INCOGNOLIO Read online

  “You are?” Micaela’s puzzled frown is adorable. “But just a minute ago you were complaining about all the rain we’ve been getting.”

  “I universe-hopped again from my home universe, where you were stillborn. You remember my previous visit, when I was tripping on Ink?”

  For some reason, she seems less than thrilled to see me again.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “What you don’t seem to realize is that when you drop by this universe, in order to prevent the absurdity of encountering yourself here, my Muldoon is transported to your universe.” Micaela sighs. “The last time that happened, he was scolded by some woman named Fannie Mae, threatened with bodily harm by a pugnacious ghostwriter, and intermittently found himself unable to think rationally. He said the only good thing about the place was his pet parrot.”

  This is bad news, indeed. The last time I was here, I simply assumed that the other Muldoon was spending the night away from home. It never occurred to me that the two of us had switched universes. How the hell am I supposed to tell Micaela that her Muldoon was just strangled to death by my lunatic uncle?

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I lie. “I’ve really cleaned up my act.”

  “Glad to hear it,” says Micaela. “How did you get here? Ink again?”

  I feel terrible about misleading my sister, but what’s one more fib at this point? “I’ve been so desperate to see you again that I’ve been taking Ink nearly every day, but until today it’s always landed me in the wrong damn universe. I count myself lucky to have escaped from some of them alive.”

  Micaela is so impressed by my bravery and my devotion to her that she wraps her arms around me in a giant bear hug. The warmth of her embrace and the intoxicating fragrance she exudes nearly cause me to swoon, and, overcome with emotion, I tell her that I love her more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life.

  The two of us celebrate our reunion by ordering out for Vernulian, and after feasting once again on luscious pampanus and succulent makmaks, along with a fine bottle of Grandiol—like Champagne, but tastier—we fall into each other’s arms and share a kiss so delicious that I can hardly bear it.

  “I suppose we should control ourselves,” says Micaela. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “Well, since I last saw you, my position on incest between consenting adult siblings has…evolved,” I say. “As you said, if we’re careful to use birth control, what’s the big deal? Anyhow, when in Rome…”

  As she takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom, I fuel my mounting desire by imagining I’d actually grown up with Micaela. Not in her universe, but in mine, where shagging your sister is considered the height of perversity, superseded only by fucking a goat, a child, or perhaps a cadaver.

  We shed our clothes, fall into bed, and entwine our naked bodies, and as I caress Micaela and inhale her sweet and pungent scents, memories flood my mind that must belong to the Muldoon I’ve replaced. There we are as kids, building a sandcastle, sharing a bubble bath, playing house, catching fireflies on a warm summer evening. As teens, gossiping about schoolmates, prepping for exams, screaming at each other, and sharing our first tentative kiss. And as young adults, intimate phone calls late into the night, ferocious arguments, wild make-up sex, and mourning together the loss of our parents.

  Micaela takes me in her mouth, and I shudder with exquisite pleasure as she repeatedly brings me to the brink and relents just in time. I return the favor, teasing her with hummingbird flicks of my tongue. When she can hold off no longer, Micaela draws me up and we luxuriate in a kiss as she guides me inside her.

  The feeling is indescribable. We settle into a rhythm that matches that of our beating hearts, gasping as we melt into each other. We flow effortlessly from one position to the next, neither of us aware of taking the lead. The tempo gradually accelerates until we teeter on the edge of rapture. Micaela and I are so attuned to each other’s needs, so telepathically linked, that it’s as if two halves of a single person—separated for eons—have finally joined together in ecstatic delight.

  Cuddling in bed afterward, I begin to feel sad and guilty.

  “What’s wrong?” asks Micaela. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” The downside of her exquisite attunement to me now becomes apparent.

  Realizing that it’s pointless to try to keep a secret from her, I nod. “I lied to you about your Muldoon. He won’t be returning.”

  “What do you mean?” Micaela sits up in bed. “I thought Ink only lasts for a day.”

  “I didn’t take Ink this time. Jesus, haven’t you read Incognolio, for crying out loud?”

  “Of course. Several versions. But in none of them do I lose my Muldoon.”

