Slices by Michael Montoure Read Free Book Online Page A

There was just one detail, one
last little thing.
    The
one thing I see in the mirror that hasn’t betrayed me. These
eyes of mine. Just the same. The windows of the soul, they say. My
eyes are the brilliant sharp blue of a frozen sky. Variety said that.
    Yours,
I regret to say, are not. Dull and flat and almost gray.
    Colored
contacts might work, I thought? No. Cheap. Tacky. Unconvincing.
    But
there is a way. I didn’t think there was, but there is.
    There’s
a Doctor Murakami from Yokohama. His flight will be arriving just one
hour from now. He’s been doing amazing work, really
revolutionary, using stem cells to promote retinal neuron growth cone
migration. He’s a leading expert on intercellular signaling and
nerve cell targeting, and his animal trials have been highly
promising. He’s never done this to a human before, so just
think, Mister Meyer, you’ll be part of history. Whether it
works or not.
    There
is a chance that it won’t work, of course. There are hundreds
of thousands of nerves to reconnect, but what’s art worth
without risk?
    He
had his conditions, of course. He’s an ethical man. He refused
to use the eyes of a living donor, you see. So. There’s that.
The poison I’ve taken is supposed to be, well, relatively
painless. So there’s a small comfort. To me, I mean, I don’t
expect it to concern you.
    And
in your case — there’s absolutely no way Doctor Murakami
would replace a patient’s perfectly healthy eyes.
    Have
you ever seen my classics, Mister Meyer? Have you seen White
Voodoo? With my character, the Loa King, and his army of followers, their
black faces painted with pale skulls, mine painted with a jet-black
skull. They might call it racist if they made the film today, but I
still think that’s one of the most striking images we ever
produced. It still haunts me, sometimes.
    Have
you seen it? The ending, where the Loa King uses his zombie drugs to
make the hunter put out his own eyes with his Bowie knife?
    I
don’t just collect posters, you see. Props, as well. This blow
gun, this knife. You can keep them, if you like. You can keep the
whole house. The paperwork is done and it’s all over but the
screaming.
    You’re
going to be the new Angel of Fear, Mister Meyer. When you open my
eyes days from now and look at my face in the mirror, you’ll
thank me. You will, trust me. I just wish I could have seen it all
finished, but —
    Good
night, sweet prince. We won’t meet again. Keep screaming.
Breathe deep.
    And
— cut.

REST
AREAS

    “It’s
not like we never killed anybody before.” Craig said it again,
still staring out the window of the stolen car. He wouldn’t
stop saying it.
    Gary’s
grip tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t even nod. He’d
agreed before, said, “You’re right” or “It’s
no big deal,” something like that, but this time he just ground
his teeth and kept driving.
    By
now, he realized that Craig was just talking to himself, just making
noise to be comforting. Gary didn’t find it the least
comforting, not one goddamn bit. By now, everything was on his last
few nerves — like his paper coffee cup from the last rest stop,
still rattling around at his feet, where he was afraid it would get
stuck under the gas pedal or the brakes at the least convenient
moment; and the fly that had made its way into the car and hadn’t
found its way out, drifting over the back seat in lazy droning
circles; and Craig’s constant bitching, of course.
    And
then there were all the rattles and complaints of an unfamiliar car.
Including the noise from the back. The sound he wasn’t
listening to yet, wouldn’t listen to, but there it was on the
edge of his awareness all the same.
    His
eyes kept flickering over to the bare mirror. He kept his rabbit’s
foot hanging from the rear-view mirror in a car, always, even when
people gave him shit about it, and he always insisted that he wasn’t
superstitious, or anything, it was just his thing, you know?