The Die-Fi Experiment Page 3

  On the screen, the man-baby opened the snips, and closed them. Opened again, and closed. Again.

  My shouts bounced off the walls of my Plexiglas cage.

  A metal clink rattled next to my shouts, the snips finally closing completely. The man-baby, covered in my blood, jerked the medical tongs away from me. They crossed my line of sight, squeezed in between the ends was a lifeless chunk of my tongue. Blood still oozing from the impromptu amputation.

  Sweat streaked into my eyes, stinging them as I’m swallowed whole in painful darkness.

  #traumaticshock #catsgotmytongue

  #chaptersix

  The winter before I met Marie at Mike’s Grease and Brews, I had gotten my passport, having planned a spring break trip to Cancun with my roommates and some other buddies. Then Marie blessed my life and I never went on that spring break trip. Never regretted it, either.

  We on our own trip, now. Our own escape from our own reality. We had finally made it to the boarding gate in the airport.

  The airport hummed excitedly. It was evening and the sun was beginning its descent. There were many types of people making the trip to Tokyo. Every race I can think of scattered across the floor, stuck to their phones which stuck charging to the wall’s electrical outlets. Those who didn’t claim an electrical outlet napped on the hard, plastic seats or read books, even those numbers few compared to those on their phones. All of them probably uploading selfies and photos of their flight tickets and destinations. Probably giving thumbs-ups to every other video with broken bones and humiliations and street-fight knockouts and police honorings and police degradings and cooking tutorial videos. Life continuously swiped by one shitty like at a time.

  Marie and I sat on the benches, her hands wrapped around tourist brochures from Tokyo. Her left hand flailed everywhere as she described the sights within her own brochure. She showed me photos of the Sumida River and its human wildlife edgings, high rises lining the river’s edges, and nature’s trees hidden like cryptic messages of Mother Nature overran by mutations of modern advancements.

  All the while, Marie’s wedding band set shimmered in the sunlight breaking through the early horizon. Her hazel eyes glistened just the same, excited with the anticipation of getting away. Just her and I, alone, grieving, yet celebrating our marriage and our future. Just us, lost within Tokyo’s 13.6 million inhabitants.

  My phone made quaint camera shutter noises as I snapped photos of my passport and plane ticket.

  “Remember, we’re supposed to be lost,” Marie had said. “Nobody is supposed to know where we are. This is about you and me.”

  “I know, love,” I reassured her. “These are for when we return home.”

  This trip was about us, and posting anything, even commenting on others’ posts would be tagged with our worldly position, giving away our escape from one overpopulated culture to another. I made her promise the same.

  The best part, nobody would know where we were or how to contact us. Isolation amongst humans like a page from ‘Where’s Waldo: Tokyo Edition’.

  All around us, many cultures and ethnicities. The excitement of our travels our sole common trait. Other than that, there were head-dresses and yarmulkes, sandals and cowboy boots, everywhere.

  A man sitting in the bench seats across from us, anxious and jittery, his feet tapped the stained, carpeted floor like a field rabbit. His eyes darted from his wife to an olive-skinned man wearing a ghutrah and an agal and back to his wife again. Arab would be my guess.

  My own anxiety flooded my sweat glands while watching the cowboy watching the Arab.

  Moments later, the man overloaded in nervous adrenaline. He stood and marched over to the Arab man.

  In a southern drawl, he shouted, “How did you get through security?”

  The Arab’s eyes widened, barking back in Arabic.

  The cowboy barked again, spit spraying out like market water-misters, “Fuck all your yells and clicks, my friend. I’ve seen the shit your people do on Facebook! You need to prove to me you're not here to blow this airplane to smithereens while we’re midair.”

  The cowboy reached for the Arab man, patting and tugging at his thobe.

  The Arab’s ghutrah and agal fell to the floor as he shoved back at the cowboy.

  The cowboy did not let up, his patting turning into shoves and jerks.

  Both men exchanged shouts. Neither shouted clear, distinct words.

  Two security guards ran up, intervening quickly, wrapping either men within chokeholds meticulously taught by former mixed martial artists now employed by the TSA.

