Jabbering, spread-eagled, even as he put his clothes on, grabbed the unopened Turkey bottle. He could still hear her jabbering as he closed the door to her apartment
He stumbled around the room, feeling for the Turkey.
Where the hell was the goddamned bottle?
Mind, gone; memory, gone. He stomped around the room, checking the floor, the bed, his dresser, the closet, feeling the panic starting to rise-
'Looking for this?' said someone.
His heart shot up into his chest, collided with the roof of his mouth. Unexpelled breath stagnated painfully in his chest.
Outline in the doorway, backlit by the foyer bulb. Some guy, hat, long coat. The light glinting off eyeglasses. The fuzz of a beard.
The guy came closer. Smiling. Grinning.
'What the hell-'
'Hi, I'm Dr. Terrific. What seems to be the problem?'
He could see teeth. A grin.
Too weird.
Oh, shit, Dr. Terrific: D.T. The D.T.'s.
A Delirium Tremens Demon. You always heard about it hitting some other guy, never thought it would happen to you. He remembered the warning of the Brazilian doctor with the soft, wet hands: Your liver, Mr. Wilbur. Easy on the daiquiris.
Off the sauce, he promised himself, first thing tomorrow morning. Three squares a day, more B vitamins
'Looking for this, Mark?' repeated the D.T. Demon, extending the Turkey bottle.
Definitely hallucinating.
Poisoned hash. Laced with something-LSD? The demon in the hat grinned wider. Looking awfully goddamned real for a hallucination
Wilbur sat down on the edge of the bed, closed his eyes, rubbed them, opened them again, hoping to find himself alone.
He didn't.
'What the hell-'
The demon/man shook his head. 'Talk respectfully, Mark.'
Using his name, as if he knew him intimately, were part of him. Like one of those cartoons he'd watched as a kid. This is your conscience speaking, Mark.
He waved it away. 'Up yours.'
The demon reached into his coat, pulled out something long and shiny. Even in the dimness, Wilbur knew right away what it was.
Knife. Biggest goddamned knife he'd ever seen-blade had to be close to a foot long, maybe longer. Gleaming metal Made, pearl handle.
'Respectfully, Mark.'
Wilbur stared at the knife glinting light. Cold and clean and cruel and real? Could this be real? Oh, God-
'I've missed your stories about me, Mark. I feel as if you've abandoned me.'
And then he knew.
'Listen,' he forced out, 'I wanted to. They wouldn't let me.'
The man kept grinning, listening.
A hundred shrink interviews reeled through his head: Buy time, goddammit. Establish a bond. Empathy.
'Censorship-you know what it's like,' he said. Forcing a smile-oh, Jesus, how it hurt to smile. That knife? 'I did several stories-you want to see them, I can show them to you-out in my desk in the living room.' Slurring his words, sounding like a drunk. Be dearer!
'In the living room,' he repeated. Front room, make a lunge for the door
'Another thing, Mark,' said the grinning bastard, as if he hadn't heard a word. 'You called me a butcher. That implies sloppiness. Crudeness. I'm a professional. A real scientist. I always clean up afterward.'
No, no, no, make this go away-got to get out of this room, this goddamned room, make a run for it
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean-'
'Despite that, I've really missed those stories, Mark. We had a relationship. You had no permission to end it without consulting me.'
The man in the hat and long coat came closer. What a weird face, something wrong with it-off kilter, he couldn't place it? Hell with that-don't waste time wondering about stupid things.
Buy time.
'I know what you mean. I'd feel the same way if I were you. But the system stinks, it really does.' Now he
