I’m Getting Pretty Tired of Getting Knocked Out

The slot machines seem to clang “goodbye, sucker” in unison as Chick Goldsby stumbles toward the casino’s exit.

He nearly plows into a cocktail waitress. The stunning blonde gives him a bright smile, saying, “Tough night?”

“The house always wins.”

Reaching into her costume, the waitress hands him a silver dollar.

“It’s lucky. It helps make empty lives worth living.”

“Great, I’ve lost my girl, and my motivation and the real estate market in Nevada is tanking,” Chick replies. “It’s a pleasure receiving a gift from a woman whose beauty rivals that of Helen of Troy.”

The waitress watches Chick stagger away.

A police cruiser marked Town of Pharaoh pulls up to the curb. The waitress gets in.

“Did you give it to him?” the brawny officer asks.

“He took it.”

“Good. Ernst says he’s the one.”

“Look man, you’re fifty short. No cake, no dessert,” Bo Banner says, waving a plastic vial in Satch Samuel’s face.

“Give it to me,” Satch says, “I’m sick.”

“Uh-uh, bro. I sell it to you at a cut rate and every hoople head in Vegas is gonna think I’m runnin’ a blue light special.”

Bo turns away. Running at Bo, Satch jumps onto his back, pummeling him.

Bo peels Satch off him, throwing him to the ground. Angered, Bo pulls out his gun.

“I don’t know how fast you are, bro, but you better set a world record for getting’ outta my face.”

Blissfully unaware he’s well past where he parked, Chick wanders around the corner.

He freezes when he sees Bo holding a gun.

Bo eyes Chick’s stylish outfit. “Somethin’ you want, Mr. Square Pants?”

“To forget what I’ve seen.”

In the split second that Bo takes his eyes off Satch the determined addict rises, wrestling with Bo for his gun.

Chick jumps into the fray. A loud bang echoes throughout the empty street.

Wide-eyed, Bo looks at Chick murmuring, “Aw, bro,” as he slides to the pavement.

Satch rifles through Bo’s jacket, taking his money and drugs.

“Bo’s got a brother named Hulk. When he finds out what you’ve done, he’ll launch your dead carcass into another zip code. Thanks for the help!”

Scared sober, Chick stumbles away, the gun still in his hand. He drops it in a nearby sewer, running to his car.

Hugging the curtains, Chick peaks out of his bedroom window. For the third straight night, a man in a sedan across the street is looking up at his window.

“Why doesn’t Hulk just kill me and get it over with?” he says aloud. “I need to get out of here.”

Chick starts packing a suitcase. His eye catches the silver dollar on his dresser. It appears to be shining brightly.

Mesmerized by the brightness of the coin, he feels lightheaded and collapses.

The man across the street walks toward Chick’s apartment.

Doctor Ernst Brandenberg looks down at Chick.

“He’s in one piece. That’s a start,” he says.

Bald, with a Fu Man Chu mustache, a trimmed beard, and devilish eyebrows, the slightly built researcher resembles a mild-mannered Ming the Merciless.

“He scored high in all the essential areas,” Dr. Brandenberg says.

Chief Brett Braverman smiles supportively. With wind-swept blonde hair, blue eyes, and a preponderance of muscles, the Chief resembles a young surfer dude but has been Pharoah’s only law officer longer than anyone can remember.

Brett looks down at the German Shepard sitting by his side.

“Things are looking good, Captain.”

The dog turns his head sideways as if to question the Chief’s enthusiasm.

“All right, better.”

The striking blonde by Brett’s side turns away, fretting. “How many times have we gotten to this point? I can’t count that high.”

“There’s no sign of stroke, disease, paralysis, or any of the other afflictions we’ve encountered in the past,” Dr. Brandenberg observes.

Groaning, Chick slowly sits up, looking around Dr. Brandenberg’s office.

His eyes focus on the woman.

“…Helen of Troy…”

“Maybe there’s some brain damage after all,” Dr. Brandenberg says.

“No. That’s what he called me at the casino.”

“Did you kidnap me, Helen? Where am I?”

“Pharoah, population one hundred and forty-one, counting you,” Brett replies. “Thirty-four miles from Las Vegas.”

“I don’t remember driving here, and why would I?”

“You had an accident. You hit your head,” Dr. Brandenberg says. “I can’t answer the second part of your question.”

“Well, thanks for patching me up, Doc. But I’ve got to be moving on.”

