INCOGNOLIO Read online

  “But I don’t want it on track.” I hear the defensiveness in my voice. “The whole idea is to let my imagination run amuck.’

  “Exactly,” Paige says. “That’s what I love about it. You can’t predict what’ll happen next.”

  “I don’t know,” Piper says. “Parts of it are pretty out there. I’m afraid editors might be put off by that near-incest scene. It’s sort of icky.”

  “Fuck editors,” I say. “I’m writing this one for myself. If I don’t get it published, so be it.”

  “There’s always self-publishing,” Paula offers.

  “Hold on,” Paige says. “I thought the purpose of this group was to help each other write the best novel we’re capable of producing.”

  Everyone agrees, so we return to discussing the technical and artistic merits of the manuscript. When the meeting is over, Paige reiterates her invitation for me to stay at her place. I make excuses, but she insists. So I thank her and then drive home to pick up some clothes and my laptop.

  Jack is hammered by now and becomes agitated when I inform him of my plans.

  “You’re not staying with that dyke.” He stands in the bedroom doorway, holding a bottle of Corona, watching me pack. “She’s just trying to get in your pants.”

  “I’m not discussing it.”

  I shut my suitcase, squeeze past him, and am nearly out the front door when I feel a tremendous blow to my skull and black out.

  When I awaken, I find myself naked and spread eagled on the bed, wrists and ankles shackled to the bedposts. My head throbs with pain.

  “Sorry, baby,” Jack says, “but this is for your own good.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “Only pain can relieve your crushing guilt.” Jack grins. “You know, from killing your brother?”

  “Fuck you,” I say, cursing the day I told him about Muldoon.

  Jack says he’ll be right back and returns a minute later with a fresh beer and a black snake whip. I didn’t realize he owned any sort of whip, and the sight of it elicits a strange sensation, like an electrical current streaking from my heels to the crown of my head.

  “Quit it, Jack. I’ll have you arrested, I swear.”

  “Not likely, babe. I cut the phone line and I’m afraid you won’t be leaving the house much anymore.”

  My breath grows shallow and irregular as Jack slowly draws the length of the whip through the fingers of his left hand, caressing the leather, and then lifts his arm and holds it in mid-air, enjoying the look of fear on my face.

  A flick of his wrist and my belly is on fire, but I force myself to remain silent. He whips my hips, my thighs, my shins, my feet, and then my breasts, whooping like a moron when he lands one on a nipple. Each snap of the whip produces a thunderous cracking sound, along with a searing pain that travels up my body and gathers at the base of my skull. Jack increases the tempo and viciousness of the blows, flailing away like a maniac. Soon my entire body is covered with bright red lash marks, the agony unbearable, but I refuse him the satisfaction of hearing me cry.

  Finally, Jack drops the whip and then his drawers. He stands above me, stroking his enormous boner.

  “You sick fuck,” I manage to say despite my shaking voice and labored breathing.

  “Oh, the fun has just begun,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

  Jack finishes his beer, tosses the bottle aside, and then leaps on the bed, looming over me as he positions himself between my legs.

  “Hope you’re in the mood,” he says, winking.

  My entire body pulsating in pain, I close my eyes and am bracing myself for penetration when I hear a loud thwack and then a dull thud, as something heavy falls to the floor.

  “Good thing I keep this in my trunk,” says Paige, and when I open my eyes she’s brandishing a tire iron.

  Jack lies in a heap on the carpet, the side of his head a bloody mess. Paige feels for a pulse, then takes a couple of neckties from Jack’s closet and secures his wrists and ankles.

  When she has released my restraints, I stand up slowly, unsteady on my feet. Paige wraps me in an embrace and I convulse in her arms, pouring out all the tears I’d held back.

  When I’m all cried out, Paige takes my hand and leads me to the bathroom, where she cleans the angry red lash marks with soap and water, pats them dry, and then sprays them with antiseptic.

  It hurts like hell to get dressed, and when I’m done, Jack comes to.

