Free Ruin Nation by Dan Carver Page A

nods frantically.
    “Then I will be taking you to a place where we may observe him and you can detail to me his, how you say, deficiencies.”
    Now Malmot nods.
    “Then let it be so.”
    They turn a corner. The miniature train passes overhead, laden with television remote controls.
    The temperature drops as they delve ever deeper into Stemset’s endless burrows, through another million miles of grey, featureless concrete and cold, clattering footsteps.
    Steep stone stairs take them upwards. The fire escape takes them outside. A parapet winds around the fourth story exterior of the building. Another door takes them inside. A man viewing monitors sucks in his stomach and fastens his fly. He appears to be eating a large meal. The room is arid, filled with the smell of obsolete electrical equipment. Two banks of thoroughly antiquated monitors reveal the comings and goings of the facility staff in skewed, zebra-striping images. Crackling electrics and feedback provide the soundtrack.
    Holubec urges the man aside, where upon he (the man) sits down on a pile of remote controls, undoes his trouser button, unleashes his gut and quickly resumes eating. Holubec regards him with disgust. Malmot wonders what the meal might be. The little train toots in through the air conditioning duct. The man stands and tips a serviette full of short, greasy bones into its tiny wagons. He licks his fingers and waves it goodbye. His trousers fall down. He turns to Holubec, who stares like the gorgon and sends him scuttling out of the room, muttering apologies.
    “Louder!” Holubec barks at the disappearing figure.
    “I said I’m sorry, Sir!” the man pleads through the closing door.
    “Debased ape,” mutters the doctor. Malmot smiles approvingly.Holubec resumes his air of professional grandeur.
    “So, to reception,” he says, adjusting the equipment, “and the unfathomable mysteries of your idiot friend. Look! There he is. I think Michelle may be about to be hitting him with the hole punch.”
    “I never said he was a friend.”
    “Your relative?”
    “In Christ’s name, no!”
    “So then what? A bald yeti you discovered with hilarious consequences?”
    “He’s the face of my latest marketing campaign,” says Malmot, clearly lying.
    “But he is a halfwit?” says the sceptical doctor.
    “Exactly!” Malmot answers, thinking on his feet. “A blank canvas. For others to, er, project themselves upon.”
    “If he is a canvas, then someone has scrawled across him. Picasso, perhaps? A bit of that Kandinsky guy? I am seeing a problem with his eye. His tongue we have mentioned earlier. Do you mean him to be like this? Is he the ‘before’ part of an advert?”
    “Regrettably not. He’s both the ‘during’ and ‘after’. I was hoping you could tidy him up a little; make him more presentable; less abhorrent to polite society. You’ll notice if you freeze-frame – Yes, that’s it. Now zoom in a little – that he can appear quite handsome. It’s just the moving and talking that ruins the deception.”
    “Then do not let him.”
    “I’m afraid he must. He has to appear in public. Or, at least ‘appear’ to appear in public, if you understand?”
    “No. Am I needing to?”
    “Not desperately.”
    “Good. Then I will give you my medical opinion: I can be stabilising the eyes with an injection to the optic muscles. It will stop them wandering independently. He will only be able to stare straight ahead and he will not be able to focus properly, but that is more than he can do now, yes? His tongue is simple. Tell him that if he sticks it out, you will sting it with a wasp.”
    “How fiendishly simple! But do you have any wasps that I could, perhaps, borrow ?”
    “More than you could possibly imagine and for reasons you would not want to.”
    “Wonderful.”
    “Now look into the monitor. Observe him closely. I am thinking of his other problems. For instance, the torrent of stupidity he calls speech. Are you wishing him to