedom. For another, he is selfless and tireless
in the defense of his friend Huck. The fact that Jim's speech
patterns and the novel's use of the "n-word" are offensive to modern
sensibilities is irrelevant. That's just the way people talked
back then. It doesn't change the fact that Jim is the hero of the
book. Some critics have argued, in fact, that Huck is merely the
narrator of Jim's story.
HOST (looking baffled):
Are you saying that the Racist Ranger speaks the way he does because
he admires a fictional
African-American?
DR. CARLA: That's one
possible trigger mechanism, yes. The actual process that results in
the observed behavior is probably much more complicated than
that.
RACIST RANGER: But
honey, I'se gwyne to tell you, dey ain't no doubt dat Jim, he 'uz
one fine nigger. En pooty smart, too.
The AUDIENCE explodes
again.
HOST (turning toward
camera, shaking his head, shouting to be heard): And believe it or
not, ladies and gentlemen, it only gets worse! When we come back
after these messages, you'll meet -- the single most despised man in
the world!
FADE OUT TO:
Commercials for
minivans, weight-loss centers, laundry detergent, instant pudding,
gourmet cat food, feminine hygiene spray, geriatric vitamins, and
drain opener. There's also a non-profit religious organization's
plea for us to adopt a Third-World child for seventeen cents a day,
plus another teaser for the late-night newsmagazine.
FADE IN TO:
HOST (grimly): Welcome
back to the show. It took us most of the break to calm down our
studio audience, but things seem to be under control now. We don't
blame them one bit for being upset -- but we promised our guests
that we'd let them come on the show and have their say, and that
we'd give Porno Girl and the Racist Ranger the benefit of the doubt.
Right, Audience?
AUDIENCE: [Assorted
grudging noises of acquiescence.]
HOST: Our next guest,
though, might be another story. It's not easy to be fair to a man
when you've seen him laughing at the horrid deaths of innocent
children. But that's exactly what the Shrinks to the Damned insist
we must do, for they claim that Daniel Clayton was not
amused by Saturday's tragedy. Rather, they believe that he suffers
from a disease that was triggered by the horror
of that day. So, ladies and gentlemen, please do your best to
welcome our final guest for today -- the man now known around the
world as Laughin' Boy!
AUDIENCE: Boooooooo!
Boooooooo!
Daniel Clayton, aka
LAUGHIN' BOY, appears onstage and blinks in the glare of the bright
lights. He is wearing tan slacks and a plain white shirt. He looks
pale, thin, and out of shape . . . especially in comparison to the
RACIST RANGER.
AUDIENCE: Booooooooo!
BOOOOOOOOOO!
LAUGHIN' BOY makes his
way across the stage to the interview platform. To our surprise, he
isn't laughing, or even smiling. In fact, he looks slack-jawed and
dopey. His stride wobbles. As he reaches the platform, DR. CARLA
goes to him and helps him up, then guides him to the chair at the
left end of the row.
The HOST waves at the
AUDIENCE for quiet, and their boos subside.
HOST (jabbing his
microphone at DR. CARLA as she retakes her seat): So what's the deal
here, Dr. Carla? The infamous Mr. Clayton appears to be whacked out
on drugs! Is that perhaps the reason behind his behavior in the
first place?
DR. CARLA: No, Steve.
Dr. Ralph and I have put Danny on medication to help him cope with
his affliction. We're still adjusting the dosage. We've found,
however, that if we administer no medication at all, Danny is unable
to function. Sooner or later he succumbs to fits of laughter that
are quite incapacitating, as well as painful. I'm sure your audience
members have all laughed so hard at one time or another that their
chest and abdominal muscles ached. Well, just imagine how difficult
it would be to live your life if that ache was constant.
HOST (with a bit of a
sneer): I'm sure my audience can imagine all kinds of things. They
are, after all, intelligent people. But I don't
think they can imagine laughing at suffering and death under any
circumstances!
AUDIENCE: [Assorted
cries of "No!" "No way!" and "You got that right, Stan!"]
DR. RALPH: They can't
imagine hysteria?
HOST (rolling his
eyes): Come on, Doc. We've all seen the Dying Dentist video, and
we've all heard the tapes that were leaked from the Wichita police
interrogation. Daniel Clayton wasn't in hysterics that day. He was
having a blast!
AUDIENCE: [Assorted
cries of "Yeah!" "We heard him!" and "You got that right,
Stan!"]
DR. RALPH: I'm not
suggesting that Daniel was in hysterics. What I am
suggesting is that if you can imagine someone suffering from
hysteria, then you should also be able to imagine someone suffering
from another disorder that could result in inappropriate
laughter.
HOST (giving camera a
sidelong skeptical glance): By which I assume you mean that Laughin'
Boy suffers from such a disorder?
