Chapter 2

The crowd had dissipated, and Tejal and Frank stood outside in the empty parking lot of the nightclub, next to Frank's black sedan. Shivering in the cold night air, they vaguely talked for a while about what they'd just seen ... or, perhaps to be more accurate, they talked around it. Neither Frank or Tejal could remember any of the specifics – any at all – of Benedict and the Amazing Bartleby's ventriloquist act. Both were in perfect agreement that Benedict's act was absolutely hysterical – a fantastic mix of raunchy and sweet, with some drop-dead hilarious punchlines to some well-crafted jokes ... but what those jokes actually were, neither one could remember. No specific catchphrases, no one-liners, nothing.

"And here's the thing, though," Tejal said, "I can't remember any jokes that missed, either. Can you?" Shivering in her overcoat, Tejal blew on her cupped hands, wishing she'd worn gloves as she tried to warm them. "And it's not like we're arguing about which joke was the funniest. Something like that, afterwards you're telling me the punchline that killed you, and I'm saying yes, that was funny, but my favorite joke was such-and-such."

"I know," Frank said. He shook his head. "Creepy. It's like not being able to remember the name of an actor in a movie, or a title of a book. Feels like Benedict's whole show is on the tip of my tongue. Except it's not a name or a title, it's an hour and a half of my life."

"Exactly," Tejal said, nodding vigorously. "There's even more here than I thought." She checked her watch. "That's why interviewing this guy's even more important. How the hell does he do it? If I can get him to tell me..."

"You might not want to know," Frank said. "Might be a reason nobody's meant to know."

"What?" Tejal gave Frank a dumbfounded look. "This is something everyone's meant to know. And I plan on being the one to tell them. Do you know how big this story might be? A guy who can affect his audiences like ... like ... like, well, I don't know, but on the scale he does? It's a huge story."

"Well, it might be," Frank said dubiously, rubbing his chin. "But maybe ... well, maybe interviewing this Benedict guy isn't such a great idea, Tejal. That show of his ... I mean, the fact we can't even remember it all that well, even though it was funny as all hell? That's not natural. Call it a hunch, but I just get the feeling that there's something not right about him."

"Not natural?" Tejal said with a laugh. "So what is it? Supernatural?"

"Yeah," Frank said. "I think so."

Frank took Tejal's hand in his own. Startled, Tejal almost pulled away from her editor's grasp immediately ... but then she saw the concerned look in his face. He was so serious, so earnest, like he wanted to protect her somehow.

"Every once in awhile, there's a good story that you need to walk away from," Frank said quietly to Tejal. "This is one of those stories, I think. Walk away."

"Walk where?" Tejal snapped at Frank. "To a bar, with you? Or maybe back to your place? Bet you'd like that. Well, I don't think so. There's a good story here. A great one. And I'll be damned if I let anyone else scoop me on it." She gave her editor an icy look. "And if you come back here later to try and interview him yourself –"

Frank held up a hand, cutting Tejal off. He sighed wearily. "Well, you're right about one thing, I think," he said. "You'll be damned. That, I'm pretty sure about." With a shrug, he slipped one hand into one of his overcoat pockets. "Hope I'm wrong. Hope you get the story, and I hope it's as good as you think it'll be. But..."

Tejal rolled her eyes. "But what?"

"But nothing, I guess." Frank gave Tejal a sad, gentle smile. "Take care of yourself, Tejal." The editor took out a set of keys. Tipping his fingers in a mock solute to Tejal, he got in his car and started it up ... and a few moments later, Tejal was alone in the parking lot of the nightclub, alone with only her thoughts and her car for company.

"Whatever," Tejal muttered under her breath. She opened her purse, rummaging around to see if she'd brought her trusted tools ... yes. Digital camera, digital recorder. Perfect. She'd hoped that Frank would've stuck around with her for the interview as well, if only to handle stupid stuff like pictures, too, but she supposed it didn't matter. Less credit for him, more credit for me, she thought grimly as she headed into the side entrance of the club.