  “Come on, babe.” He struggles against his restraints. “I was just fooling around.”

  I pick up the suitcase and stare down at him.

  “You can’t leave me like this.”

  “Don’t worry, the police will untie you. Until then, enjoy your blue balls.”

  Ignoring Jack’s insults and promises of revenge, we leave and drive down to the station.

  “How did you know to come for me?” I ask Paige once she’s parked the car.

  “I know Jack,” she says. “And it was taking you too damn long to pack a suitcase.”

  In the police station, I give a full report and a female cop takes photos of my wounds and the nasty lump on my head. Then Paige drives me to her house, a cute bungalow with a private beach. She carries my suitcase to her guest room, a cozy affair with a desk facing the ocean.

  I spend two whole days flat on my back, recuperating, with little to do but think. Part of me feels bad for having Jack arrested, even though the bastard deserves it. It’s tough to admit, but on some level I was aroused by the restraints and the whipping. The feeling of being utterly helpless and overpowered was…exciting.

  I remember hearing a psychologist talking on the radio about her research on female sexuality, and how a large percentage of women fantasize about being raped. She cited one theory suggesting that rape was common in prehistoric times, so natural selection favored females who experienced some arousal from being overpowered, since the resulting vaginal lubrication would diminish the damage inflicted on their sexual organs. Who knows if it’s true, but I prefer to believe that rationale rather than consider myself a masochist.

  I’m grateful to have a friend like Paige. After two days of lying in bed while she attends to my wounds, brings me food, and reads to me, I’m feeling restless, so I pull out my laptop and get back to work on the novel.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BREAK OUT OF OUR CAGES!

  I wake up hung over from the three whiskies I had at META, plus several more that I drank when I got home, but my muscles no longer ache and the cold I had yesterday appears to have miraculously disappeared. As I brew myself some Krakatoan dark roast, I realize that the reason I’ve felt so alienated from myself is that I’m not writing this manuscript after all. Micaela is, and she’s putting these words in my mouth.

  Sitting in my breakfast nook, sipping coffee and gazing out the window, I feel exposed and violated, all sense of privacy demolished. My life, my very thoughts, an open book.

  An actual book. Words on a fucking page. I’m a fictitious character dreamed up by my twin sister, who has nothing better to do than fantasize about what might have happened if she’d died instead of me, and to turn those fantasies into a story of misery and despair.

  I have to wonder why Micaela went out of her way to inform me that I’m not real, just a pathetic marionette in her control, with no free will, no autonomy, absolutely nothing to call my own. Not even these morose thoughts, which she devises herself and attributes to me.

  Why couldn’t she have left me blissfully ignorant as I blunder my way through the malevolent maze of her twisted tale? Making a total mess of things, but at least possessing some sense of purpose. The conviction that, if I applied myself—used my intuition and intelligence, such as it is—I might solve the mystery of Incognolio and in the process free myself.

  All that is gone now, all sense of urgency and motivation, leaving in their wake a withered husk, the mere shadow of a man, a pitiful puppet who knows he’s nothing but cloth and buttons.
r />   What is there to do but off myself? But I know that if I try, I will somehow manage to survive—miracle of miracles—since protagonists cannot be knocked off partway through a novel.

  I finish my coffee and then check to see how Yiddle is doing. Not only does she still look depressed, she’s begun to pluck out her own feathers, some of which are scattered on the bottom of the cage, small bare patches now visible on her breast.

  I pick up the box of parrot pellets, but then see that she hasn’t touched the pellets or the fruits and veggies I gave her yesterday.

  “What’s the matter, girl?” I ask. “Should I take you to the vet?”

  No vet. No vet, she weakly squawks.

  “Why are you so unhappy?”

  Existential angst, she replies, surprising me with her vocabulary.

  “How come? What’s bothering you?”

  No meaning, quoth the parrot, and she plucks out yet another gray feather.

  “You’re telling me, pal.” I look at her and sigh. “Well, for starters, we can free you from this damn cage.”

