Your Next-Door Neighbor Is a Dragon by Zack Parsons Read Free Book Online Page A

confused or losing your place when you hear other numbers. That was the sort of maddening mental failure I endured for much of the exercise. It was a constant struggle for my brain to react to the images independently of my ears. I got the hang of it after several pictures, but as it progressed I realized my defense mechanism was simply naming what I was seeing in the photo.
    “Very good,” Anders announced, even though I was feeling stressed out by the exercise. “Take a moment to regain zee composure. Listen to zee music und relax. Vee vill continue to zee next phase once you tell me you are ready.”
    The digital fireworks returned and the music grew a bit louder. The chair continued to swivel from side to side. I had to admit, the sensory overload was becoming slightly nauseating.
    I fought through the ache in the pit of my stomach and announced my readiness.
    “Excellent. You are doing vell, Mr. Parsons.”
    The music softened a bit as the screens once again faded to black.
    “Now vee vill be reversing things a bit,” Anders said. “I am going to ask you a series of questions. You vill see images on zee screens, but you are to respond only to my questions. Zer is no right or een-correct answer to zees questions. Answer however you like and recall your goal is to manifest your inner self.”
    “Are you ready?” he asked.
    “Ja!” I replied.
    “Vee begin…now!”
    Images began to flash rapid-fire across the screens. It was an accelerated version of the earlier collage of faces, but covering a much broader spectrum of subjects. It was an onslaught.
    Mundane images, violent images, strange images, and pornographic images exploded in complete disharmony across three walls of the chamber. One moment a black-and-white photograph of a ranch house appeared and a moment later it was covered by a photograph of genital herpes from a medical textbook. A moment later the herpes disappeared behind an image of kids cheering on a roller coaster.
    I reeled from the imagery. I was being deluged with disorienting optical static even more intrusive than the words being shouted in my ears during the first exercise.
    “Vat is your favorite color?”
    The Taj Mahal at sunset. A gauzy glamour photo of three children with Down syndrome standing in front of a Christmas tree.
    “Vermilion!” I shouted.
    “Name your best quality,” Anders instructed.
    A stone arrowhead. A fat woman’s cleavage. An F-117 Stealth Fighter parked at an air show. The world was spinning. An insane whirling kaleidoscope of colors and pictures.
    “My punctuality!” I shouted.
    “Vat is your greatest flaw?” Anders asked.
    A recreational Jeep stuck in a ditch. A baseball pitching machine. Dolphins leaping out of the water in unison. I could no longer tell what was actually being projected on the screen and what shapes my brain was creating out of the rippling, turning bands of color.
    “Ahhh fuck I hate…late women,” I answered.
    A tombstone. A collectible motorcycle. Question after question. Bile crept into my throat. My legs shook involuntarily.
    I tried closing my eyes, but an unseen camera in the room betrayed my tactic. Anders warned me to keep my eyes open and chided me about joking with my answers.
    A rabbit chewing on a wood chip. A woman nude except for a headband. My friend from childhood?
    The questions continued. It felt as if I was drowning in the sensations of the room. Sweat coursed down my temples and over my forehead. I was constricted, almost breathless.
    “If you could have two of anything, vat vould you vant?”
    A Brazilian football player catching a ball with his face.
    “Vaginas,” I answered with a gasp. “Vaginas on my…hands.”
    A T-72 tank model kit.
    “What is zee name you call yourself?”
    The strange way Anders phrased the question had to be intentional.
    “Vaginahands?”
    “Who is—”
    Anders was interrupted by a ringing telephone.
    “Excuse me, Herr Parsons,” he said.
    The images abruptly faded to a