The Texas Post-Conspiracy

Jimmy looked out of the window. Another beautiful spring morning! The cowboy in the song had lost his truck again to the flood, but it didn’t matter anymore. Texas Jim had won, his anti-conspiracy had defeated all opposition. Now it was only a matter of combing through the wreckage to make sure all adversaries were gone.

The multiverse-spanning checkmate to reality was over, and, petulantly, he acknowledged to himself that this rendered everything else irrelevant.

Dogs barking, bicycle breaks screeching to a halt outside the front door.

Lightly collecting himself, he slided into the Mainhole, to greet the cheap detective he had randomly picked out of the Icelandic Yellow Pages.

–          Hello, you must be…

–          Tony Hammer, at your service, gov’nor.—Cool ranch this motherfucker has, he thought to himself. He then looked at the Texan and interpreted the glint in his eyes as a sign of victory.

–          Indeed, Mr Hammer—said Texas Jim, reading his thoughts—It’s all over now. Resistance is useless. All opposition has been neutralized. Agents are making sure of that, as we speak. You know what that means…—his smile was about to break out of his jaws.

Tony was trying to play it cool, not knowing how to react to this series of abstract statements. The Texan motioned him to follow him into the smoking room. A finely crafted Chinese chess-set was arranged in such a way that any movement, no matter on whose side, would unchain a lethal checkmate… for which no cure was known!

–          Anything to drink, Mister Hammer?

–          No, thank you, Mr Oilswell. I´ve already had breakfast—he had certainly hoped for a more simple case, something smoother for the time of the day.

The Texan helped himself to a superb frozen vodkini, and walking past Tony, he picked a book from the table and threw it at Hammerslap. The cover said “Cocktales” and it had been written by a certain Dr Martini.

–          Now, what do you want me to do with this, Mister? I´ve just told you breakfast has already been taken care of, mister.

–          Oh, I want you to track the elusive Doc Martini down. We cannot leave any loose ends, y’know? Just a matter of style. That´s where you come in, in case you missed your cue…

–          I thought your plan had accomplished the goal of exterminating all opposition —the Hammer said, presenting the Texan with an opak smile.

–          Mister Hammer, we have finished with all the other post-conspiracies and free agents, but this “doctor” seems to be intent on searching for a way out from the information system. Read the book, look for black holes, and kill whatever you find on the other side.

The whole thing was turning sketchier by the moment (make a mental note), and then somebody walked into the room. It was that young Lauren Baccall that he had seen earlier by the pool, as he was riding around on his bicycle. Only a tiny towel covering her wet body.

–          Now, Mister Hammer—said Texas Jim—, so that we start on a good note, would you care to fuck my daughter?

The same country song was playing over and over from some corner of the room he couldn’t find. Hammer realized that any Rimsky-Korsakov rip-off would have suited the scene better. Hence, he said the only thing that would allow him to keep whatever was left of his dignity:

–          Grok!

Straight up! Whose head is in the fridge? Five seconds to go.

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