Read this:
Kurt Vonnegut has come disadhered in time. It was March 14, 2007 and he had just gone out the front door of his Manhattan brownstone to walk his doggie, Flour, a sweet little Lhasa Apso. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Flour heard a noise behind Kurt and turned to see what it was. It was a kind of splat noise like when the last bit of ketchup comes out of a squeeze bottle. Kurt Vonnegut hadn't heard it so he was startled when the little dog turned and he tripped over the leash. His 84 year old face was approaching the concrete sidewalk at an approximate speed of 37 mph, destined to experience severe damage when it made contact. But then half way down he stopped in mid air. When he overcame his surprise, he turned his head and looked around. He saw that everything else on the street had stopped as well. All the cars on the street had stopped. All the people walking down the sidewalk had stopped. The young bearded man drinking the café ole' he just purchased from a street vendor stopped in mid gulp, the unseen coffee still half way down his throat, his poor stomach waiting patiently for a now waylaid feeling of satisfaction. Kurt Vonnegut was pondering the strangeness of the situation when he heard a slight cough from behind him and turned to see what used to be euphemistically known at a "plumbers friend"- with an odd looking hand and the top on of it, and an eye in the palm of it. He, of course, recognized it as one of the alien race he himself had created in his novel "Slaughterhouse Five", a Tralfamdorian.
"Hello, Mr. Vonnegut" the Tralfamdorian told him. In his mind. Tralfamadorians communicate through telepathy. Kurt knew this having created them himself.
"Please," returned Kurt Vonnegut, "call me Kurt". He calmed down at this point. He figured as he was seeing a Tralfamadorian that he must be dreaming. He felt like the protagonist from "Jailbird" as he rode in a limousine and picked up everyone he had been nice to him over the previous day. But also like Walter F. Starbuck, he was not dreaming.
"Thank you, Kurt Vonnegut" Said the Traflamadorion "You can call me Junior."
"Is that really your name? That's actually my name too."
"Well, we have that in common, don't we?"
"Were you named after your father, like me? I didn't think Tralafamadorians had regular names. Or regular fathers, for that matter"
"I am not a regular Tralfamadorian… I'm trans-speciesal. I, in fact, used to be a human being, like you. I'll explain all that to you eventually. If you want you can call me your Blue Fairy Godmother, or perhaps the ghost of Christmas Past"
Kurt Vonnegut, being Kurt Vonnegut, didn't push the issue, realizing the absurdity of arguing with a space alien hallucination. Junior told him that the Tralfamadorians had been watching his career for some time now from a distance. It had placed a synochronastic infundibulium a few feet in front of him so to catch him as he fell. Junior of course knew that the moment would be structured in such a way that he would be falling just then.
"You are destined to hit the pavement with such force that it will create a brain aneurism and you will go into a coma. And in a few short days your soul, such as it is, will, as they say, pass from this mortal coil. That is, as Rudy Waltz might say, your peep hole is about to close. Your going down the blue tunnel to the big turkey farm, through the pearly gates with no Dr Kevorkian to pull you back…. So it goes"
"I was just thinking to myself 'I hope he doesn't end this sentence with 'So it Goes' ' ".
"Sorry, Kurt Vonnegut, you don't get to write this story. You're only a character in it. But enough exposition for the moment. A little joy ride has been designed for you. What Kilgore Trout might call a "time window" for you to fall through.
And before he could protest, the world evaporated from the author's sight and he found himself floating through both space and time, surrounded by brilliant colors and multiple images of himself such as one would see used in the special effects of TV in the early 1970's.
He then found himself standing next to the classic radio comedy duo Bob and Ray. They were holding microphones and Ray began speaking.
"We're here to greet the world famous author and astronaut Kurt Vonnegut after his first trip through the synocronastic infundibulium. He has just landed next to us on the fictional island of San Lorenzo. How are you feeling, sir?"
