Prince Rupert's Drop

By Charles GautschyIII

Prince Rupert's Drop book presents a timeless plot. An atheist sets out on a journey to disprove God's existence. Things don't turn out exactly as planned. The book's central character, Rupert Austin, plays both antagonist and protagonist in equal measure. The former as a dark and disturbed boy with no empathy, no compassion, no love, and no guilt for any of it. Rupert has only one emotion, fear, and from there, fear's timeless bedfellow, hate. You see, Rupert is a severely autistic multiple savant. He's statistically one out of ten billion since the dawn of man. A child that talks at birth, won't feed from the breast, won't open its eyes, covers its ears, and lashes out to communicate displeasure because it can't stand the noise of its own voice. Such a child would die on its own of starvation, be culled as weak, or be persecuted as a witch/demon. But most importantly, if the child survived long enough to get the strength, Rupert's lot would kill itself. Every single time… The setting is in the mid-twenty-first century. It's the time of a sweeping American revival called the Wildfire. Outside America, the world is literally in flames due to massive uprisings of isolated ghettos. We follow Rupert through high school. He shuns a loving mother and is manipulated by an abusive father. He is adopted by a classmate to be protected and tamed. She is largely successful until she unwittingly leads Rupert into an exorcism by a spin-off Christian cult. Rupert almost dies. Rupert seeks revenge. To get it, he will attempt to destroy the thriving mythology of a higher power. If you clip the tail, the head will die. Prince Rupert's drop. Rupert seeks out a partner for his proposed crime against humanity—Winchester Carnagie II, the richest man alive. Together they will exploit the world's most powerful computer. She's a sentient computer and performs heinous acts to achieve their goal, ridding man of God. The computer is narcistic and a sociopath. She has even less empathy than Rupert—in the beginning. But Rupert is asked a curious question during his rampage: "You a Judas, a Saul, or a Paul?" On the road to Damascus. This is a story about a doctor healing himself and not knowing it. On Rupert's misguided path, he's a coconspirator in horrific genocide, shameless execution, and a general disregard for life. That will change. Not only will the doctor heal himself; he will release a deluge on the world's inferno.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644624746

Book preview

Chapter 1

Stupid Pet Tricks and the White Room

It’s a Bug’s Life

The ball, known as shatter jack, is three inches in diameter and made of a clear crystalline substrate matrix. When the ball hits an object, it rebounds and shatters into approximately one thousand to two thousand irregular crystal splinters, depending on the surface contour. The splinters are attached by nanofibers; after approximately one yard in diameter, the ball reforms into its original shape to be caught. The tiny crystals reflect a colorful rainbow display of refracted light.

Needless to say, the ball was not specifically designed for fourteen-year-olds to walk around in circles and bounce for five hours. But I would…

One day I’m walking around our cul-de-sac and bouncing the ball; my father is eyeing me curiously with that look (a mix of distaste and confusion).

The drill was, I’d bounce the ball, write down the number, and catch it. It exercised my memory and reflexes, but most of all, it burned time. I would guess, based on impact surface statistics, how many splinters to expect. It took my mind off the grid.

My dad had been drinking that day. A fight with my mother drove him out of the house. There were many fights, mostly about me.

What in the hell are you writing down? He is speaking drunk-loud; it didn’t bother him that it hurts my ears. He walks up and catches the ball before I can.

I write down the number "1,159," about two hundred less than I expected.

My father grabs the pad and looks at the string of numbers. I pay twenty thousand dollars a month for that retard school, and this is what you do when you get home? What are all these numbers?

I don’t say anything; no matter how soft I speak, it hurts to talk. The vibration, the resonance. The drug, testosterone, will make it worse.

He raises his voice, which hurts me at a level just above my own voice, and he knows it. "You’re gainfully playing and manipulating your mother, but not me. SPEAK."

I speak in my soft, monotonic grate. I count them from the picture in my head. The number of crystals. I write them down.

He smiles and lowers his voice. You’re shitting me. He bounces the ball; it shatters, and he catches it. How many…?

I write 1937 on the pad.

My father stands there for a second, confused, and then smiles. Naw, I ain’t buying it. Wait here, you little charlatan.