  “He’s a terrorist, goddamnit,” shouted the cowboy while being dragged away.

  The Arab man, also being carried away, yelled, “I am American citizen! I have rights!”

  The Arab’s wife, veiled in black, chased after her husband’s shouts.

  The cowboy’s wife clicked along in her cowgirl boots and tight, button-down shirt, shouting at the guards, expressing the civil duty her husband had a right to. “He’s an American, take the terrorist,” she cried.

  #patriotism #ignorance

  I read a post on my Facebook feed not long ago which shared a link to another governmental study. They found that all of the world’s negative reports, liked, and shared throughout social media’s platforms, all of it seen daily, creates a more aggressive society. For every person who watches a terrorist attack video, two more people are ready and willing to punch an immigrant in the throat. For every live-streamed assault, there are two more people ready and willing to murder and stream it. A live-stream murder and there are two more people ready and willing to torture someone before the final act of murder. Live.

  Thank you, Facebook, for that aggressive tidbit.

  Surrounding me at the airport, would-be travelers held their phones up, recording the scene, excited for the likes and shares they would receive by uploading their videos to social media. All of them seeking validation for their existence, one shitty like at a time. One shitty laughing-face after another.

  Travel brochures crumbled within the grip of Marie’s left hand. Tokyo’s Skytree and Mount Fuji and Shinto Shrines and Robot Cabaret Shows, all of them collapsing, succumbing to Marie’s grip. Her right hand gripped my left bicep, pulling me in tight to give her a sense of safety. The heat from her palm burned its shape into my skin.

  “It’s okay, love,” I said. “Don’t worry, everything will be okay. This trip is just what we needed.”

  The herd of people recording and live-streaming the situation, they all sauntered back to their seats, laughing and posting. Validating their importance to today’s worldly entertainment. Never did I think Marie and I would become a source of shitty validation.

  The monotone voice blared over the speakers, “International Skylights flight 2941 now boarding to Tokyo, Japan.”

  #chapterseven

  Now, I've brought you up to speed. Now we return to The Now. In The Now, I’m painfully numb. My bones throb while my skin itches to have any sensation at all. My head and stub-of-a-tongue throb angrily. My face is damp with fight-or-flight adrenaline. Too bad I have neither fight nor flight. My only fight, I hope, shall be with my wife, to the death.

  #firstfightasamarriedcouple #nomakeupsextonightthough

  In The Now, the host’s face has enveloped the screen accompanying me in my Plexiglas cell. His face no longer that of a male geisha or a man-baby. A sky-blue surgical hat covers his hair. A surgical mask of the same color covers his face from the bridge of his nose down to his chin. The cloth mask pops around his mouth excitedly as he shouts relentlessly, his cheeks and eyes red with excitement.

  “We have finally made it to the final competition between these two lovely contestants. Don’t mind the tears and blood, folks, they really are lovely.”

  The Italian man holds his jaw, the metal skewer holding strong between his teeth now crusted in dried blood. The thick cabernet-colored blood drip from his lips and the cheek piercings. His teeth, blotched in red and
pink hues.

  Marie’s face is a Las Vegas-college-stupor of mascara and eyeliner smeared in black streaks. Red lipstick smeared every way as a toddler’s first experience in makeup. Marie’s broken fingers point north, south, east, and west. Her wedding band depleted of its lustrous sheen.

  The surgeon host barks at the cameras and everybody watches, including the mobile phone-faced audience. The subtitles run across the lower portion of the screen, sitting on the live-ticker.

  “Just because this is the last competition between the contestants, does not mean the survivor wins. No! They fight for a chance to fight for their freedom…literally!”

  The audience rise to their feet, cheering. Their phones wave around, recording, excited for more.

  The surgeon dances his way back to the cameras.

  “Each contestant has won one of the challenges. We must determine who moves on to the final round. The winner of this challenge will fight their death-partner in a grueling battle to the death!”