  I’m about to ask Micaela for some whiskey when I remember that I don’t drink in this universe. I’ll have to forge ahead unaided. “You see, I took a class in universe-hopping. It involves this radical technique in which you envision your universe of choice at the exact moment that you die.”

  Micaela stares at me, unblinking.

  “The instructor never mentioned that I’d be trading places with my counterpart. Otherwise, I never would have—”

  “What are you saying? My Muldoon is dead?”

  I nod.

  Micaela gets up and walks out of the room. Through the open bedroom door I watch her fling herself down on the sofa in the other room, and I can hear her sobbing.

  All I wanted was to be together with my beloved sister for the rest of my life. Now I’m a fucking monster who has murdered Micaela’s true love. How can I even hope that she’ll ever forgive me?

  Micaela’s crying suddenly stops. Then I hear a familiar chuckle, and look up to find Laszlo perched on a chair in the corner of the bedroom.

  “Stinking scumbag!” I cry. “How the fuck did you find me?”

  “You amaze me, Muldoon,” he says. “Have you forgotten yet again that I’m writing this thing?”

  “Okay, I give up. Kill me, for Christ’s sake. Put me out of my misery.”

  “Too easy,” says Laszlo. “I’ve already managed to murder—in order of appearance—Dr. Noggin, Yiddle, Lefty and Righty, Ko, Delphia, Hrabal, Mr. and Mrs. Yankerhousen, Myrtle Grouse, J.R. Cosmipolitano, President Peter Pecker, Greazly, Areola, Fannie May, Dick Fracken, Dr. Miranda, Dr. Schmendrik, the Kajoob, Arielle, Grunt, Quenchley, Malena, Babaganu (aka Raza LaRat), Ol’ Man McNergal, Smirnoff, Jack, Paula, Piper, Paige, Baraka, Scout, Cassandra Didymos, Chester, Yazzle, Pizza Guy, Schlomo, Minor Character, the Dildorphians, Gemina, Dr. Heydar Ramazan, Phil, Misha Slodkin, Dean, Quodon, Angelica, Dr. Menos, Kurt, Grunion Horniak, President Donald Dork, Boudreaux, Floreska, Lunaria, the Shazan, Nameless One, Dr. Djinn, Deedle, Cecil Vernax, Dunkin, and President Rod Shaft. Now that Micaela’s been snuffed out, you’re my last character. You need to go out with a bang.”

  I glance through the open door, and sure enough, there is Micaela’s lifeless body on the carpet. What’s left of my heart implodes.

  “Let’s see.” Laszlo strokes his chin as he thinks out loud. “I’ve always wanted to tar and feather someone, so we’ll definitely start with that. Then I’ll parade you down Mane Street, where people can hurl overripe fruit and rotten eggs at you as they taunt you mercilessly. Next, I’ll hire a crane that can latch onto your testicles and lift you high into the air, while sharp shooters use you for target practice, firing rubber bullets that break bones, but aren’t fatal. Back on the ground, you’ll be anally violated by a stallion while—”

  “Hold on!” Compelled either by fear or by the last traces of my life instinct—or perhaps I’m still unwilling to give up authorship of this manuscript—I refuse to bow out just yet. “I’m not your last character standing. How about Incognolio and Mazazel?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call them characters.” Laszlo chuckles, a bit nervously. “After all, they’re more like Gods or forces of Nature.”

  “Still, you invented them, didn’t you?”


  “That goes without saying.” Laszlo recovers himself, and puts on a brave smile. “But I’ll dispose of them later. First, I’ll devise new and exciting ways to humiliate you to your dying breath.”

  “Ah, but consider, dear uncle, that you may yet have some need of me. No doubt you can take out Mazazel by yourself, but when it comes to Incognolio…well, you’re simply too loathsome to get anywhere near her. Whereas she’ll be only too happy to receive me, at which point I can destroy her from within.”

  “Hmm, that actually makes sense,” says Laszlo. “But why would you want to help me?”

  “As a lifelong lover of literature, let’s just say that I want to make sure that you nail your ending.”