He’s gone for a long time. I’m afraid to bounce the ball, so I start searching my mind for all my memories. It’s the only thing I can’t do or remember instantly. I hate it, but it’s hard to stop until I find them all. The memories.

I’m in a trance when he returns; I don’t see or hear anything when I’m searching. I go from normal sensory overload to nothing. A coma. It gets me into trouble…

He finally yells loud enough to get me out of it. "WHEY! SNAP OUT OF IT!"

I jolt back to reality; he’s holding a big jar of liquor balls. He pops one of the 190 proof melts into his mouth. He’s showing me the jar, turning it, shaking it loudly enough to hurt my ears. If you’re messing with me, little man, a world of hurt you are in. I’m going to pour these out into a box and the cost of being wrong… He takes another one out, puts it in his mouth, and waits a second until it liquefies. He blows the residue into my face. Ahhhh… Maybe you’ll have to suck on one of these tasty libations.

I can barely handle his breath’s stench. I don’t like him when he drinks; I don’t like him when he doesn’t…I don’t like Mother, but she would stop this. I whisper, 296.

He stares stupidly into the jar. I ate four out of a new jar of three hundred… How’d he do that? I didn’t even pour it out. His face softens up; his eyebrows rise, almost sympathetically.

I started studying faces not too long before that so I could understand people’s emotions before they react. Later I would learn what my expected response should be, the human response, not the blank, uncaring stare of an insect. I was getting quite good at faces. I had cross-referenced almost a million mixed facial tells covering most of USA’s ethnic and age demographics.

He kneels down so I don’t have to speak loudly. "It’s okay, Whey. How did you see them?"

You moved the jar around. Over time you exposed them all, so none were blocked. I was 99.9999 percent certain.

Father started paying a lot more attention to me after that—looking for marketable savant retard attributes. Before that, it never occurred to him that my ability to draw photographic quality images from memory was marketable. What about a perfect Picasso copy? I could play the piano by ear; surely that stupid pet trick would attract an audience—and a paycheck. Of course, he checked into card counting, but that was very illegal. Even charging to guess the number of jelly beans in a jar got us a citation for gambling at one county fair (one deep in the Way). Chess competitions took too long but were fair game. Some had decent purses. I could reliably guess someone’s weight to within one pound (based on a memorized database Father made me research and read). I could design trick eight-plus bumper-rebound pool shots for my father to hit, no skill involved, that would drop every time. More issues with gambling. I could also read facial disposition, but Father quickly deduced, after I practiced on him, that it would just piss people off.

I was a one boy carny, a circus clown. A coiled-over hunchback with lines of pain riddling my face. A slight fourteen-year-old boy that wore wraparound sunglasses, hearing cancellation, and had no exposed skin. A mummy. Come, all you fat moonfaced lemmings, come watch the magical retard entertain you. Come point at him; make sure you’re open with your facial expressions. Your disgust. Your distaste. Your fear. Why are you angry? Why do you hate him? Why do you feel sorry for him? Why do you shake your head?

And then there were the faces I hated the most. Why the compassion for him? Why the sympathy for him? Why the love for me? I’M A BUG. Luckily, those empathetic expressions were few and far between…

My father was a man of whim, a salesman that changed jobs often. Or rather, the jobs changed him often. Of course, it was never his fault; the world was holding him back. His ill-informed epiphany regarding his savant son was a license for freedom. Freedom to quit his job for good so he could manage my bookings. Freedom to buy a conversion van so we could travel in comfort. Freedom to add onto the house such to provide an art studio for me. And why not a man cave with all the latest infotainment, since the workers were already there? Most importantly, Father’s newfound interest in his son granted him freedom from Mother.

My father was a man with above-average intelligence trapped in an angry adolescent’s body. But it was his intelligence that played into his control of me, his corrective actions as he called his thinly veiled torture. They kept me focused on the bottom line… My idle time with the shatter jack would be displaced with production artwork. My weekends would be on the road.