Ray stuck the mic in the authors face. Kurt Vonnegut stared back at him. Bob felt compelled to fill the empty moment, just as any good radio announcer would. "The famous wordsmith seems to be at a loss for words, no doubt the shock of seeing his own creation brought to life has had a disorienting impact on that famously clever and ironic mind of his. It does indeed seem that the excrement has hit the air conditioner"
They were standing on top of a grassy hill (dead grass) on an island in the middle of an ocean of solid ice. But it was not cold, it felt dry and hot. In the distance one could see a small town with and airport to one side. In their immediate proximity they were surrounded by dead bodies. Former human beings, all with their hands in their mouths with the blue appearance of having frozen to death.
Kurt Vonnegut gazed at his surroundings and looked back at Bob and Ray but they were gone. Instead was the little Trafalmadorian again. He heard the voice in his head again.
"... man got to wonder why why why..."
Then he heard voices in the distance behind him. He turned and looked to see below the hill the dead bodies on dead grass had disappeared, replaced by a very large green field with several thousand soldiers (circa WW2). They were in groups of two and three, some larger but all with a confused manner and all unarmed.
"I remember this scene. The nazis had just abandoned all of us p o w's because the Russians would be here soon." said Kurt Vonnegut
"Of course you remember it. It was one of the formative images of your young life" said the little Trafalmadorian. "You have returned to it again and again in your writings. Most notably it was the inspiration for the massive painting in Rabo Karabekians barn. It seems to represent a perfect moment for you. The war had ended but civilization had not yet returned. All these men from so many different backgrounds, languages and homelands were coexisting in a perfect limbo of peaceful anarchy."
"Except we were starving to death"
"Still...as your uncle Alex used to say, "If this isn't nice, what is?"
"Or as Lot said to his wife.. 'dont look back'".
"Don't worry, Kurt Vonnegut, no one is going to turn you into a pillar of salt…ok lets look at a scene from another book"
Remaining atop a large hill, they were surrounded by a different group of people all dressed in tunics and robes. Mostly men and a few women they all had a Middle Eastern appearance and all were looking up at Kurt Vonnegut with rapt attention.
Junior whispered to him "This is where you say 'Blessed are the peace keepers for they shall be called the children of God"
Kurt Vonnegut hesitated.. then said "Where there is a lower class I am in it! Where there is a criminal element, I am of it! and while there is a soul in prison, I am not free!"
The crowd looked at each and mumbled incoherently in confusion. "Is there something wrong?" Kurt Vonnegut asked Junior
"Apparently you and I are thinking of different books. Besides, I don't think they can speak English. Maybe this was a bad idea. Hang on." Kurt Vonnegut again fell through a 70's video trippy special effects geneator. "This is what Stony Stevenson experienced in that made for TV show I wrote "Between Time and Timbuktu in the early 70's", he said as he landed next to his new Trafalmadorian guide. They were standing in a living room full of chattering people in evening dress holding martinis. A cocktail party guest turned to him and uttered the immortal question "You're writing an anti war book? You know what I say to people who say they are writing an anti war book?" Kurt Vonnegut knew the answer to this question of course... "You say why don't you write an anti glacier book instead?" "I say" continued the drunken philosopher critic "Why don't you write an anti glacier book instead?" At this point Junior jumped into the conversation "Because an anti glacier book would be boring as hell. Besides that, nobody hates glaciers like they hate war…and besides that, and here is the ultimate Kurt Vonnegut style irony, glaciers, unlike war, are going to disappear from the earth in the next 20 years anyway, without any help from Kurt Vonnegut. So what do you say to that mister smartypants" The drunken know-it-all shrugged.. "So it goes" he said.
"Lets blow this scene" said Junior, "I know a much better party"
"ok" said Kurt Vonnegut "but spare me the crummy 70's special effects. I remember that TV special that you're putting me though and it doesn't deserve this kind of constant reference.
"It was a terrific show!… Very popular back on Tralfamador. But impossible to find these days on Earth, even on you tube or Amazon, except in book form. But ok, I want you to be happy. Just walk through that door. "
Junior pointed his little Trafalmadorian hand atop his plunger handle at the door next to very ornately framed reproduction of a very primitive drawing of a bomb upon which were written the words "good bye blue monday".
