4.1

We relocate to Felipe's office, where I quickly dredge up some loose leaf yerba mate and a press. There's an electric kettle in the corner to heat the water, crouched beneath the expansive cap of a toadstool that turns out to be a table lamp. Lipe follows me into his office, hangs his cowboy hat upon the nearest available coat hook, and promptly hinges forward onto his broad and empty desk. Mouse takes position in Lipe's office chair, reaching over sympathetically to stroke the exhausted entrepreneur's head.

“Who's this fella again?” Lipe asks.

“Fell lugging,” says Mouse, massaging Lipe's scalp with both hands.

“This is Mouse. He's my new partner,” I say. “Currently operatin' on a trial basis, of course.”

“Uh-huh. Mujo, didja kidnap another spunion from the Chokehouse?” Lipe groans.

“Kidnap! Strong words from a professional babysitter,” I counter. “When's yer relief comin', anyway?”

“Nine,” says Lipe. “What time's it now?”

I check my phone. Three missed calls, unknown numbers, probably just death threats. Six unread texts, mostly death threats, though there is a message from Hannah Jasarevic, checking in about this afternoon's appointment. I text her back: yeah we on. “Six forty-five,” I announce.

The number cuts through Lipe like a bullet. “Ughhh,” he shudders, rolling his torso over on the desk until his fleshy belly faces the ceiling. His left hand travels up past his head, over the lip of the desk, and into a drawer. It returns with a packed bowl. “Sky high wisdom levels,” Lipe explains. “It's basically smokable espresso.”

“That'll compliment the mate quite well,” I say, pouring some water into the press and getting my crush on. Lipe passes me the bowl, and I hand him a mug full up with hot mate. These wisps look chalky and taste sugary, no complaints. I'm instantly awake, but with a manic 'can't sit still, angels are watching me' sort of paranoid dopamine rush. Walter Easter's departure had brought tranquility and ease back to my hyper-calibrated senses. The careless wisping of this wisdom blitz has blasted them away again. That's alright. My specially calibrated balance blend pen resides in my utility belt to compensate for this precise variety of over-indulgence. Equilibrium seems somewhat elusive this morning, but we'll see what a couple strong pulls off of this calming vape can bring me. “How many WOMBies ya got downstairs, Lipe?” I ask.

Lipe rolls his eyes upward, gritting his teeth as he runs the numbers. “Seventy-two on the floor. Then yer guy, and two more up here in VIP. And that's all in the last twenty-four hours. Yesterday, we was only nursin' like eighteen WOMBies. Now we got seventy-five.”

“How many can yer facility hold?” I ask. If this is anywhere near the epidemic it looks to be, Lipe's little operation is about to be overwhelmed. I'm lucky I got here when I did. Lipe isn't the only game in town, but he's definitely the most trustworthy.

“Max occupancy's a hundred and eight,” Lipe says.

“Have all the WOMBies been written up in yer system? Can I cross-reference the data?”

“Pfft. Cross-reference the data? What data?” Lipe chuckles. “There's barely an intake process here, ese. We jus' plug 'em in and we wait. Any treatment plan's the responsibility of the guest and their people. We ain't doctors, Mujo. We're jus' a facility. Most of our guests are college students in mimokit fugues, and they snap out of it themselves within twelve hours.”

“Mimokit...” I mutter.

“Yeah. That one's real popular lately.”

“I know. It's been all over the place these past few years. It's a good thing folks have this nursery to come to,” I say.

“Cursed wonder,” says Mouse.

“That's right, Mouse,” I affirm. “Bein' in a dissociated visionary state for the better part of the day is difficult to manage in most contexts, as the comatose traveler becomes unusually vulnerable to theft, sexual assault, and changin' environmental conditions. Even indulgin' at home can become problematic. Time and time again, the recreational mimokit user is discovered by a frightened friend or family member who assumes that they've overdosed on somethin' far more pernicious and immediately calls an ambulance. Which is patently unnecessary, 'cause mimokit fugues are both comfortable and transitory. Mimokit enthusiasts have tried leavin' notes in prominent places – 'yes, I'm high on mimokit, yes, everythin's fine, no, I don't need help, and if I've pissed myself, it's on me' – but rentin' a WOMB is just the better option all around. Our lovely Lipe's a humble man, and his prices are fair. In fact, he offers a punch card system. Every sixth incubation is free,” I say, tucking one such punch card into the pocket of Mouse's bomber jacket. “Say, do ya think Easter's guy is in a mim? The band get urine tested, they're not supposed to be usin'.”

“Shucks, really? Urine tested? In this day and age?” says Lipe, hitting the bowl and slurping mate. “That guy Easter's a fascist.”

“Creative geniuses are often dangerous maniacs,” I say. “It's just part of the natural order of things.”

“Do you s'pose there's a reason for that?”

“I mean, I've never really done a survey. Who knows what the other factors correlated to creative genius are,” I muse. “Greater cerebellar interconnectivity? Heightened levels of sex hormones? Accentuated pubic hair density?”

“I dunno how yer gonna measure pubic hair these days, what with everyone shavin' their grundle for social media,” Lipe retorts.

Luckily, he cannot detect the selfie-friendly manicured topiary concealed beneath my corduroys, and the conversation moves forward without awkwardness. “Well, as long as ya got a catheter in our Mr. Vrunk, would ya mind runnin' a piss test on him?”

Lipe rolls his eyes. “I don't keep a piss test on hand, dawg. Do you?”

I do not. “Hey, Mouse. Ya gotta piss test?”

“Grapple with desk,” says Mouse.

“I ain't sure we need one. If he's the same as the others, I don't think he's in a mim,” Lipe says.