I resisted change at first, aggressively, but Father knew a growing boy needed to eat. I couldn’t tolerate crunchy food; it was like eating glass. If I didn’t comply with Father’s rules, granola is all he’d feed me. Lack of sustenance would leave me tattered in hunger pains, ultimately giving him victory. All this on the road, of course, away from Mother. If we were in public, he knew a simple fatherly rub on the shoulder was like ten-grit sandpaper on an open sore to me. His laughing out loud would erupt concussions in my head. "HA, HA, HEY! Surely, son, you’ll rethink your answer?"

If I complied, however, there would be creamy puddings, soft voices, even some time with the shatter jack. Compliance included not ever telling Mother about Father’s corrective actions.

Our staple was selling art, both from live portraits and a mobile gallery of inventory. Father would prepare for a venue by making sure I reproduced a wide cross section of notable artwork. We always fought on the quality, the perfection. I wanted to do oils in proper 3-D and exact to the original. Father said we didn’t have time for that; no matter how much he corrected me, I always got bogged down when doing oils. As such, Father made me stick to pencils for the first showing; he had me replicate everyone’s work, all the masters.

It was the New York Central Park fair. Father paid a booth fee that made Mother’s face contort—not into the normal anger, but fear. We got there several days in advance, for no particular reason. We stayed at the Waldorf Historian, two separate rooms. Father entertained guests—female guests that made strange noises. We ate at the finest restaurants. I got steak tartar, creamy mashed potatoes, chocolate mousse, as long as I kept painting—and kept quiet about my father’s friends.

He was nervous on opening day. He’d gone all-in in this little gamble of his. Father was nice to me when he was nervous; his expression was of some fear and needing validation from me. That was when I first learned to lie using facial-expression reading…I’d say, "I should say it’s going to be okay, Father." I could say it, lie, without stuttering; I didn’t mean it, but I knew it’s what I should say to diffuse the situation.

Father set me up in a chair with an opposing portrait seat; all my supplies were handy. People strolled in gradually on the first Saturday morning. Father had no shame. His sign read, "Help severe savant autism. Please keep your voices lowered and no flashes." That’s right; don’t take pictures of the freak… Not many people wanted me to do their portrait at first. Our little outdoor studio, however, was quite the hit. Father hadn’t priced the only oil painting he’d let me complete. A rather gratuitous Rembrandt. He hadn’t priced anything. Regardless, a crowd of well-dressed patrons were hovering around it.

I listen in. "It’s remarkable. How is this possible? I’ve seen the original and the striations, they’re impeccable and, most importantly, Is it for sale? How much do they want for it?"

Father had no idea how to price anything. He had me study art valuation, but it was all over the map. It depended on many variables. He gave me a look, an honest plea for help, so I replied to the unasked question, "Let them price it."

Father approaches the small crowd with excitement in his gate. "He, my autistic son, could have been even more accurate were it not for time. Father beams with a pathetically patronizing smile. That was going to be our showcase for Whey’s abilities. The only oil painting. We hadn’t, well, intended to actually sell it."

As I listen to Father’s lies about the rest of the gallery, a long line forms with people holding tags from various paintings. Most look away from me, embarrassed… Father had put multiple tags on each so people could take one to a make a bid.

One emboldened gentleman, followed by three others, all carrying the same tag, approaches and addresses me. His expression is cautious and respectful. Son, excuse me, but how does this work? You see, we all want the same painting, the Picasso.

Two more hours and it’s over in a flash; Father looks at the empty outdoor gallery, talking to no one in particular. "They sold so quickly… It all happened so fast. I didn’t, don’t know how to know if we did well. The bids…"

The crowd overwhelmed Dad, and he, in turn, succumbed to the temptation and sold out—literally and figuratively. I could tell by the faces most thought they’d gotten the best of us. Their faces couldn’t even lie about cheating a freak. Some items did bid up though. We got $20K for the Rembrandt. We got $75K for everything else combined.

I could tell on one item, when the price was too high for people to continue bidding, the look of disappointment on some faces. I whispered to my father, Quietly follow them and tell them I can do more. Exact duplicates for less money. Drone mail it to them. Father quickly took to the scam and did countless shady deals on the side, all destined to keep me busy in my studio for some time…

Then it was down to me and my opposing portrait chair. With the empty gallery, there were no carrots, no proof that I could draw.

