His! the mensch’s shrieking again and again, His! Israelien’s rail, Ben’s bump epimorphic, you putz, you know of what I’m talking…pulling himself together, retrieving his hat thrown into the ring scorched on the floor, punches its dents into dings, then felshes it all into perfect shape brim to crown. Apparently, he goes on, further calming, an interesting specimen, the world’s largest, it’s said: falls off farkakta, grows back yadda and blah, regenerative, blastemal if you want, bornagain miraculous; echt, a neys if there’s ever been one gadol…he coos, it won’t be such a loss. I’ll tell you what, and his eyes shift this way, that, then cross: let’s say we forget search & seizure. Just confirm for me, will you — it’s true what they say; this wondermont to behold, call us curious…does it really live up to the hype?
And the doctor, he holds out his arms, indicative of either the state of dispossession, or the desire to take flight…how Hymie’s debriefing’ll take note of both possibilities: his palms out, facing up, fingers splayed, his wardrobe jacket baring cuffs then humiliate skin — anyone’s guess, the Ascension.
Then any hair samples, the Hymie says — actually, any and all organic materials of His whatsoever; anything that once lived: organs, nails, skin fore or aft, I’m sure something’s lying around somewhere, has to be, filed away no doubt. I hope you’ll see things our way (straightening his own sight, making of contact a bludgeon) — you have a reputation to think of, a future, too, olam haba…has anyone ever told you you have beautiful eyes?
You’ll make another of Him, others, I know it…the doctor thumbing still at his snort, maming nares. But it’s never been done before, don’t you understand — the first one to be cloned, He can’t be Affiliated.
The first one cloned
But then
Doctor, He’s whatever we want Him to be, and the Hymie grabs his dark knit tie, spits to its tip a cusp of congestion to aid in his erasure.
But that’s insane…it’d never work, it’d never live, and the doctor returning dashes back toward the board, tripping on the rug that bunches under him falling, his fingers splayed to grip for the ledge, which gives way with his weight and he ends up on the floor stuck with a stick of white dust up a nostril.
It? Now, Doctor, is that any way to refer to the nearly living, to the in-the-works, the potentially possible, the perfectible Ben, b’ezrat Hashem’s what we’re saying — is that how you’d talk to the imminent Messiah Himself? Moshiach, I mean. Omniscience wouldn’t miss that. Heaven’s all ears, Doctor, old and humungoid, waxedhairy ears…it’s all recorded anyway, and the Hymie adjusts the lily in his lapel, though the mic’s actually clipped to a cufflink.
Even with a slightly smaller nose…which we’re planning on by the beshert, He’d still smell what stank.
God’s plan is His, if you believe in Him — and I don’t very much…but for now, it’s inviolable, and all these new adherents, they’ll do your work anyway, on their own, no questions asked. And no pay. But you, you…a little help here — you’ll blond Him up, you’ll blue up the eyes!
The doctor crumpled on the floor like a paper discarded: a subpoena, a prescription, the script — ripped through the middle with chalk.
Which will see for miles…gazing out from a head ten feet above the earth: a head like of marble, and with skin of such velvet so you’d like to stroke it, baby it, bathe it, sleep with it at night, wake atop it come morning. A nose ever straighter and straighter, teeth white and whiter even — until they’ll rob us of sight like a thief in the night, and we’ll look within. A Messiah who’ll live forever, every day made younger and smarter — making something of Himself, something more, all for us, His fathers and heirs, to have pride in, over which to shep nachas…
You don’t know what you’re doing…(the doctor getting himself up, reading off a script the other Hymie now hands him; before they’d been sharing one copy) — you have no idea of the forces at work…
You won’t make a God, it’s impossible.
But, Doctor, we’re not making a God, we’re duplicating Him: In the beginning there was creation, et ha’shamayim v’et ha’aretz…and it was good, but could always be better; think of it like this: we’re making improvements (the Hymie loses his place in the snark of delivery, the other Hymie points a finger, he finds it again and smirks on)…don’t worry, Doctor, we have our top ravs on this (would he really say that, “top ravs,” he asks, isn’t that a little much, over the top and toohatted — maybe “rabbis,” no, just a suggestion).
Take Two.