  I unlatch the cage door and Yiddle pokes her head out, blinks a few times, and then flies through the air, circling the room, already beginning to look more chipper.

  “That’s the ticket, Yiddle,” I say. “Break out of our cages! If there’s no free will, then we can do whatever the fuck we want.”

  A moment’s thought reveals the illogical nature of my previous statement, but at this point I have no interest whatsoever in remaining rational.

  “Hell, let’s go for a stroll,” I say, and Yiddle swoops in and perches on my left shoulder.

  I walk downstairs and head west on Random Road, enjoying the fresh air and the briny scent wafting in from the sea. Ko drives by in his Lamborghini convertible and we smile and wave to each other. That’s another cage I’ve broken out of: I no longer have to worry about keeping track of my subplots, or even differentiating fiction from so-called real life.

  Soon I reach Circle Square and out of habit stop in at Hrabal’s Tavern. Hrabal greets me and I take a stool at the bar.

  His usual, squawks Yiddle.

  “And your finest water for my feathered friend.”

  “Ah, an African Grey.” Hrabal pours me a Jack Daniels and sets out a bowl of water. “Smartest bird on the planet, they say.”

  Smarter than they, notes Yiddle.

  “Scores low on humility,” I whisper to Hrabal.

  The door opens and in walks Delphia, looking scrumptious in a burgundy blouse, black mini, black patterned stockings, and pumps.

  Ay, caramba! squawks Yiddle.

  “Welcome, my sweet.” I pull out a stool for her and kiss her on both cheeks.

  “A dry martini for the lady,” I say. “A lady, please note, who always knows just when to enter a scene.”

  Delphia smiles demurely, and then looks me over.

  “How are you holding up, Muldoon?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have the Faloosh,” she reminds me. “It showed me what happened.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Delphia raises an eyebrow and waits.

  “Okay, I admit it was traumatic,” I say. “Shit, it’s not every day that you find out you’re fictional.”

  Words on a fucking page! squawks Yiddle.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Delphia says.

  “But how do I come to terms with having no free will? Knowing that everything I say or do is set in ink?”

  “You’re forgetting one crucial point.” Delphia downs her martini and signals Hrabal for another round. “What a novelist writes is driven by her unconscious, so her characters take on lives of their own.”

  I sip my whiskey and mull this over.

  “So, you’re saying that Micaela doesn’t control us?”

  “Not consciously,” Delphia says. “It’s like a waking dream. And there’s another advantage.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Once the book is published, you’re immortal.”

  I have mixed feelings about the prospect of immortality, so I choose to gloss over that point and instead say, “What do we do next? Solve the mystery of the epidemic?”

  “That can wait.” Delphia reaches out and gently strokes my inner thigh. “How would you like to explore my…Incognolio?”

  Innuendo! Innuendo! squawks Yiddle.

  So, I head on home with Yiddle on my shoulder and my arm around Delphia. Soon we’re in bed and I’m stripping off her stockings, kissing her legs and perfect feet, kissing her breasts and luscious mouth, having glorious sex for the first time in ages…or for the first time ever, if Micaela is to be believed.

  When we’re done and I’m lying there exhausted, the phone rings. I let it go to message.

  “Hey, dickwad,” says the grating voice of Dick Fracken. “How’s the manuscript coming along? You have exactly one week to deliver the completed draft, or expect another visit from Grunt.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TWELVE-INCH PIANIST

  It’s pure joy waking up with Delphia in my arms after having spent the entire afternoon and evening making love, hearing now her soft breathing as she sleeps, inhaling her scent of honeysuckle and warm bread, gazing at her serene, adorable face.

  I suppose it’s not surprising that I find her so attractive, given that she’s my creation. But then I remember that I’m not writing the book. At least Micaela got one thing right.

  I carefully disentangle myself from Delphia and tiptoe out of the bedroom, make some coffee, and then place a call to Fracken.