The dressing room was located in the basement of the club, down past a maze of dusty crates and pipes. Reaching the dressing room, Tejal knocked on the door and simply opened it without waiting for an answer. The room was a grimy little place, cramped and dimly lit by a bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Posters of rock groups and comedians nearly a decade old – if not more – were plastered all over the walls of the room.

In the middle of the room sat a table, surrounded by a bunch of metal folding chairs. A tray of cold cuts and fruit lay on top of the table, along with some promotion flyers and plane tickets. A bunch of boxes holding T-shirts and other cheap merchandise for the evening's show rested in the corner, near a smaller changing table and a full-length mirror. A small black case that looked oddly familiar to Tejal rested atop the boxes.

A tall, lanky guy with a mop of brown hair sat right an old, creaking swivel chair next to the changing table, munching listlessly on a sandwich. He wore just a faded t-shirt and sweatpants – a pair of jeans lay crumpled on the ground beneath his chair. His head bobbed up and down in an odd, weirdly hypnotic rhythm. Tejal thought the guy might be listening to music or something, but was slightly surprised when she got a little closer and realized he wasn't wearing any headphones.

"Benedict, I presume?" Tejal asked the man. She took off her overcoat, hanging it on a hook by the door. She held out her hand to the man in anticipation of a handshake. "Or should I call you Brian? Whatever you prefer."

Benedict – or Brian – didn't answer. For that matter, he didn't even look up at Tejal for several long moments, leaving her feeling like a fool for extending her hand. Tejal forced herself to smile, seething silently, biting back several sharp comments that had sprung to mind. She watched as he took another half-hearted bite of his sandwich, and then another ... and then flinched slightly as he finally turned his head to look at her.

Benedict's face was pale and haggard. His hands trembled, and Tejal noticed that he was gripping his sandwich almost enough to rip it in half. He gave Tejal a small, apologetic smile.

"You really should go, miss," Benedict said thickly. His dark eyes looked glassy and dead. "Get out now. Please, while you can..."

"Excuse me?" Tejal replied. She closed the door firmly behind herself. Planting herself on one of the folding chairs by the table, she sat down, legs crossed demurely as she gave Benedict a frosty stare. "I don't think so, sir. You're the one who agreed to this interview, and I'm not leaving now. I've worked too hard for this."

Benedict groaned. To Tejal's shock, the lanky ventriloquist doubled over in his chair, holding his head in his hands, his whole body trembling. Migraines? Tejal wondered ... and then Benedict sat bolt upright, his limbs jerking around, dropping his half-eaten sandwich to the floor.

"Right," Benedict said, in a slow, easy voice. He ran his fingers nervously through his stringy hair. "Of course you have. Absolutely right. Sorry about that. Interview it is." He drummed his fingers nervously on the edge of the dressing table. "So, um, what do you want to ask?"

What. The. Hell, Tejal thought. She took a deep breath, and gave the ventriloquist a sharp, pointed stare, right into Benedict's dully eyes. It delighted her to no end that he turned his face away from her slightly, as though he was afraid of her. Won't even make eye contact, Tejal thought triumphantly. This is going to be a piece of cake...

"We can start with why this interview's even happening," Tejal answered confidently. She tugged at the hem of her crimson cocktail dress, pulling it just a little further down the length of her slender thighs. "It was your agent's idea, after all. I've been trying to set this up for weeks – you were the one blowing off my messages. Which is fine – you haven't given a single interview to anyone, ever, as far as I can tell. Your agent's the one who finally agreed to this." Tejal's brow furrowed for a moment. "Which reminds me. I still don't have his name, so that can be one of the first questions you answer for me. But ... bigger picture. Why now? Why me? Why are you finally breaking your silence and granting an interview?"

"Well, um, right, my agent, he, uh, thought it'd be a good idea," Benedict said. He rubbed his chin and scrunched uncomfortably in his seat. His eyes stared dully at the floor, still avoiding looking over at Tejal. "Y'know, because, well ... because he said I should meet you. You might be good for, umm..."

