Now, if you please, time’s of the essence: we need the Jnome for replication, and we’ll have it no matter the source. Pause. Or the beliefs of those who might attempt to impede or frustrate our efforts.
Doctor Tweiss stands whitefaced not in mortification but makeup, facing them with his hands on his hips, his script flapping behind him like the wings of the angel he’ll never be, or ever merit…and right on cue—
Just think about it, the first Hymie says: male newborns, newly born without foreskins. We’ll inject the birthright, naturally chosen in utero, in vitro, in whatever we trust: Affiliation to go from strength to strength, hazak l’dor, from generation unto generation, a Messiah engineered for every age…music gimcrack and gilded rises from the vents, along with a gas scentless, colorless, maybe even effectless and so just pumped in for the sheer shorn folly of it, the trebly paranoia: revelation brass muted by cymbals strungup to ethereal harps. Salvation’s proposition is once-in-a-lifetime, Doctor…you’re mad, mishugenahmost! who sent you? PAN OUT. The Acronym, Doctor, the representation, yours, ours, and so why not everyone’s, too, while we’re at it…the idol of Name, of the Name that is all names of the letters that are all letters — the Name, Whose every letter holds its own names inside and then letters inside those, too, Aleph, Bet…get my drift, you got snow on the brain: all that unknowable and inextinguishable stuff, the ineffable Name of Names, as represented in letters of letters, nu — does that answer your question…as either Doctor Tweiss or his stuntdouble (a divorced former camera-mensch with bad knees from years spent stooping to film XXX scenes in and around San Fernando), anyone but his twin Tweiss who can’t be bothered just now, falls through the doorway to the hall, its rug sloppily thrown above the marbleized linoleum, Properties’ salvage, and smacks the soundstaged ground with his knuckles; the agents crack theirs, ask to use the phone, call their agents…it’s almost a wrap; the unions are going restless and tired; all that’s left of the catering bagels are holes; the continuity girl’s gotten pregnant by the boom; there’s no more coffee, but there are planes to make to the coast.
Doctor, the Hymie says out the side of his mouth, cupping the receiver while he’s still on hold to the muzaked tune of three shekels a minute, we’ll have ourselves a Moshiach, with all rights reserved, all patents pending, whether you’ll help us or not. CUT — how the first is by default the deepest, a fade to black and then, the scenic horizon of credits…or is this just a rehearsal for the futureful real? As for the other Doctor Tweiss, whose scenes have been left on the cuttingroom floor, there just wasn’t the interest, he didn’t test well, one Tweiss is enough — he’s been overheard in voiceover (and even once glimpsed matchedcut, amid dust’s dissolve) through their office’s intercom system, surveillance cameras footaged in black & white he’s occupied flushing any samples at hand — semen, and blood, down the toilet he sits on; a wipe, and they wrap.
