The Segmented Nightmare

Now, the reason I’m going on like this ( and I bet you’re all wondering why I’m going on like this, and I’ll explain why in just a moment) is because I believe I may have been misrepresented in some ways. To be more specific, I have reason to suspect that the person who’s been doing the representing of me of late was not a good person and may have been distorting some particulars of my escapades. (More about that later.) And so, I feel a need to set the record straight, which I may have mentioned already. Also, I wish to clear away certain ugly rumors about certain personnel changes that have recently been made here at Biff Jackson Enterprises, Inc. – rumors that have been circulating in the tabloid press, and which may have found their way into otherwise decent society. I know this may sound a little hazy to you – I know it’s already sounding hazy to me – but bear with me, please, and all will become clear in the end, much as the outlines of that little fuzzy bear become clear after you’ve used the soap bar enough times.

My name is Biff Jackson (you may have guessed that already), and I was born and raised in the city of Huckmuck, Indiana. Now, Huckmuck is a decent sort of place, the sort of place where you would want to raise your children, provided you have any. It is full of hard-working, law-abiding, God-fearing citizens. People who shake hands with a firm handshake, who know up from down and right from wrong. I don’t remember much about my childhood. I do know my parents died when I was real young, and I was raised by my Aunt Elvira, who was a spinster. Not much else is clear to me. I do know that I’ve known Linda Sue ever since we were kids. Ah, Linda Sue Dorfmueller, the name just rolls off your tongue, doesn’t it? She’s one of the prettiest girls you can imagine, with light brown hair and brown eyes, and a face that could have come off one of those Greek statues that you see outside of post offices and other public buildings. I used to go visit her at Hauser’s department store, where she was working at the cosmetics counter. She always found time to talk to me, no matter how busy it was, which was sheer heaven for me, though I don’t know how her customers felt about this. One day I decided to propose to her. It seemed like the logical thing to do, since I was always thinking about her when we were apart, and when I was with her I would always stare at her when she was looking the other way. I figured I could support her, since I had a job with the CCC pounding rocks into gravel – thank God for President Roosevelt – and I reckoned this was a job skill I could really go places with. Still, I had doubts. I’ve never been a man to do things rashly, so I decided I would be well-advised to get some advice. I thought about writing to an advice-to-the-lovelorn column in the newspaper, but then I figured such an important public forum should only be used by the truly desperate, so I resolved to go somewhere else.

I knew there was only one man in Huckmuck whose counsel I could rely on. He was the smartest man I knew, perhaps the smartest man in the whole world. His name was Prof. Wilbur Morlock. He lived in an observatory in the hills outside of town. This place had a domed roof that could be opened to allow him to study the stars through an enormous telescope. In the basement was a laboratory where he worked on his inventions and where he had all sorts of neat scientific things, such as a two-headed snake in a jar and a shrunken head he had brought back from Outer Mongolia.

So one day I set out for Prof. Morlock’s place. It was a warm, sunny day and it was bit of a hike out there, so I had worked up a good sweat by the time I reached it. The front door was open, and, those of us from Huckmuck being not too particular about formalities, I walked right in without knocking. I went down a flight of stairs to the laboratory, and it was kind of dark down there, and it took my eyes a couple of minutes to adjust. When they did, I could make out that Prof. Morlock was sitting at a table. He had a small knife in his hand, and he was looking intently at something in a metal tray. He was, as usual, dressed in a white smock and a bow tie, with his glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, and beads of sweat forming on his large forehead. Standing behind him was his assistant, Miss Wanger. She was a pretty woman with raven black hair, and she had one of her long legs wrapped around the back legs of his chair. She had one hand on his shoulder, and she was running the other one through his hair.

"Oh, Wilbur," she said. "I can’t stand it any more. If only you knew how my whole being is burning with desire. If only you knew how I think of you every minute of my life."