DR. CARLA: That's what
we've been saying all along, Steve. Like Ms. Larkin and Special
Agent Royce --
RACIST RANGER: Dat's
fo'muh Sepeshial Agent, Miz Carla. Dey done took away mah badge en
sech.
AUDIENCE: [Threatening
rumble.]
LAUGHIN' BOY looks up
at the glowering AUDIENCE and giggles.
The HOST now leaps
toward LAUGHIN' BOY, brandishing his microphone like a
rapier.
HOST (nastily): Did you
say something, Mr. Clayton? Did something strike you as funny?
LAUGHIN' BOY: I'm
sorry, I can't help -- heeheeheehee.
DR. CARLA (reaching
inside her jacket): Would you like an injection, Daniel? Your
medication seems to be wearing off prematurely.
LAUGHIN' BOY: No, I --
hawhaw -- don't want any more. It makes me sleepy.
Whoohoohoo.
RACIST RANGER: Dat
med'cine don't seem to do de bwah no good nohow, dad fetch
it.
AUDIENCE: [More
rumbling.]
HOST: Again, Mr.
Clayton, I ask you what's so funny!
LAUGHIN' BOY (covering
his mouth): Snarksnark hurp snarksnarksnark.
DR. RALPH: Stan, I
suspect that Daniel is experiencing a mild attack of his disorder
because of your negative, aggressive demeanor and the similar
demeanor of your audience. You see, while our tests indicate that
Daniel's internal emotional states are more or less consistent with
external stimuli, his outward expressions of those states have gone
haywire. In other words, he smiles or laughs when sad, bored,
frightened, or horrified -- and does not
smile or laugh when happy, excited, amused, or delighted.
HOST (facing camera,
eyes wide in indignation): Oh, so now it's our
fault, is it?
DR. RALPH: That's not
at all what I meant to suggest.
HOST (voice picking up
speed and volume): This is precisely what I was talking about
earlier, ladies and gentlemen. We live in a society in which
deviants and miscreants of all stripes have discovered that they can
get away with their sick behavior if only they figure out how to
blame someone else!
DR. CARLA: Steve,
listen to what you just said. You referred to "sick behavior," and
that's exactly right. These clients of ours aren't blaming you or
anyone else for their difficulties, but neither are they themselves
to blame. They are, rather, sick. They suffer from disorders that
they didn't ask for and cannot control. They are people to be
helped, not condemned.
HOST (turning on DR.
CARLA): Two things, Dr. Carla. First, my name is
Stan! And second, it's awfully goshdarn hard for normal,
caring people to avoid condemning someone who would laugh at
something like this --
The HOST jabs a finger
at the giant screen behind the interview platform, and LAUGHIN'
BOY's frozen face dissolves into an overhead shot of the Wichita
killing field. The blood is fresh on the grass, and we can see at
least a dozen blasted corpses, including several children. Two of
these children are lying against their mother's legless
torso.
The AUDIENCE gasps and
moans in revulsion and horror.
Everyone on the stage
begins to turn to look at the screen as well. But DR. RALPH stops
suddenly and reaches across DR. CARLA to grab LAUGHIN' BOY's
arm.
DR. RALPH: Daniel! Look
at me!
But it's too late.
LAUGHIN' BOY has turned in his chair, and he sees the awful
scene.
LAUGHIN' BOY:
HeeheeheeheeheeHAWHAWHAWHAWHAWHAW!
Within seconds,
LAUGHIN' BOY has doubled over with the force of his laughter. A
moment later, he has fallen out of his chair and is howling on the
floor.
The AUDIENCE bellows in
disbelief and rage, and the camera cuts to them. They're leaping up
from their seats, screaming.
The camera cuts back
and forth between the AUDIENCE and LAUGHIN' BOY. LAUGHIN' BOY has
rolled to the edge of the interview platform. A boom microphone
comes into the picture as it tries to follow him, but the HOST waves
it away and places his hand-held microphone next to LAUGHIN' BOY's
mouth.
Now LAUGHIN' BOY's
laughter roars in the studio like a tidal wave. It almost drowns out
the furious screams of the AUDIENCE.
HOST (shouting): This
is shameful, ladies and gentlemen! Shameful!
The camera draws back
so that we see the entire interview platform again.
DR. CARLA, though still
in her chair, is bending down and reaching toward LAUGHIN' BOY.
DR. RALPH is staring up
at the AUDIENCE and seems to be petrified in a half-sitting,
half-standing position.
PORNO GIRL also stares
up at the AUDIENCE, but only for a moment. Wide-eyed and trembling,
she looks down, opens her purse, and pulls out a copy of Ass
Masters magazine.
The RACIST RANGER is
shaking his head.
RACIST RANGER (barely
audible): Lawd! Lawd!