  “Fair enough,” says Laszlo. “Let’s roll. I’ll meet you back here once we’ve vanquished those two antediluvian muckety-mucks.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  UNDERWORLD

  Pleased with myself for having pulled one over on Muldoon, I usher him out of the room, close the door, and take a seat on the bed as I wait for my nephew to return from dispatching Incognolio.

  I have no intention of holding up my end of the deal, since I have no interest in destroying Mazazel. He is, after all, my benefactor, the hero of my story, and the source of my bottomless evil, not to mention the namesake of my great opus.

  Still, I need to report back, so I summon the Dark Lord and he immediately materializes, appearing more repulsive and grotesque than ever.

  “I have accomplished everything you requested, Master.” I fill my lungs, reveling in the nauseating stench that emanates from the Archfiend. “And as soon as Muldoon returns from his mission, you shall reign supreme.”

  “Excellent, Laszlo.” Mazazel rubs together his wart-ridden, pus-covered hands with glee. “Now that I have no more use for you, I’m free to dispatch your miserable ass into eternal torment.”

  “But…but…I still need to kill Muldoon!”

  “That delectable task shall be reserved for me.”

  “But you promised that I shall live forever as your apprentice and confidante!” I hate the whining tone of my voice, hate that I feel crushed and betrayed—

  Mazazel erupts in riotous laughter. “You ought to know better than anyone that my promises are worthless.”

  —and most of all, I hate that I didn’t see this coming. I have been taken for a fool, and I’m livid. “What will be my fate?” I ask.

  “Perhaps I’ll start with that humiliating program of torture you devised for Muldoon,” Mazazel replies. “Good stuff.”

  I grudgingly accept the compliment. I am nothing if not inventive, so maybe I can still concoct a way out of this predicament.

  I have little time to reflect, however, since Mazazel gets right to work, and by the time I’ve been tarred, feathered, hoisted, shot at, and penetrated by horse-meat, I’m still struggling to come up with a plan.

  After careful consideration, Mazazel decides to kill me via dismemberment. He starts with my hair, which he pulls out in bunches, then moves on to my finger-and toenails, using pliers to extract them, one by one. The pain is excruciating, but I simply laugh, partly to provoke Mazazel, but also because it feels good.

  Annoyed, Mazazel wastes no time in breaking off each of my digits and snipping off my genitals, but not before pulverizing each of my balls with a nutcracker.

  “Bring it on, you old fart,” I say. “Don’t you realize that I thrive on pain?”

  This is the truth. For me, pain is pleasure. But I am also taunting Mazazel, figuring that with enough goading I might be able to enrage him to the point that he self-destructs.

  “Stop leering at me, you moron!” shouts Mazazel, and he swiftly gouges out my eyes. When this elicits nothing from me but a ghastly grin, he proceeds to yank out each of my teeth.

  “Id dat da bess you can do?” I say. “Wad a cweam puff!”

  Infuriated, Mazazel finally silences me by tearing out my tongue. In a frenzy, he hacks off my limbs, splits me down the middle from my sternum to my pubic bone, rips out my intestines, liver, kidneys, spleen, pancreas, and lungs, and finishes me off by snatching out my beating heart and devouring it.

  I am transported to the Underworld, where the atmosphere of evil that suffuses the place feels like home to me, and the relentless shrieks and wails of countless souls in agony are music to my ears. Ah, and the darkness, the sweet and total darkness! This complete and utter absence of light and love is something I find profoundly soothing.

  My reconstituted body—etheric rather than physical—is even more acutely sensitive to pain and other sensations. I experience both the freezing cold of absolute zero and a scorching heat that burns hundreds of times hotter than any earthly fire. My body is afflicted with painful diseases, flaming maggots crawl in and out of every orifice, my hunger and thirst know no bounds, and dense clouds of stifling smoke choke me with every breath. Demons torture me—whipping me, piercing me, and submerging me in boiling oil. Imps mock and humiliate me, insult me, and hurl excrement and every manner of filth at me. Wild beasts and hideous monsters attack and mutilate me, leaving my body in shreds. All the while, I am never permitted to escape even momentarily into sleep.

  Periodically, Mazazel checks in on me, and I make sure to let him know that not only is he failing to break my spirit, he’s empowering me.

  “Why are you going so easy on me?” I complain. “More pain!”