“What makes ya say that?”

“Runnin' this place, I see a lotta mimokit enthusiasts. And to be honest, I ain't really crazy 'bout it,” Lipe grumbles. “Brand new brain candy, never been studied... oh, but you and yer friends are gonna be the guinea pigs, huh?”

“Like you've never volunteered for guinea pig duty,” I counter. Dobbs knows I have. Reporting for guinea pig duty was more or less how I spent the years I should've been in college.

“Mimokit's the wrong sorta question mark,” Lipe says, lecturing a rapt Mouse. “Take my advice, and stick to streets better travelled. See, no one knows for sure how mimokit effects a body over the long term. And the people who like it, they like it too much to be honest about it. For all anyone knows, the mim crowd are meltin' themselves in slow-motion from the inside out. Still though, better they do it here than in some flophouse, goin' limp with their tits out and their pockets open. Hey, but, uh, as I was sayin'... mimmers, dude, when they're out, they're out. They don't bob their heads unless ya shake 'em. And they certainly don't sing little melodies.”

A light bulb goes off above my head, because Mouse is playing with the light switch. Regardless, I am experiencing a moment of epiphany. “The new WOMBies... they're all singin'?”

Lipe nods. “Yup. They're singin', they're bobbin' their heads, they're tappin' their toes... There's even one lady down there swingin' a little 'maginary conductor's baton.”

“Bob to the Dobbs...” I say. “Are they all singin' the same song?”

“I dunno,” says Lipe.

“What say we go take a listen?” I suggest. “Mouse! Bring my notebook!” I say, throwing him my notebook.

With Mouse in tow, I descend to the warehouse floor for a tour of the clientele, and very quickly discern that Lipe is correct: each and every one of the new guests is caught up in some kind of musical rapture. And no, it doesn't seem to be the same piece of music from pod to pod, at least, not exactly. As a matter of fact, there's quite a bit of variety. We got uptempo, downtempo, midtempo, notempo. Some are humming arias in free meter, others are mumbling to a steady dance floor pulse. A small elite in the corner are beatboxing explosive drill n' bass. Over-all, I'd say we've got a 3:2 ratio of major key to minor. But wait...

Yes, this fellow over here is singing something awfully similar to the melody David Vrunk has been humming all morning. I write it down and then compare the two phrases. As I suspected, the two melodies have a lot in common, though there are a few differences. Vrunk's ends low and the new one ends high, for example. And the two pieces are in different modes of the same key. The new one has a halting cadence, and Vrunk's was a bit more rhythmically precise. Is that because he's a professional musician? This may not be the same melody, but it definitely sounds like it's from the same composition. I satyr-hop around the warehouse and select a few more WOMBies at random. The first two aren't quite giving me what I'm looking for, but the third... Yep, there it is. It's a variation on the same theme alright.

“This epidemic of song: how far has it spread? Is it still only local? Or has it gone national?” I ask.

Lipe's got nothing and neither does Mouse, but that's fine, I'm already on my phone and doomscrolling.

“Naw,” I say, checking the news on BleedFeed. “Doesn't appear to be a national problem. But it is a regional one. There's cases all over Cololina. We got cases in Lemur, cases in Carpenter City, even a few cases out in Magentaville... But the vast majority of them are right here in town. Tao Jones said that David Vrunk was on his way to listen to a new album, only to be found comatose in his home with his headphones still on the followin' day. The music must be the culprit, and when we consider the distribution of the afflicted, we must inevitably conclude that the problem was spawned in our very own scene. Luckily for us, my extensive network of informants have kept me well abreast of the local music situation. By virtue of deduction, we are left with only three albums to consider: an EP from Toxic Megacolon, a double length from The Laryngeal Phalanges, and a stealth release from Jonn Bender.”

“There's a new Toxic Megacolon EP?” says Lipe. “Damn, dude. I gotta hear that.”

“Lipe, no!” I say, reaching out to stop him before he plummets headlong into danger. Of course, now that I'm appraising him a little more carefully, it's pretty clear he's not about to do anything of the kind. At present, he is slumped against one of the unoccupied WOMBs, using the curvature of the thing to give himself a little backbend while he sips his mate. Poor noble Lipe: Hashton's slumming unsung hero, all saddle and no lasso. All you want is your hard-earned rest, my friend. Still, there's no telling what indiscretions you might aspire to after a good day's sleep. “Hold off, dawg. Just, hold off. If any of these new albums really are trappin' people in a fugue of fugues, then we must proceed with the utmost of caution. We cannot allow ourselves to listen to any of these new tunes, even though some of them are most definitely quite dope.”

“Whatever,” says Lipe.

“Be strong, Lipe!” I insist. “Walter Easter's only givin' me...” I check my phone. “Thirty-six hours to resuscitate the wayward Vrunk. Surely you can satisfy your cultured eardrums with the tried and true as I sleuth my way through this rapidly unspoolin' ball of mystery twine.”

“I dunno,” says Lipe, taking another sip. “Ya said The Laryngeal Phalanges album's a double length?”

“Mouse! Cover his ears!” I shout. “It's for his own safety!” I add, but Mouse does not spring to action. Well, if he won't, then I must. “Lipe, I'm afraid we're gonna have to expedite my process in the interest of preservin' yer necessary ambulatory status. Despite this developin' epidemic, one that will likely strain the resources of yer small business to their absolute limit, I must insist that ya leave work early and allow me to drive ya back to yer apartment.”

“For the love of Dobbs, Mujo,” he mutters. “I gotta lot tied up in this place. I can't leave it short-staffed in a coma-demic. Is it even seven-o'-clock yet?”