They both looked at as they passed
"What do you suppose Rabo Karabekian would say about that?" said Junior
"Whatever I wanted him to say, of course" said Kurt Vonnegut
"Speaking of which..." began Junior as they entered the Tally ho room lounge of the Holiday inn of Midland city as the man in question himself, Rabo Karabekian, had just asked the question of the waitress, "What kind of man would turn his daughter into an outboard motorboat?" quickly followed by angry shouts from other members of the room. Karabekian then was able the diffuse the mob anger with an impassioned lecture about the meaning and importance of abstract art. They are, much to their own surprise, being quite impressed and even moved by this lecture.
"Only in a Kurt Vonnegut novel" said Kurt Vonnegut.
"but wait," said Junior, "Your missing something. Look over there" he said, using his cartoony looking hand to indicate another person. In the darkness in front of them between them and the action. "Who do you suppose that is?"
The mysterious, chain smoking, person seemed to be using a typewriter, and old style noisy manual typewriter, to record all the actions of the persons in front of him. Silently, somehow.
As Junior asked the question, however, Kurt Vonnegut was already walking over to the stranger and tapping him on the shoulder. "Could I have one of those Pall Malls?" He asked him. "Of course" He responded and handed him a box from his pocket. "Shhh…here keep the pack"
Kurt Vonnegut walked back to Junior. "Fellow seems to be having some sort of epiphany watching this scene play out" said Junior.
"I know all about it of course, having written this scene about 40 odd years ago." Said Kurt Vonnegut, "That's how I knew that guy would have some smokes. That's me, obviously. I wrote myself into this scene."
At that point Rabo Karabekian made his pronouncement "Citizens of Midland City, I salute you! You have given a home to a masterpiece!"
"To bad for them" Said Junior to Kurt Vonnegut, "In a few short years that masterpiece will be a blank piece of cloth and a pile of 'moldy Rice Krispies'. (There's a "Breakfast of Champions" for you. [Not to disparage General Mills or any of their fine products of course… But then Rice Krispies is a Kelloggs product isn't it?])... I wonder if your buddy, the other Kurt Vonnegut over there, knows that at this point?"
"I don't think so but then again maybe they won't… maybe that's a completely different Rabo Karbekian that that happened to in a completely different book. Who knows?"
Just then someone changed the lights and the room was filled with an ultraviolet glow. Duane Hoover and Kilgore Trout were soon facing each other and Duane was reading the book "Now It can be Told"
"This all seems to be happening rather quickly doesn't it. It took about three chapters for this scene to transpire thus far what with all the back-story and other digressions you threw in there. Not that I'm complaining of course. I'm a big fan of your hyperbole. Nobody can hyperbolate like you. This is all much more entertaining than it was when Bruce Willis and Albert did it. Why didn't they use the black light effect when they made the movie? "
"Please don't mention that movie to me. And if you bring up "Slapstick" with Jerry Lewis, I'll somehow strangle you, even if you don't actually have a throat to wrap my hands around. At least Slaughthouse Five was not too bad, even though they axed my cameo."
"And Mother Night with Nick Nolte and Laura Palmer? By the way, in the Breakfast movie it was Duane who walked through the polluted swamp instead of Kilgor Trout… And they completely left out the bit about the plastic coating of their shoes from the pollution..."
"If I'm dead I must be in hell, even though I don't believe in it. Surely having to witness my own work for eternity is something Dante would have dreamed up. Having to listen to a Tralfamadorian discuss the movies made from my novels is too cruel for even him"
"Incidentally when they get to the ambulance you say that Duane is the one with plastic on his feet yet Kilgore is the one that wades through the polluted swamp. Whats up with that?"
"Just because I never said that Duane also waded through the swamp didn't mean it didn't happen."