  Adding to the sight of the frenzied audience, the live-ticker nearly overloads. The Die-Fi Experiment has reached 7.1k likes. 6.1k wow-faces. 5.8k laughing-faces. 4.6k hearts. 1.9k angry-faces. All of the thumbs and emotional faces flutter across the screen. Those numbers add up to roughly twenty-six thousand reactions. Remember the one out of six fecal study, well this amounts to roughly thirty-thousand shitty taps and swipes. Not to mention the twenty-one-point-four thousand shares it had already received. And the thirty thousand watching our crisis, live.

  “Now, time for the next challenge. We call it, ‘Sweet Visions.’”

  Marie and the Italian come back into view with a sweeping-hand gesture from the surgeon. Both of the contestants backed against the wall in the smaller stage. Over their heads are black, nylon stockings which are attached to the wall behind them. The slack-end of the nylons are attached to the wall behind them. A few feet in front of them are a pair of marshmallows painted as eyeballs dangling from the hanging ceiling, one for each of them.

  “The first person to reach their marshmallow survives and goes on to the final round. This is to be done without the use of their hands, only their mouths. Any use of the hands and the player will be disqualified, resulting in a complete loss.”

  Beneath the nylon-stockings, both Marie and the Italian’s cheeks are ghastly pale, eyes bloodshot and glossy.

  “Also, the loser, well, the loser and their torture-buddy will no longer be available to this world.”

  One of the surgeon’s colleagues plants his left hand on the Italian’s left cheek, keeping the metal skewer in between his thumb and forefinger. He reaches his right hand, grabbing a hold of the metal skewer protruding from his cheek like a rose bush’s thorn and pulls agonizingly slow. The scabbed over piercings flowing with blood once again.

  The Italian’s face shakes with his agonizing screams. His red cheeks jiggle like fresh strawberry gelatin.

  Marie, her hair plastered to her head with the nylon, she screams, “Somebody help me!”

  My entire head and mouth throb. Dried blood cracks within my mouth with any small movement I can muster. My jaw to the point of exploding like crushed ice thanks to the metal mouth gag propping it open. Even with a good portion of my tongue missing, I feel it throbbing as if I bit into it while eating a ribeye steak.

  #mediumrareplease #phantomlimbpain

  The woman across from me, her missing thumb being her sole reason to wail and moan.

  The television screen shows the surgeon host lean forward, allowing the eyeball-marshmallow to dangle in front of his eye. A sinister smile pushes his cheeks back near his ears as he shouts in Japanese.

  The laughters of the audience is deafening over the television’s speaker.

  “Okay, folks. Help me countdown. Five!”

  The audience shouts along with him.

  “Four!”

  An Instagram photo pops up in the top right corner of the screen. Another selfie with a laptop behind them, a screenshot of the marshmallow-eyeball of the host visible. “It’s like I'm watching some useless human being die, slowly… wait, I am! #thediefiexperiment #imgoingtohell #marshmalloweyeballs”

  The host shouts, “Three!”

  The world watches excitedly, begging for our torture. We have slowly evolved to indulge in the misfortune of others. It gives us a purpose, a way of receiving the attention we all fiend for, with a swipe of a fecal traced phone screen.

  “Two!”

  A tweet appears in place of the Instagram photo. “Intense! Like holding in a fart during confession! #thediefiexperiment #poorbastards #betterthemthanme”

  A religious tweet for a devilish act of torture. Marie and I, the Italian man and his female teammate, we are new age, social media martyrs. Rarely is there a person who hesitates to watch a video of a failure. A murder in action. Guilt has become less and less a factor. But it's okay, because everyone is saved by the Lord on a daily basis. You can be saved, too, if you just comment Amen on a photo of Jesus with his arms outstretched, ready to receive you if you're ready to receive him. Once you’ve commented, share the post with your friends, and Poof! You're saved.

  “One!”

  The audience applauds, the dim lights of phone screens shaking everywhere like lighters at a hair-band concert.

  The horrific game show contestants bawl.

  My Plexiglas neighbor and I yell in vowels, knowing painful death is inevitable for one of us. Her yells go unheard in my cube, I can only presume the same goes for mine. All of my hope is on Marie’s performance. Hoping I will share some anguish with the Italian and my Plexiglas neighbor.