  “You’re interrupting my massage, asshole,” he barks.

  “Just returning your call.”

  “Well, how many pages have you finished? What’s your word count?”

  “Here’s the thing,” I say. “Turns out I’m not writing the manuscript. My twin sister is.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Muldoon?”

  “This will sound strange, but you and I are actually characters in the novel she’s writing.”

  “If you’re trying to weasel your way out of ghostwriting Incognolio, you’d better come up with a better excuse than that.”

  “But it’s true.”

  “Because your goddamn sister said so?”

  “Well, it wasn’t exactly my sister,” I say. “Just a fictional representation of her.”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot, Muldoon?” In a muted voice, he continues, “Forget the rest. Skip to the happy ending,” and I’m about to object that I don’t know how Incognolio ends, and that furthermore you can’t just skip writing the middle of a book, but then his voice comes back, loud and clear, “You have one damn week to finish the thing. Miss the deadline and you’re dead meat.”

  Fracken hangs up and I heave a sigh, distressed at the prospect of having to deal with another visit from Grunt.

  But my mood lightens when Delphia appears in the doorway, wearing my bathrobe. I kiss her, pour her a cup of coffee, and fry up some eggs.

  While eating breakfast, I think back on my conversation with Fracken.

  “Something’s bugging me,” I tell Delphia. “Why should we assume that Micaela was telling the truth?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe she fabricated the whole thing.” I finish my eggs and wipe my mouth. “Hell, she offered no proof. How do we know for sure that somewhere out there is a real-life Micaela typing what I’m saying?”

  “I guess we don’t,” Delphia says. “But how can we possibly find out?”

  “Let’s get dressed. I’ve got an idea.”

  Soon the two of us are heading west on the #33 bus, and I pull the cord as we approach my usual stop.

  “Are we visiting Micaela’s grave?” Delphia asks.

  “Nope. We’re going to META.”

  Delphia and I enter the desolate alleyway and walk down the concrete stairs to the club. I ring the buzzer, and the same muffled voice asks me for the password.

  “Incognolio,” I say
with confidence.

  “Sorry, no entrance,” replies the voice.

  “Huh, must’ve changed it,” I tell Delphia. “What else could it be?”

  I try several alternatives without success, and then hear a voice from above.

  “Just screwing with you guys,” says Micaela, looking down at us from the top of the stairs.

  “Very funny.” Delphia and I climb the stairs. “Delphia, this is my sister, Micaela. Micaela—well, I suppose there’s no need to introduce you to your own character.”

  The two women shake hands, sizing each other up.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” Micaela says.

  “Naturally,” I say. “Because you’re directing the whole shebang, right?”

  Micaela smiles.

  “Well, then undoubtedly you’re aware that we’ve come to see some kind of proof of what you claim.”

  “Entirely reasonable,” Micaela says. “What would you like to see?”

  I glance up and down the alley and recall my first encounter there.

  “Let’s start small.” I put out my palm. “Make some Ink appear.”

  In a flash, a dozen or so tablets—black with a gold spot in the middle—materialize in my hand. I exchange looks with Delphia, then thrust the pills in my pocket for safekeeping.

  “Could’ve been slight-of-hand,” says Delphia, and I nod in agreement.

  “Okay, let’s see you change the weather,” I say, and it immediately starts snowing. Purple snow, at that.

  I catch a flake in my hand and watch it melt into a drop of purple water in my palm.

  “Impressive,” Delphia says. “But the flake could be a fluke.”

  At this point I’m convinced it’s not a fluke, but I’m sensing an opportunity here, a way to turn this little game to my advantage. “That’s right. We need something conclusive.” Then it comes to me, and I wonder why it took so long. “Give me a twelve-inch penis. And that’s P-E-N-I-S, not P-I-A-N-I-S-T.”

  My jeans become awfully tight in the crotch. I pull out the waistband and glance down, then over at Delphia. She leans over to take a look and her eyes bulge out.

  “Mamma mia,” she says.