David Lynch Blues
The Cat Came Back The Very Next Day
By Machiavelli
It took Jet maybe a week after Keats' death before he fully recognized that he was insane. He'd suspected it up until that point, but he wasn't entirely sure of the fact until he walked in one day to find Spike sprawled out across the couch.
"You're out of food," he said. He had a plate in his hand with what was left of the shitake spread across it.
"That shitake's two weeks old," said Jet.
Spike shrugged, and gulped down what was left.
Jet couldn't remember when he put the Bebop down back on Mars. What was left of his cash after the toll had gone to, in no particular order, a Chinese-Italian takeout place just down from the dock, a kid he'd seen begging on the street somewhere, a bargain-basement ammunition store, various cigarette hawkers throughout the city, a black market O2 salesman, an old woman who needed a few more quarters for subway fare, a taxi ride that had lasted thirty-two minutes, fourteen seconds (plus tip), and a bus pass that would expire in about a month.
He hadn't heard from the cop who'd given him the advance. He didn't really care.
Spike stayed awake long enough to devour the leftover chicken chow-mein Jet had doggy-bagged. Jet went back up onto the deck to have a smoke. When he came back in an hour later, Spike was awake and watching a late-night soap opera.
He looked up as Jet entered. "I have no idea what's going on," he said. "I missed the last few episodes."
"The Russian guy came out of his coma," said Jet. "And that one woman, the blonde, she's dead."
"I thought she was off on a spiritual journey."
"She was. She died in a plane crash on the way back."
"You know, you're not acting like yourself," said Spike.
Jet grinned, kinda. "That so."
"You didn't used to watch soap operas."
"I've had a lot of time on my hand. And at least I'm not dead."
Spike shrugged. "Just making an observation."
"Whatever." And then both of them shut up, because the Russian guy's estranged fiancée was starting to take off her blouse.
Jet fell asleep on the couch in the observation deck. When he woke up sometime in the afternoon, Spike was sitting on the other side of the room, staring at him.
Jet rubbed out his eyes. "What the hell are you looking at ?"
"You haven't asked me any questions," said Spike.
"You're dead," said Jet.
Spike shrugged.
"You're actually dead," said Jet. "I saw your grave yesterday. The cops didn't know your name, so they just put your autopsy photo on the tombstone. You had two bullet holes in you."
"In the shoulder," said Spike. "I think Vicious poisoned his blade. It's the sort of thing he would do."
"They had the coroner's office right next door to the cemetery. I went in and checked with them. They had everything - crime scene analysis, video of the autopsy, confirmation of burial. They showed me your lungs and liver - they had them in storage for the organ donor program."
"Wouldn't want to be the person who got that liver."
"The point is, you're dead. Certified, in the ground, gone forever, in heaven or hell or wherever beating the crap out of guys for all eternity, or whatever the hell you want to do. With Julia, if that was her name."
"It was."
"Yeah."
They were staring at each other in the eye now, from across the room. Jet finally looked away. Across the reflections of the sun in the water, across the dock, at the desert horizon beyond the shield wall.
Spike finally said something. "Did you take a taxi there ?"
"Where ?"
"To the cemetery."
"Yeah."
"I think I might have taken it."
"Really."
"I'm sorry."
"You were an asshole," said Jet. "Do you know that ? You really were."
"I said I was sorry."
"Get the hell out of here."
"Did you have to walk back ?"
"I took the bus. Get out."
He's not looking at Spike, but he hears him shrug. "All right."
Footsteps away from the room. Down the hall a bit. Jet sits back out on the couch. Keeps staring to the west.
"Jet ?" He's calling from down the hallway.
"What ?"
"Do you think you're insane ?"
"Yes."
"So you think you're hallucinating me."
"You're dead."
"That's okay," says Spike. "I can't say it isn't a possibility."
"Get the fuck out."
"All right, all right." Footsteps further away, down the hall.
At some point, Jet lights another cigarette. He stops staring into the west, mainly because the sun's getting lower towards the horizon. He notices that, even though this is a fresh pack, one of the cigarettes is missing. He's betting Spike has something to do with that, because he's sitting on the dock outside the window, using one of Jet's mugs as an ashtray.
Funny, Jet thinks. I'm pretty sure that he didn't used to be black.