LAUGHIN' BOY rolls off
the interview platform and lands on the HOST's shoes. The HOST drops
his microphone and jumps away as if bitten by a snake. He trips and
lands sprawled on his back at the RACIST RANGER's feet.
As the HOST falls,
LAUGHIN' BOY's laughter subsides a little. He manages to get up to
his hands and knees.
And at this moment, a
large dark-haired man wearing black jeans and a black turtleneck
charges into the picture from the AUDIENCE. He leaps onto the stage,
screams something unintelligible, and slashes his arm downward at
LAUGHIN' BOY's neck.
It will only be later,
as we run our VHS tapes and TiVo hard drives in slo-mo over and over
again, that we will see the short, sharp blade in the ATTACKER's
hand.
LAUGHIN' BOY raises his
left arm, his camera-side arm, to try to ward off the blow. The
ATTACKER's hand hits him at the shoulder and slices down to his
wrist, splitting the entire length of his shirt sleeve.
The RACIST RANGER leaps
up from his chair, but the supine HOST is against his legs. The
RACIST RANGER falls forward over the HOST, but manages to turn it
into a somersault.
The ATTACKER raises his
hand in preparation for another downward slash. LAUGHIN' BOY falls
forward onto his face. His white shirt sleeve already has a wet
shimmer of red along the gash.
The AUDIENCE's scream
goes up an octave.
DR. CARLA and DR. RALPH
recoil. It is as if they have each been slapped by an invisible
man.
PORNO GIRL covers her
face with her open copy of Ass Masters.
The ATTACKER begins to
bring his arm down again. LAUGHIN' BOY has collapsed. The next blow
will bury the knife -- we can see it now -- in LAUGHIN' BOY's
neck.
But the RACIST RANGER
has come up from his somersault, and he springs over LAUGHIN' BOY
onto the ATTACKER. The RACIST RANGER's left hand closes on the
attacker's right wrist, stopping the knife. Then, before the
ATTACKER can react, the RACIST RANGER steps behind the ATTACKER and
jams his right thumb into the hollow of the ATTACKER's throat. The
RACIST RANGER bends the ATTACKER backwards and brings his right knee
up into the small of the ATTACKER's back.
ATTACKER:
Gaaaaggggkkkk!
We're just able to hear
this through the screams of the AUDIENCE. What we don't hear (but
have no trouble believing later) are three of the ATTACKER's
vertebrae breaking.
The RACIST RANGER rips
the knife from the ATTACKER's hand and shoves him off the stage. The
ATTACKER rolls under the camera's field of view, and we won't see
him again until a tabloid newspaper smuggles photos from his
heavily-guarded hospital room.
AUDIENCE: [Goes
nuts.]
LAUGHIN' BOY tries to
stand, but he collapses again before making it up to his knees. The
RACIST RANGER throws down the knife, then leans over to help
LAUGHIN' BOY to his feet as the boom microphone swings toward
them.
RACIST RANGER: Oh Lawd,
Mars Danny, dat arm dah look pow'ful bad!
LAUGHIN' BOY blinks. He
is dazed. He's bleeding all along the length of his arm. His shirt
sleeve has turned a deep, dark red.
He looks down at his
wound for the first time.
And then he grins.
Then
chuckles.
And then he's howling
as if his bloody arm is the single funniest thing he's ever seen in
his life. If not for the RACIST RANGER, LAUGHIN' BOY would crumple
to the floor again.
At this moment, we hear
a subtle change in the sound coming from the AUDIENCE.
Wait a minute, the
sound seems to say. Why is he laughing at his own
blood?
The disheveled HOST
picks himself up and rushes over to stand next to the RACIST RANGER
and LAUGHIN' BOY.
HOST (breathlessly):
Ladies and gentlemen, I can hardly believe what I've just seen, and
what I'm seeing right this minute! A disgraced former FBI agent has
proven that he is still a true hero, and a man I would have spat on
two minutes ago is laughing in the face of danger, and at his own
pain! What does it all mean? And what will happen to these brave men
now? We'll try to figure that out -- right after these
messages!
The AUDIENCE applauds
and cheers, and the THEME MUSIC swells.
The HOST's shoulders
slump, and he steps away from the RACIST RANGER and LAUGHIN' BOY. He
looks down at his feet and shakes his head. He is unaware that we
have not yet cut to commercial.
HOST (softly but
audibly): Goddamn. Goddamn.
He stops and massages
his forehead.
HOST: Goddamn,
I'm glad we're in sweeps!
FADE OUT TO:
Commercials for rental
cars, frozen pasta entrees, cellular telephones, cocktail wieners,
flea collars, exfoliating sponges, tub and tile cleaner, unfinished
furniture, a chain of auto-lube centers, and feminine hygiene
spray.
*
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