"Good for what?" Tejal asked pointedly. She had to admit to herself, Benedict wasn't what she expected. She thought she'd be confronting some sort of smooth-talking con man, not some awkward, stammering schlub. What's his game? Tejal wondered curiously. If this is an act, it's a damn good one ... not to mention one that doesn't make any sense...

"Good for the act," Benedict answered. "My – uh, sorry, his act. I don't really know why. Honest. I know, it sounds stupid. I'm sorry, I think. I guess. I don't know..."

"HIS act?" Tejal asked in surprise. "You're the star of the show, sir. Whose act would–"

"Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap," sneered a shrill, nasal voice from behind Tejal. "Geez louize, bitch, don't you ever fucking shut up?"

Tejal angrily whirled around in her chair, her hands tightly gripping the armrests in anger. Her eyes went wide as they darted about the dingy dressing room, a slow rage starting to boil inside her. I'm going to fucking kill whoever said that, she thought furiously.

But she saw no one. There was nobody else in the room with her and Benedict, no one at all ... except for the Amazing Bartleby, Benedict's stupid dummy, sitting up on its open black case, back near the cardboard T-shirt boxes in the corner.

Tejal looked uneasily around the room.

"What did you just say?" Tejal said. She thought she knew what was going on ... and she didn't like it. At all.

"I said," the Amazing Bartleby said cheerfully, "that you'd look great with those luscious lips of yours wrapped around a big fat dick. Not only would I bet that you give great head, but a cock shoved in that hot little mouth of yours might finally shut you the fuck up."

Tejal stood up, staring at Benedict in complete disbelief. She couldn't have been more shocked if he'd simply just slapped her in the face. Of all the passive aggressive bullshit ... wow, Tejal thought, almost stunned in disbelief. This asshole's a real piece of work...

"Over here, stupid," said the shrill, nasal voice behind her. "That fucking dimwit's not going to tell you anything. You want answers, you talk to me. I'm the one in charge here."

Tejal didn't bother turning around. I'm not playing this childish game, she thought irritably. Her eyes narrowed as she stared hard at Benedict. She was about to give bastard a piece of her mind, let him know what a creepy, talentless hack he was, and that she'd be filing her exposé article about him in the Herald that weekend, so he could kiss his career in the comedy business goodbye ... but she didn't say anything. Not a word.

Instead, Tejal found herself staring in bewilderment at Benedict. The scruffy-face comedian sat slumped over in his chair, his eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth open and his face contorted in pain. He twitched uncomfortably, spasming so hard at moments that Tejal thought he might fall out of his seat.

How is he throwing his voice? Tejal thought uncertainly. Is he having a seizure or something?

"Hey," Tejal said, a note of concern in her voice, "are you ... Benedict, are you okay?" She started to get up, reaching across to table to shake him.

"Sit down," the voice behind her snapped impatiently. "And talk to me. Now. Obey."

Abruptly, Tejal sat back down. She immediately turned to face the wooden dummy. Okay, I'll play your childish game, she thought. I don't know how you're doing this, but...

Tejal froze. The dummy wasn't sitting on its case anymore. Instead, it sat next to the case, up on a couple of cardboard boxes filled with t-shirts. One of the boxes was partly ripped open. The dummy, impossibly, reached down into the open box, and pulled out a black shirt emblazoned with its likeness. TALK TO BARTLEBY, HE'S AMAZING!!!, proclaimed the logo on the top of the shirt.

"Like the shirt says," the wooden puppet said, "talk to me." Its little wooden jaw clacked as it spoke. "Skip past the shit where you explain how smart you are, though. You figured it out, Benedict and Brian are the same person. The same stupid person, I might add. Bra-fucking-vo." The puppet clapped its small gloved hands together sarcastically.

Tejal blinked, unable to speak. She still couldn't believe what she was seeing. Or hearing. How does it move? she found herself wondering. No strings, and Benedict – or Brian, or whoever the fuck he really is – looks like he's half dead. Remote control, maybe? Tejal glanced around the room again. Maybe he's got another partner ... maybe someone else controls the stupid puppet...