Father is trying to hustle people in, pointing to me. "Come on in, give the boy a chance. We’re running a special on genuine hand-drawn portraits." They take one look at me and reveal they have no desire to sit across me for any length of time.

Finally, one girl in group of college students takes Father up on his offer.

She is sitting across me; her face reads some compassion, some embarrassment—like the kind when people get their shoes shined. I don’t like the pity; I don’t want to look at her looking at me.

I say softly, "You can watch, but please go there now." I point to behind myself.

The girl looks confused, somewhat hurt. Um, how can you do the portrait then?

Father smiles. "Watch and learn, young lady. The Savant. The Perfection…" He gently lifts her up from the chair. She and her group of friends gather behind me and watch as I continue to do a photo quality portrait of her.

"Oh my word…, someone says as I draw her from the record in my memory. It’s like a frickin’ photograph… This dude is freaky."

Freaky. The portrait took too long for Father; he’s not happy. People have cameras if they want that level of quality. It’s impersonal. A great stupid pet trick, sure, but not efficient. It took twenty minutes. We need more production volume. He takes a 12×16 piece of paper and places it on my easel. Faces need to be life-size and fit on this. You have five minutes a pop.

I suck in air. That’s something I do when I’m annoyed; the sound itself annoys my father. That’s how I wind myself up to take on Mother. Conversely, blowing out softly calms the beast within…Father knows both tells though.

"I ain’t your mother. You do not want my kind of action. SPEAK your piece."

I wince at his loud command and blow out softly. It’s too big, there’s too little time. It won’t look finished. I can’t—

He interrupts, "You will. Open space means you need to do it in layers. It will have some blur, an impressionist flair at the very least. It will look like art and not some photo rendered by a bloody robot retard."

And so I sat all Sunday, churning out portrait after portrait; each and every one was unfinished business. I knew I’d have to complete them when I got home, to fill the void they left. And Father would find them, worthless pictures of perfect strangers, and accuse me of wasting valuable time.

I worked in a blur though, fighting time, trying to make them better and better. If I started to exceed Father’s revised seven and one-half minutes, he’d come up behind me and give what looked like a gentle shoulder rub. He’d smile and say, Just relax, son, this isn’t a race. I’d try not to wince at the pain, lest there be later restitution. But I’d finish promptly; the negative reinforcement worked quite well.

I couldn’t see the art in my partial renderings. But as I said, my father was smart; he could see it and tweak the allotted time to mold my urgency into false creativity. Father struck a balance with his customers, undeniable likeness with a surreal look that only a robot in a straitjacket could create.

We sold enough art to cover the booth fee, the lavish hotel, fancy meals, and Father’s friends. We had enough money left over to cover payments on Father’s various spending sprees, thus staying in compliance with Financial Responsibility Act, thereby not breaking Father and Mother’s personal debt ceiling; Father could legally remain out of control. And I would enable him as a one-retard sweatshop. But at least there was no more toil.

When we get home, Mother has a dog. I suck in at her; she’d failed to ask me. Father had stayed up all night and smelled of his friends. Not the greeting she expected.

Mother hugs the dog and smiles at me. I missed you, Whey. Her expression is of longing and love. It becomes instantly apparent the dog is a surrogate for me. If I won’t allow her to touch me, she will do so through the dog. She shakes her head as my father walks up the stairs. Her eyes mist over.

"Why would you miss me? I say louder than normal, indicating anger. And who said you could have a dog?"

A few weeks later, Father is drunk, slurring his words. "The fuckin’ problem is that everybody’s a court jester, running around CGI video-shopping themselves doing the same retard shit you really do. You can’t tell what’s real or simulated anymore on YouTube… We could crack the ‘show,’ tele-media, television, if we could just get them to see your work is real. Nobody believes jack shit anymore. They don’t even answer my mail."

My drugs are burning inside me, my unwanted addiction. Testosterone. I’m sick of him. I hate myself. I hate my body. It’s changing, transforming. I don’t understand. Why would a smooth female leg elicit a response in me? Why would breasts give me a pang? Why did I soil myself at night? It’s disgusting. And then there’s my father, drunk at breakfast, harping ad nauseam about getting me on television so he can feed the monkey on his back, increase his debt ceiling.

