Slivers: Chapter 1

At first it was just Bennie and me, hauling ass along US 87 in the brand new '65 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible I'd stolen back in Denver. We'd had the top down all morning, and the high plains wind was whipping us like dogs. Bennie was having a hard time keeping his hat on, and the sight of him clamping that stupid out-dated fedora to the top of his head gave me a sudden fit of the giggles. I banged on the horn a few times to punctuate my amusement, swerving dangerously.

"Where the hell do you think that hat's going to go, you mangy reptile?"

Bennie flicked his elegant tongue lazily in my direction and gave me the evil eye.

I howled.

Due to the nature of my disease, it's impossible to be absolutely certain of anything; but I believe that I have met The Devil and lived to tell about it; and I believe that if you meet him, he'll as soon wear your own face as another.

By 1965, I'd already been clinically diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Now this news may come as a surprise to fans of my music career (if not to my critics), but truth is, not all hallucinations are bad, or completely debilitating, at any rate. Reality, subjective as it is, sometimes benefits from a bit of augmentation.

Think about it: If you hallucinate evil clowns and demon toasters whispering incessantly that blood really is wine, or that the Mennonites are trying to kill you, well then I think it's reasonable to expect the occasional antisocial outburst. But what if, on the other hand, the voices in your head merely disapprove of your taste in music? Or nag you to brush after every meal and send out those damn Thank You cards, already? What if you simply see orange where there ought to be blue? What if you honestly believe that six inches equals twelve?

Now I'm not claiming that my own ghosts are quite so benign as all that, but the point is still a valid one: Man's ability to cope and relate is directly proportional to the quality of his delusions – and to the stock he puts in them.

As for the paranoia… How does that old saw go? "Just because you're paranoid…"

III

"That doesn't mean they're not out to get you."

In those days I was known as "Johnny D." This was a few years before my first album, back when the war was just heating up and I was working as a sniper for army intelligence. Don't believe me? It's the ultimate irony, I suppose. My public persona is quite goofy and gentle. Yet, in light of the revelation of my psychosis, I should make it clear up front that the sharpshooter was the "real" me – the me of my time, at any rate. By which I mean that I was not yet truly delusional when I first undertook my government "career" (beyond a certain unquestioning belief in duty). I can, therefore, offer no excuses, to whomever they may be due.

Nevertheless, by the time this story takes place, in the summer of 1965, I had been experiencing "visitations" for some time. But I had also long since made a reputation for myself among my superiors. To these men, my essential skills made my diagnosis practically irrelevant. So long as I took my meds, so long as I could keep it together well enough to do the job – so long as the army shrinks were willing to clear me for assignment – I was just suitably eccentric. And if I screwed up and was caught? Well, who would believe me?

In the normal world, a madman may appear dangerously… well – dangerous. But in my line of work, a man ought to be dangerous. And a truly dangerous man really needs a touch of madness.

The slivers. The scraps.

At first glance, the assignment was a simple one: penetrate deep into enemy territory and shoot a man dead. Nothing new. No problem. Far out.

I was to depart from Colorado on September 3rd and drive straight through to Las Vegas, the heart of the Ho Chi Minh cartel. Once there, I was to acquire my target in his compound somewhere on the outskirts of town and take him out with extreme prejudice.

The target was where things got weird: he was one of ours. An inside man who had changed sides so many times he could only truly be working for himself. But he was a legend in the intelligence community, and had set himself up as a serious player within The Cartel. Gone native. He would be well fortified. And he would be on his guard, too: apparently, I wasn't the first to offer him the early retirement program.

Plus, he might just have gone mad.

I could relate.

Bennie was riding shotgun, as always – a giant monitor lizard with a chain smoker's taste for Pall Malls and a penchant for extravagant headwear. Then, one-by-one, the others showed, too: The Poorly Drawn, Child's Rendering of Napoleon (two-dimensional crayon, one eighth actual size); The French Milkmaid (beautiful, but aloof); The Centipede Made out of Tongues. And so many more. So many more. By Albuquerque, we were a regular rolling menagerie, a veritable arc of misfits and freaks.

In the beginning, while I was first trying to learn how to distinguish between mental projections and reality (back when I still believed such distinctions could be made), they would all compete for my attention, especially the more ludicrous species, like the Swarm of 'B's, and Samuel Clemmons' Disembodied Moustache. But lately, they had taken to interacting amongst themselves with no direct input from me, as if they somehow had separate lives, now, and no longer really needed me anymore. This was a development that I found not only disconcerting, but also damned discourteous.

"Hey! You guys want to keep it down a bit? I'm trying to drive, here!"

It was getting crowded and chaotic and I was having a hard time focusing.

There's a difference between hallucination and delusion. Put simply, hallucination is experiencing with your senses what isn't really there, while delusion is believing what isn't really true. Sometimes, it's possible to hallucinate without believing in the experience. This is roughly equivalent to controlled tripping, or lucid dreaming. It's equally possible to be completely delusional without hallucinating at all.

But it's a really bad trip when the two mix and match. It's hard enough to function when you can't think clearly, when your conclusions are totally skewed. But when the input is messed up to begin with, delusional thinking can be real trouble.

Napoleon and the Milkmaid were speaking French, which always disturbed me. Their conversations sounded quite authentic, and Damn-it! – I don't speak French! Plus, I was vaguely suspicious that they switched to French mainly to talk about me. The Milkmaid looked my way, and laughed. I could feel myself blush.

"She says you're so inept, even your fantasies have to fake it."

So much for vague suspicions.

"Screw you, Napoleon!"

In the rearview mirror, Samuel Clemmons' Disembodied Moustache wagged in approval.

"When angry count four; when very angry, swear."

I moaned in frustration.

"Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."

I pulled over. It was nearing midnight, and the road ahead stretched tenuous and semi-transparent in the high beams. The road behind had disappeared completely in a cloud of red dust.

"Help me, Bennie! It's coming apart. It's coming apart… Too many pieces."

I climbed in the back.

"You drive for a while. I have to sleep. Sleep..."

Bennie blinked and took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Can't do it, boss. But you rest. You rest, and we'll try again tomorrow."

But I was already asleep.