"So, are we starting this interview, or what?" asked the Amazing Bartleby. The puppet hopped off the boxes, and down onto the floor of the dressing room. For a few moments, Tejal couldn't see the diminutive wooden figure ... and then, she watched as it climbed up onto the table and sat cross-legged on it, right across from her. "I'm ready. Start asking questions, baby."

"Don't tell me what to do," Tejal said frostily to the dummy. "I'm not your dog. I'm not going to bark for your amusement, or–"

"Obey," said the puppet.

Tejal stopped herself.

"Well," Tejal said, "I wanted to interview you – I mean, Benedict." She spoke uneasily. "You're quite a phenomenon, and the readers of the Herald would like–"

"Save it," the Amazing Bartleby said in exasperation. "You don't give a fuck about those drooling imbeciles you call your readers. You just want a juicy story that's going to make a splash and make you rich and famous, or something else stupid like that. So spare me the polite crap, and let's cut to the chase. Ask me the question that you most want answered."

"Fine." Tejal reached into her purse, and took out her trusted tools. She put the digital camera on the corner of the table, and the recorder in front of her. A tiny red light winked on as she turned on the recorder. "Interview one, eleven seventeen in the evening, this interview is with Benedict–"

"The Amazing Bartleby," corrected the wooden dummy.

"–with Benedict, an up-and-coming ventriloquist and comedian who's become quite popular, and has gathered quite a following of loyal fans," finished Tejal. She smiled thinly at the puppet. "Even though I suspect he's really not that talented."

"He's not," the Amazing Bartleby agreed. "Quite awful, actually."

"Then we'll start with this," Tejal said, "since you said to ask you question that I most want answered first. How do you do it?" Tejal glanced over at Benedict. He still wasn't moving. "How do you make people think they're seeing something funny, when they're not? On the record, if you don't mind."

"Simple," the wooden dummy replied. "On the record, I'm a god."

"Really." Despite all of the demented weirdness going on in the dressing room – and Tejal thought she'd already seen way, way too much of it – even that was a bit too much for her to take. "You're God. That must be nice."

"No, stupid, I'm not the Big Guy with a capital G," said the Amazing Bartleby. "I said I'm a god. The sort with a little g. Although trust me, sweetie, there's not much else that's little about me." The puppet absently dusted off the sleeves of its rumpled jacket with the back of its gloved wooden hands. "Anyway, the people that you call the Mayans used to worship me – well, the ones that knew how to party did, anyway. Those were the days ... temple orgies, playing with virgins, ritual sacrifices ... man, I miss that shit. Good times."

"So what happened?"

The Amazing Bartleby shrugged his small wooden shoulders. "The usual. There was a misunderstanding, some other gods who couldn't take a joke got mad, and..." The puppet made a twirling motion with his gloved hands. "Boom. Ala-kazam-presto, I got trapped inside a wooden idol. Trapped for all eternity, said my divine brothers, as they imprisoned me."

"I see." Tejal pushed her digital recorder a little closer to the wooden marionette. "You don't seem particularly trapped anymore, though."

"Oh, that's all thanks to that bumbling dipshit over there," the Amazing Bartleby replied, jerking a gloved thumb over towards the slumped and semi-comatose Benedict. "The sad, stupid twit didn't mean to do it, but he did. Bless his heart. He freed me. His loss, my gain. Although..." The puppet scratched his wooden chin musingly. "Although I guess it's hard to say it's his loss. Not when he gets to pork as many good-looking broads as he does, anyway."

"Hmm," Tejal said, nodding thoughtfully. She reached over and turned off the digital recorder. "And you really expect that I'm supposed to believe that ridiculous story of yours?"

"Oh, I don't expect you to believe anything," the Amazing Bartleby said blandly. "Even though it's absolutely true. One hundred percent. But whether or not you believe it, it's not like you're going to remember this conversation, or anything else about this night. Now, enough with this interview crap. Pull up that sexy little dress of yours and take off your panties ... if you're wearing any panties, that is. I bet a dirty slut like you probably doesn't."