"True it is a minor point, as is the question of just how do you drive out towards Mr. Trout and confront him and are simultaneously confronted by the vicious Doberman Kazak, who incidentally was once a German Shepherd zipping through time and space with and without his owner Niles Rumford after passing through another synochronastic infundibulum (much bigger than the one you fell into by the way), and then later as a seeing eye dog being eaten by the Kakabono girls on a Galapagos island. Also to change the subject, is your penis really of the proportions you described in Breakfast of Champions? Just how did you father any children with a ding dong the size and shape of small hamburger? I assume the other 5 humans needed for the job were exceptional at their work."
"Artistic license is all I have to say about that. In fact, there is nothing wrong with my penis, and no, I'm not going to show it to you" Said Kurt Vonnegut as he took a first drag off the much ballyhooed Pall Mall. "Maybe it's not too late for these things to kill me like the box promised"
"I'm glad I can't smell, I bet those things stink like a…."
Just then Duane Hoover began making his distracting ruckus, Kurt Vonnegut noticed another figure further back in the darkness behind the Kurt Vonnegut at the typewriter. He had a laptop computer on his table and was typing away as well.
"Who is that?" He asked Junior, "I don't remember writing him"
Just as Junior turned eyeball hand toward the mystery man, Kilgore Trout let out a loud scream and began waving around his bloody hand.
"Lucky it wasn't his typing finger" quipped Kurt Vonnegut.
"You know, you modeled him on Theodore Stergeon, but really you did Stergeon a disservice. I mean Stergeon got to write an episode of the original Star Trek series. Did you ever do that?"
"Steorgeon was a great writer. I never meant him any disservice. I have nothing but respect for the man. He felt unappreciated, like a lot of excellent writers. If anything Trout was an homage to Stergeon. But really Trout was more me than him…obviously….. not that I owe you any explanations. And let me ask again, who is that guy back there behind the other me?"
"What?" Junior shouted, "Lets leave! I can barely hear you over this racket!" Said Junior.
And with that Junior lept up and landed on top of Kurt Vonneguts head, causing another shift in time and place. They were suddenly in a beautifully furnished living room with glass walls. Outside of which was darkness.
"Junior!" They heard a female voice exclaim behind them. Kurt Vonnegut turned and saw a familiar looking young woman. "Loree!" He said and excitedly reached out to her. But she did not return his attention, instead the Tralfamadorian on his head clumsily leapt off his head and into her loving arms.
"Who is this guy?" she asked Junior, indicating Kurt Vonnegut, "Looks a little like Mark Twain, and why does he think I'm someone named Loree?"
"You look a lot like someone I used to know." Explained Kurt Vonnegut, embarrassed,"… only now that I look closer your bigger in the… your figure seems more like …."
"like the fantastic architecture of Dresden before it was bombed?" Suggested Junior "This is the man I told you about. Remember, Mom? The one I said I was going to bring by? I told you he was going to fix our problem..?"
"Wait…" Kurt Vonnegut turned his head quizzically, " 'Mom'? Where are we? Tralfamador? And this is Montana Wildhack and that makes you…"
"Billy Pilgrim Junior, at your service" Said Junior, extending his single hand. "Stranded here on Tralfamador with no one to raise him from baby hood but an ex porn star mom and a planet of time traveling space aliens. Thanks to you, mr. world famous best selling author. Would mind telling me how and why my father would have gone back to earth without my mother and me?"
"Did it ever occur to you that you weren't real? That you and this entire planet were a result of brain damage caused by the plane crash Billy was in, combined from latent POW PTSD…? Maybe your earthling sister had a valid point?"
"She was such a bitch, no one listens to her. Besides all that is irrelevant. We just need you to fix the problem. There is your old typewriter over there and a stack of paper. Make an epilogue and bring us all back…".
"This is must be the strangest dream I've ever had" mumbled Kurt Vonnegut to himself.
"This is no dream, Kurt Vonnegut" retorted Junior, snuggling comfortable against him mothers serenity prayer. "This is something else entirely… And stop oogling my mothers boobs!"
"We'll see. I'll just go along with it anyway. Why not?" he said calmly, as much to himself as anyone, and sat down at his old typewriter. He didn't even wonder how this old warhorse machine had magically appeared after having been discarded so many years ago. After a short pause to ponder, he began typing.
End Part 1