  “Damn it! How can that be?” Mazazel erupts like a volcano, producing a deafening roar that resounds throughout the Underworld. “How can you tolerate such torment?”

  “Don’t you understand anything?” I laugh until tears fill my eyes. “I loathe and despise myself so thoroughly that the harsher the punishment, the better I feel!”

  Mazazel is so beside himself with rage that I begin to think my plan might actually work, that he will annihilate himself in one enormous burst of super-charged fury.

  But as Author Laszlo sits in his study at work on Mazazel, imagining this blast of boundless rage and trying to capture it in words, he suddenly experiences a massive heart attack, keels over, and dies.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE ETERNAL NOW

  Pleased with myself for having duped Laszlo, since I intend to merge with the Goddess Incognolio, not destroy her, I walk into the living room and over to Micaela. I stoop, lift her limp body, and transfer it to the sofa, then arrange her hair and close her eyelids. Sick with grief, I gently kiss her lips one last time while tears cascade down my cheeks. I would like to give her a decent burial, but I must turn my attention to figuring out how to locate Incognolio. So I leave Micaela on the couch, sit down at the desk, and boot up the computer.

  The only lead I have is that Misha discovered Incognolio by taking the psychedelic drug, Anosh. I type that term into a search engine and find, to my dismay, that in this universe Anosh is not a mind-expanding drug, but rather the brand name of an ointment for treating acne.

  For the hell of it, I type the term Incognolio into the search box. I scroll through several pages of results—mostly reviews of my novel and websites where it’s sold—and I come across a listing for the Incognolio Book Club, which meets this very evening on the sixth floor of the Literary Arts Building. Hoping to cross paths with someone who might be able to point me in the right direction, I decide to attend.

  It’s raining outside, so I throw on a trench coat and grab an umbrella before walking downstairs and out the door. I have a beer and something called fish and dreck at a local pub, then head over to the Literary Arts Building, which is exactly where I suspected it might be.

  In room 639, where the meeting has just begun, I quietly take a seat, joining a circle of about fifteen people. The leader of the proceedings, an odd-looking woman who introduces herself as Hardwood Florence, welcomes everyone and announces that tonight’s focus will be on the novel’s ending.

  “Personally, I was disappointed,” says a jaundiced man to my right. “I thought the author owed it to us to finally clea
r up all of those unresolved plotlines.”

  “But doesn’t all the uncertainty mirror what we encounter in our daily lives?” asks a woman wearing mushroom earrings. “We just muddle onward, and hardly anything ever gets resolved one way or the other.”

  “You both are missing the point,” says a fulsome woman to my left. “The novel focuses the reader on the Eternal Now, which is free of the past, the future, and of linear time itself. It’s like those intricate Tibetan sand paintings that take several days to construct. The monks destroy them shortly after completion, as a metaphor for the impermanence of existence.”

  “Precisely,” chimes in a man wearing a wool hat in the shape of a beaver. “Quantum physics demonstrates that time and causality are illusions. Everything that can happen does happen. That’s why there is no single authoritative ending to the novel. Each copy that’s published has a different ending.”

  “Or, as Oscar Wilde put it,” says Hardwood Florence, “books are never finished, they are merely abandoned.”

  Florence turns to me for my opinion, and I admit that I haven’t finished reading the novel yet, and am wondering if anyone can tell me how Muldoon manages to find the Goddess Incognolio.

  “Wait a minute—” says the fulsome woman, flipping to the photo on the last page of her copy. “You’re the author! You’re Muldoon!”

  Well, this is embarrassing, and it leaves me wishing I’d worn some sort of disguise. The atmosphere in the room is charged with excitement, as each of the members in turn has me sign their copy of the novel and then takes a selfie with me. Finally, when everyone has returned to their seats, one member asks why I don’t know what happens in my own book.

  “Ah,” I say. “I can see how that could seem confusing. The truth is that I’m from an alternate universe in which I haven’t finished writing the manuscript.”

  “No offense,” says mushroom woman, “but I don’t see why it even matters whether or not you find Incognolio. The book’s already in print, after all.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I say. “But I still have a life of my own, you know, apart from the novel.”