Pym_ A Novel - Mat Johnson [97]
Garth leaned down and whispered firmly into my ear, “I told him we’re Republicans. Black. Republicans. Got it?”
“What? What are you talking about? Why are we naked?” I had many questions, but this seemed the most pertinent.
“Contamination, dog,” was Garth’s answer.
“Contamination from what?” I must have yelled on that last word, because just then out of the turquoise bush beside me hopped an Easter bunny, clearly startled. Albino and obese, it darted its nervous red eyes in confusion at the scene.
“I was hoping you could tell me ‘what,’ ” a male voice answered. And there, on an outgrowth of granite rock, stood a Caucasian with a thin black mustache, his arms outstretched like the Rio de Janeiro Jesus, white terry-cloth robes in each hand.
“You fellows hungry for some Welsh rabbit?” asked the Master of Light himself, whom I recognized immediately from Garth’s catalogs. In response to Thomas Karvel’s query, the Easter bunny to my side scampered back into the bushes, presumably for cover.
When I heard “Welsh Rabbit,” I expected cheese on toast. So it was with surprise that I received my plate.* Instead of being populated by a metaphorical rabbit, it was instead occupied by a real one, dead and skinned and glazed. A cherry tomato stuck into its little bunny mouth.
“Is this one of those?” I motioned with my fork at the scattered white bunnies it was possible to see jumping around below. From the deck atop the waterfall, one could see the entire length of the life-size terrarium we were inside of.
“Those cute little white ones? Oh no, I would never do that. Those are for the missus. I shot most of these back in Ohio,” Karvel assured me. I could barely hear him, though, over the sounds of all the voices, pumped through speakers attached to the wall.
“Nothing’s come through the satellite in weeks, but luckily I had hours taped. I got Rush over here by the kitchen, because he’s the granddaddy. I got Beck going in the southwest corner. Northwest is O’Reilly, southeast is Hannity, I think. Honey, is southeast Hannity?”
“How the hell would I know?” came from the kitchen.
“She’s sick of it. Keeps me grounded, though. Makes this hallowed ground, the way I see it. Makes it America. America without taxes, and big government, and terrorist bullshit. I knew this was coming, end of the world, been saying it since the sixties. I got out because I love it too much, really. But I’ll never leave the U.S. of A. God bless America.” Karvel lifted his glass, and we toasted with him.
“Where’s Pym?” I asked Garth when Karvel went to lower the volume of the speaker over our table. Given the current circumstance, the idea of a kidnapped Caucasian seemed like it might prove problematic.
“I don’t know. Frozen on the ice? Maybe all the way back at our departure site? Last time I saw him, he was running off away from me, following the tracks back in that direction.” I could tell by the way Garth said “departure site” that he had avoided telling our hosts of our Tekelian adventure.
“Don’t worry about him, dog. He sure wasn’t worried about you. You know that fool tried to eat you last night?” I told him that, yes, I did remember the cannibal conversation. “Conversation? Dog, when I got back, I had to pull that lunatic off you. Look at your leg.” I did. There was the perfect oval of human teeth marks traced in red on my pale calf.
“Yeah, I saw that when I was stripping you down; I put a little peroxide on it. That’ll heal,” Karvel told me, returning. “It’s a shame about your crew member. Some people, they can’t handle being alone down here. All that PC nonsense, it made men soft. Hell, the lesbos are stronger than most of the men nowadays. Me, I love it down here. You make your own reality in this place. The ultimate luxury.