Father is reading his tablet, flipping pages with simulated paper sounds that he’d enabled to annoy me. Mother is working the hologram screen, doing home finances. She makes a rare stand with Father. We can’t sustain this. If Whey misses any target you’ve set, we’ll be in violation.

Father talks between clenched teeth. "Woman, do you know the statistics on marriage and retards? Do you know the divorce rate? You should count yourself lucky. He swipes the screen loudly and glares at me. It’s easy to read his face: hate." I’d like to believe it’s just the booze.

Father’s reading intently when he suddenly slaps the table. AHA! He looks to me, and his eyes show real remorse. Sorry, Whey, about the noise.

He’s found something… He needs me…

Father said it was a long shot, but it was a shot. To get on television. To crack the code leading to the real money. Father has a good memory—for a normal person. He was reading the paper that morning and saw an article about Aleksey Veksler, the self-proclaimed greatest chess player that ever was. Father remembered giving me a hard time and bragging about Veksler. "If you weren’t such a retard, you could do things like play Deep Blue 9, live on national TV, and making all that coin. Russians got pizzazz; it sells well. With you, it’d be like watching two computers play each other, only one eats and shits."

I held my breath and replied, He cheated.

It turns out Aleksey was keynote speaker at the upcoming Chicago World’s Chess Playoff. It was a walk-on event for amateurs as well; a two-day tournament prior to the playoff would qualify ten nonpros. A while back, I asked if I could enter, and Father replied, There’s no minimum purse. We can’t take you out of circulation that long. But that was before he found out Veksler was going to be there. Veksler was using the opportunity to have a book signing for his recently released book, Staring Down Deep Blue 9.

I wasn’t there to play; it was too late to enter. I was there for entirely different reasons—the book signing and more. Father had coached me heavily. Some of it would involve lying and acting, to which I was inept at best. But Father was prepared with all the best and worst of behavioral reinforcements. He promoted the best as a starter: "Hey, what about butter mashed potatoes and ice cream? Maybe we’ll even get your little stinger wet. You know, some pussy."

We’re in line, and I’m studying Veksler. He’s twenty-four, young and arrogant. He has a blond female interpreter next to him; it’s clear they’re having sexual relations. He is mocking his fans in Russian, all the while smiling at them with contempt. The translator is repeating none of it; she’s just making up niceties and quips. Aleksey is drinking from a glass filled with vodka; his eyes are glassy and his words fluid.

It’s my turn; he can’t hide his contempt of me. He turns to his translator and speaks in Russian. Check out the headgear on this nutjob. Movie stars get the skirt, and I get the freaks and geeks.

She smiles up at me from the table. Her expression is of royalty looking down on the lower class. Mr. Veksler thinks your sunglasses are impressive. What is your name, for him to sign?

Father nudges me, but gently. I lean down and speak softly to her, That’s not what he said.

She looks surprised. Excuse me?

I speak to Veksler in Russian. "That’s not what he said. Aleksey is insulting everyone. They buy his book, and he insults them like a pompous asshole." My father made me say that, annotate Aleksey and say asshole; I’m not good with emotional insults, but it came out better than I thought it would.

Veksler flashes red. It’s both anger and embarrassment. His eyebrows then rise in smug humor, as if ready for battle. This is what Father wanted—escalation. Aleksey speaks in Russian, smiling for the gathering crowd all the while. "It’s Mr. Veksler, you trite little American shit-stain. You could have just bought your book and headed back to whatever rock you hide under in that hideous outfit. Now just piss off. No book for you."

I force a smile myself and say in English, loud enough for people to hear, Thank you for asking. I have multiple disabilities that require considerable physical protection. They don’t know how long I have to live. As painful as it was for me, my father brought me here to fulfill one of my wishes, to meet my hero. And to perhaps have just a couple chess moves with the great Aleksey Veksler…

Veksler is smirking at me, clearly understanding none of what I said. His translator is desperately gripping onto a fake smile. She looks confused as she repeats what I said.