The Cat Came Back The Very Next Day
By Machiavelli
It took Jet maybe a week after Keats' death before he fully recognized that he was insane. He'd suspected it up until that point, but he wasn't entirely sure of the fact until he walked in one day to find Spike sprawled out across the couch.
"You're out of food," he said. He had a plate in his hand with what was left of the shitake spread across it.
"That shitake's two weeks old," said Jet.
Spike shrugged, and gulped down what was left.
Jet couldn't remember when he put the Bebop down back on Mars. What was left of his cash after the toll had gone to, in no particular order, a Chinese-Italian takeout place just down from the dock, a kid he'd seen begging on the street somewhere, a bargain-basement ammunition store, various cigarette hawkers throughout the city, a black market O2 salesman, an old woman who needed a few more quarters for subway fare, a taxi ride that had lasted thirty-two minutes, fourteen seconds (plus tip), and a bus pass that would expire in about a month.
He hadn't heard from the cop who'd given him the advance. He didn't really care.
Spike stayed awake long enough to devour the leftover chicken chow-mein Jet had doggy-bagged. Jet went back up onto the deck to have a smoke. When he came back in an hour later, Spike was awake and watching a late-night soap opera.
He looked up as Jet entered. "I have no idea what's going on," he said. "I missed the last few episodes."
"The Russian guy came out of his coma," said Jet. "And that one woman, the blonde, she's dead."
"I thought she was off on a spiritual journey."
"She was. She died in a plane crash on the way back."
"You know, you're not acting like yourself," said Spike.
Jet grinned, kinda. "That so."
"You didn't used to watch soap operas."
"I've had a lot of time on my hand. And at least I'm not dead."
Spike shrugged. "Just making an observation."
"Whatever." And then both of them shut up, because the Russian guy's estranged fiancée was starting to take off her blouse.
Jet fell asleep on the couch in the observation deck. When he woke up sometime in the afternoon, Spike was sitting on the other side of the room, staring at him.
Jet rubbed out his eyes. "What the hell are you looking at ?"
"You haven't asked me any questions," said Spike.
"You're dead," said Jet.
Spike shrugged.
"You're actually dead," said Jet. "I saw your grave yesterday. The cops didn't know your name, so they just put your autopsy photo on the tombstone. You had two bullet holes in you."
"In the shoulder," said Spike. "I think Vicious poisoned his blade. It's the sort of thing he would do."
"They had the coroner's office right next door to the cemetery. I went in and checked with them. They had everything - crime scene analysis, video of the autopsy, confirmation of burial. They showed me your lungs and liver - they had them in storage for the organ donor program."
"Wouldn't want to be the person who got that liver."
"The point is, you're dead. Certified, in the ground, gone forever, in heaven or hell or wherever beating the crap out of guys for all eternity, or whatever the hell you want to do. With Julia, if that was her name."
"It was."
"Yeah."
They were staring at each other in the eye now, from across the room. Jet finally looked away. Across the reflections of the sun in the water, across the dock, at the desert horizon beyond the shield wall.
Spike finally said something. "Did you take a taxi there ?"
"Where ?"
"To the cemetery."
"Yeah."
"I think I might have taken it."
"Really."
"I'm sorry."
"You were an asshole," said Jet. "Do you know that ? You really were."
"I said I was sorry."
"Get the hell out of here."
"Did you have to walk back ?"
"I took the bus. Get out."
He's not looking at Spike, but he hears him shrug. "All right."
Footsteps away from the room. Down the hall a bit. Jet sits back out on the couch. Keeps staring to the west.
"Jet ?" He's calling from down the hallway.
"What ?"
"Do you think you're insane ?"
"Yes."
"So you think you're hallucinating me."
"You're dead."
"That's okay," says Spike. "I can't say it isn't a possibility."
"Get the fuck out."
"All right, all right." Footsteps further away, down the hall.
At some point, Jet lights another cigarette. He stops staring into the west, mainly because the sun's getting lower towards the horizon. He notices that, even though this is a fresh pack, one of the cigarettes is missing. He's betting Spike has something to do with that, because he's sitting on the dock outside the window, using one of Jet's mugs as an ashtray.
Funny, Jet thinks. I'm pretty sure that he didn't used to be black.