  Marie needs to live past this horrific torture. My suffering guarantees her ultimate survival if we face each other in the final round. She has been my world since we met, and I would gladly sacrifice my life to her so she could live on.

  “Marshmallows!”

  The screen has cleared itself of social media posts as the contestants’ feet move in panic. The host and his colleagues stand motionless with eyes wide open. The live-ticker at the bottom the only other movement, the numbers steadily rising.

  Both contestants push forward in a panicked rush. The Italian’s rosy cheeks jiggle and Marie’s broken fingers flail like streamers. Both of them have their heads pulled back by the black nylon about a foot shy of the pendulous marshmallow-eyeballs. The Italian stumbles backwards, going shoulder first in the blue wall. He manages to keep on his feet while Marie falls backward to her bottom.

  The woman across from me shakes in what looks to be anticipation. The surgeons now hopping around either of the contestants, their cheeks pressed upward with sinister grins.

  The smell of clotting blood tastes just the same on my remaining taste buds.

  Behind Marie and the Italian, the anime characters painted on the walls watch the horrible spectacle.

  The Italian man pushes forward to his marshmallow-eyeball. His head jerks back again, his chin points toward the ceiling as he gets closer than his prior attempt.

  Marie, up on her feet again, walks with an intimidating patience. She ambles forward, allowing the nylon to become taut. Then, she plants her right foot behind her and pushes forward, slow enough to keep her equilibrium in perfect position. Her left foot follows the same technique.

  The Italian man uses his weight to his advantage. Leaning forward, his chin taps his target, sending it into a small swinging motion. Seeing this, excitement runs its course and he throws his body forward. His forehead pulls backward, his tongue shoots out for the mallow.

  Heartbeats shoot through my stub of a tongue.

  Marie inches forward. The veins in her neck bulge proudly as she struggles to keep her head straight. Her life and my strength rely on her.

  All of our lives and deaths, really.

  Both Marie’s and the Italian’s face get a deadly facelift, eyelids stretched to thin slits. The Italian kicks at the ground assertively, throwing his lower body forward. Misjudging the maneuver, his upper body is pulled back
by the nylon. The nylon stocking wins another round as the Italian loses control of his equilibrium, falling backward and landing on his side with a thud. His head jerks upward, still attached to the nylon stocking.

  As Marie arrives inches away from the mallow, her tongue slithers straight out as if catching snowflakes. The mallow dances at the touch of her tongue. It nudges slowly away from her, then, on its return, Marie inhales aggressively.

  The crowd and the surgeons still and quiet as mannequins, watching the mallow pick up speed and enter her mouth with a flopping sound.

  Marie closes her jaw around the mallow and her lips stretch to the side, grinning.

  Realizing she has won, I yelp with excitement. Both of us move forward to the final round. There, I will figure a way for her to win the entire game show and live to see another day.

  On the screen, the audience goes wild. The surgeons all circle around Marie, watching intensely as she releases her foothold which propelled her forward moments ago. Now, the nylon stocking tugs her backward. The five surgeons surround her, watching as the string holding the mallow pulls in the opposite direction. Marie's tongue jerks out from her mouth. The mallow slips off from her tongue in a wet, blood-drooled action. The string which originally held the marshmallow now holds on to Marie’s tongue by way of a fish hook.

  The host and his four accomplices now jump around in a childish fit of laughter.

  The Italian struggles to stand up against the pull of the stocking. As he gets to one knee, one of the surgeons steps out from behind a wall. In his hands, a samurai sword. The surgeon wields it with both hands, stepping toward the Italian, raising it above his head.

  The crowd Oohs and Ahhs.

  The surgeon heaves his chest, his elbows next to his ears, the sword lowering next to his lower back. His feet tilt upward onto his tippy-toes. A warrior’s yell blares through my screen as he brings the sword forward quickly and drops the blade toward the Italian. It connects with the right side of his neck. The blade comes to a stop next to the Italian's left shoulder.