Veksler turns his face down in false sympathy and speaks softly in Russian, unable to hide a condescending, odious smile. It is a shame you lived long enough to soil this buzz of mine. That sentimental nonsense is not the agenda of someone with such poor manners and lack of respect. I am world champion—

I interrupt him in Russian, "Perhaps my agenda is one of exposure. You didn’t stare down Deep Blue 9… You cheated."

A larger crowd starts to form; civilian paparazzi cameras are rolling due to the unusually long exchange. Veksler looks around, trying to hide his nerves for the unraveling situation. Your slanderous accusations will be defended in court. The match is a matter of public record. He waves me off and takes a sip from his drink. "You have nothing."

He looks up at me, waiting, curious for my reply. I oblige, still in Russian. I’ll keep speaking this soon-to-be-extinct dialect, which I learned in one afternoon. Unless you force my hand to disclose in English… Another insult via Father. I lean in and speak softly so no one can hear, not even the translator. You had no endgame. You were merely defending against Deep Blue’s aggression. You knew you could not win.

I pause. Veksler smiles and motions me to continue. Nonsense, but please, continue to masturbate.

I force a painful smile. "You did see Deep Blue’s endgame. I saw you smile on TV when you did. Why did you smile, Mr. Veksler?"

Veksler peers at me with a downturned grimace. You appear to be a soothsayer, so please…

I answer back. You smiled because the match had a two-hour limit and a five-minute shot clock, per your request. You saw Deep Blue’s future checkmate after your tenth move. Deep Blue’s caretakers planned on a three-minute shot clock and forty moves. You merely timed Deep Blue out for a draw.

Veksler claps lightly and smiles to the crowd. He nods to the translator; in Russian, he says, Tell all the gathering monkeys I’m giving the boy his dream, an informal chat with the master. He then addresses me with a Cheshire cat smile. The board was blacked out after the fifteenth move, so I could reveal the outcome in my book. He holds up a book. The account herein is at odds with your fairy tale.

I start recounting Deep Blue’s endgame from move 15. When I get to move 25, Veksler holds up his hand in halt. "Okay. What do you want?"

Father’s plan is working perfectly. Veksler and I are sitting across each other with a vintage English chessboard between us. Veksler holds both hands up to the crowd and speaks in broken English. I grant boy dying wish. To dance with god. I indulge him game. He looks to me with hate and a dose of fear in his eyes. Your move…

Per Father’s instruction, I make a fast move and slam the bell. The ring goes through me like a bullet, but Father insists on the drama.

Veksler shakes his head. You should relish this, take time. He makes a casual move.

I make another lightning-fast move and slam the bell, wincing in the process.

Veksler displays displeasure. He tries to move at a slow, purposeful pace, but I keep making violent moves and slam the bell. It makes me look like the master and him the one having to think… After seven moves, he starts moving fast, too fast. He starts talking under his breath in Russian. You little troll. How did I get suckered into this? What are you up to?

Playing into my script, Veksler makes a fast move, too fast, and slams the bell. It’s a fatal move as well. I can see it, and I can see it in his eyes. I was playing variants of Deep Blue 7’s random number series. Veksler’s last move, the hasty mistake, would terminate this game as a draw in fifty-two moves. All the camera phones are rolling.

He waits for my move. He looks furious. I make the next sequence in the draw and slam the bell. I’m no Deep Blue 7, but just sayin’—straight from my father’s taunting script.

Veksler takes the bait. He stands up, screaming in Russian. ENOUGH! I HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS! Veksler bends over and grips the underside of the table, staring right at me; my father pulls my chair back just before Veksler grabs his vodka and then dumps the entire chess table over, sending the pieces and the bells everywhere.

Veksler storms out. Everyone has their phone pointed at him. His translator starts making things up. Aleksey suffers from great migraines. It was the bells. We should have warned the boy. Mr. Veksler doesn’t like the bells.

As much as my father might enjoy seeing me get hit by the table, it would be criminal assault and make the videos illegal. And of course, the videos went viral. They had various titles, some rather kind ("Special-Needs Savant Humbles Arrogant Russian) and some not so much (Retard Takes Down Commie Prick").

