In the back room of a decrepit computer store, they force-fed me laundry detergent until vivid hallucinations of a nuclear holocaust made me tell them everything I knew about gorillas who understood American Sign Language, which wasn’t much. My body convulsed, strapped down to a wooden table customarily used to assemble low-end office PCs. I hoped the visions wouldn’t morph into distant memories of Scientology recruiting movies or episodes of Ally McBeal.
Years before, I bought an 8088 motherboard from the same store, and later smashed it to pieces because it rebooted every time Tetris got to the level with the tall stair-step pyramid and the first nine pieces are long blocks that don’t fit. I planned my revenge, and invited the salesman, a beady-eyed Bieber clone, to Hooters. I promised him loose women, and Action Comics #800, in near-mint condition.
We went shot-for-shot with Emetrol vodka, a horrible cherry-flavored vodka produced by Adriatica Laboratories that’s also an anti-nausea medication. I just received a full transfusion of AmsOil synthetic plasma, and the booze did nothing to me, aside from the hideous taste. He didn’t mention the diabetes, a fatal mistake when slamming 180 proof, pure glucose/fructose rotgut.
I left him for dead in the toilet and retreated in the city’s underground tunnel system, built in the 1820s by an army of militant Freemasons. (I only knew about them because of a summer trying to screw someone that worked at the city’s tourism center.)
Now, tables turned, I wished for the Robitussin-aftertaste vodka as they waterboarded me with fake-lemony-fresh detergent from a five gallon bucket. A lab technician dressed in an immaculate vintage Devo outfit kept screaming, “tell us more about Koko!” I could not.