Father put together a portfolio of my work, my special abilities, and sent them to all the major late-night talk shows. He referenced the Veksler videos just in case they hadn’t seen it, although most late-night venues had already shown clips of it, followed by various witty denigrations of Veksler: "Watch as the great Aleksey Veksler makes all his chess moves at once! Plus one for the Alien… Earth 0, Mars 1…" I do indeed look like an alien in most videos; my wraparounds look like mutant eyes. I’m wearing a white hoodie with earphones on the outside. They look like mutant ears… What translucent white skin that’s still visible looks gaunt and dead.

HOT DAMN! I hear Father in the other room. WE’RE IN! Mother is on the couch holding her dog and staring at me. I’ve slipped into my other world, counting my memories…

He comes running into the room. WE’RE IN! I don’t hear Father. He lifts an earphone and says directly into my ear. "Aw, tell me he’s not at it again?"

I snap out of it painfully. Mother chimes in, Dammit, Curtis, that’s cruel, and you know it.

Father installs a sympathetic face. "I know. I’m sorry, you two. He smiles. Just got off the horn with the Tonight Show… Not Leno III, mind you, but his people. They want us for a fifteen-minute segment. Son of a mother flossing bitch if we’re not in… He pops a gin ball. Not much of a purse, mind you, but they cover all expenses, and it’s still a three-carny payday."

Mother looks at him holding the bowl of gin balls and then at her watch. I wish you wouldn’t.

I interject to diffuse the argument, "Isn’t that in California?"

Father sits down. Yeah… So? The perma-quakes subsided a decade ago. Folks are moving back. The part of LA where they film is safe. Hell, they’ve been out of martial law for almost a year. Party is throwing them tax breaks, jobs…

I look down. "It’s not that, it’s flying."

Father pops another gin ball and then lobs one at me, bouncing it off my head. "Oh, just man up, you hapless twat."

Mother hugs her dog sharply in my defense. It yelps.

I sincerely thought the flight was going to kill me. The change in pressure. The noise. I threw up several times. I felt my heart rate going out of control—205 beats per minute. They gave me oxygen. Father was embarrassed, both over me and the fact they’d cut him off. We left three days early presumably so my dad could live it up. It took all those three days for me to recover. I would not be allowed to fly again; Father was very angry that we were going to have to take tubes and charter ports back. "You miss too many days of school, and the state will be all over us as a result. You little shit. Your contribution eligibility will go down, and my bloody taxes will go up."

I recovered by the day of studio filming. I was disturbed by an announcement Father made. I’m going to have to touch you, normal lovey-dovey fatherly stuff. You flinch and I’ll smack your head later.

They had four stupid pet tricks for me to perform. I was to mimic a concert pianist’s never-heard-before composition. I was going to solve a complex mathematical equation. I was going to do a portrait of a famous guest actress. And I was going to count some glass beads.

I can tell Father is nervous. I can hear Leno III announcing us: "Our next guest, whom most of you will recognize as the alien kid that f—ing owned Aleksey Veksler, is quite the lad. He’s very sensitive to, well, everything. So, everyone, please don’t clap for Whey and his father, Curtis Austin."

We go out to the stage. I have on small hunting-style hearing cancellation and more stylish sunglasses. I still have to cover my skin from the harsh studio lighting. Leno puts out his hand and then withdraws it before I can take it. Oops, forgot about the whole touch thing. The crowd chuckles. Leno continues. "Say, Whey, that’s a rather unusual name."

Father chimes in, softly touching my shoulder. "The little bugger renamed himself. Rupert is his real name. You see, the P and T in Rupert hurts for him to say or hear. Whey is soft, easier on the senses. The crowd goes Awwww" in communal sympathy.

Leno smiles and rubs his hands in anticipation. It’s mock; I can tell in his face he’s already bored with me. I’ve seen your stuff, Whey. We’re going for the jugular here. See if you can keep up. Leno faces the audience. "First is concert pianist Victor Maestre. He is said to have the fastest hands in music. He’s going to play a piece he’s put together just for this young lad. Your job, Whey, if that is your real name—the crowd laughs—is to play it back when he’s done…"

Father prompts me to reply. I say, I will play it back with a 2.5 second delay.

Leno looks confused.

Father interjects, Just tell Victor to start.

Our grand pianos are across each other in a dueling fashion. Leno waves Victor on, and he rips