“You have a bad concussion. I’d like to monitor you for a few days.”

“That’s impossible. I’m…”

Looking at Brett, Chick stops himself before he says, “On the run.”

Chick looks down at the German Shepard, who is giving him an intense, unblinking stare.

“That’s Captain,” Dr. Brandenberg says. “This is Chief Brett Braverman and his wife, Dulcey, and I’m Dr. Ernst Brandenberg. I also happen to be Mayor of Pharoah.”

Captain crosses his arms over his chest, still staring at Chick.

“I’ve never seen a dog do that,” Chick comments.

The others look down at Captain.

“Sometimes he thinks he’s human,” Brett offers. “Why don’t I help get you settled at the motel?”

When the door closes, Dulcey lights into Captain.

“Have you forgotten how to act?”

Captain growls at her.

“Still blaming me for being stuck here, eh? You wanted to come here, not me.”

Brett and Chick pass by a pair of boys shooting baskets at an otherwise deserted playground. The ball rolls away as the boys gape at Chick.

“Is it my imagination or is everyone staring at me?”

“Well, you are a bit of a celebrity. You were involved in the town’s first car accident in ten months, and you’re a new face around here.”

Chick’s uneasiness is magnified when the hollow-eyed, pock-marked clerk at the Monarch Motel stares a hole through him.

“You take good care of Mr. Goldsby, Basil,” Brett says to him. “And with that concussion, Chick, I wouldn’t venture out tonight. Besides, we roll up the carpets at six anyway.”

Looking out of the window, Chick sees Basil standing in the parking lot and wonders why he’s watching him.

As Chick moves to close the curtains, a searing pain shoots through his skull. The pain intensifies, and he lurches toward the bed, passing out.

Rolling over, Chick looks at the clock. It’s 3:10 a.m. He’s been asleep for nearly eight hours. Responding to his full bladder, Chick steers toward the bathroom.

Turning on the sink, he gulps down handfuls of water, realizing his paralyzing headache has passed.

He glances at the mirror.

His bushy black hair is now snow white. Bags have settled under his watery, weary-looking eyes, and his once smooth skin is blotchy and ruddy. Looking down at his stiff hands, he sees they are covered with liver spots.

Clutching at his fiercely beating heart, Chick keels over.

Dr. Brandenberg’s face appears in the mirror, his expression laced with failure.

“Another fiasco!” Dulcey shouts.

“Be calm,” Dr. Brandenberg urges. “It’s just a side effect.”

“Aging forty years? You call that a side effect? I call it accelerating death.”

Captain barks, whining.

“The captain’s right,” Brett points out. “Dr. Brandenberg injected him with the same batch he gave Goldsby, and nothing’s happened to him this time.”

“That’s because he’s a German Shepard! You and I will probably grow a second head.”

Brett turns to Dr. Brandenberg. “Well?”

“We knew before we tested Goldsby that his metabolism runs faster than our other subjects. This is a side effect specific to him. You, Dulcey, and the captain should remain unaffected.”

Captain barks harshly.

“I told you I don’t speak Shepard, Captain. What did he say, Chief?”

“He wants to know if you’re willing to bet your life that your serum will work this time.”

The knock at the door makes Chick bolt upright in his bed.

Running to the mirror, he looks at his reflection.

“Ha! Forty again. Man, that nightmare seemed so real.”

He opens the door. A beaming Brett says hello, asking, “Did you sleep well?”

The Chief’s radio crackles as the duo step out of Brett’s police cruiser. He picks up the receiver, answering in code.

“Think you can handle breakfast by yourself?” he asks.

“What’s up?” Chick asks.

“Dulcey passed out. She’s with the Doc.”

“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”

Chick smiles at the freckle-faced waitress, who rattles off a litany of specials. He is about to take a seat at the counter when he spots a woman with lustrous raven hair sitting alone.

“VICKI?”

The woman looks up. She pulls the menu up around her face, sinking into the booth.

Chick takes a seat across from her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…I live here,” she replies in the soft, shy way he used to adore.

“I miss you, Vicki. Why did you leave so suddenly?”

“I…I felt smothered.”

“Smothered? I loved you. I thought you loved me too.”

Vicki looks down at her pancakes. “Maybe you were a little too committed to being the county’s top real estate agent…”

“…And I neglected you,” Chick realizes.

“Something like that.”

“How did you end up here?” he asks.

“I wanted to get away. I met a woman at a casino. She gave me a silver dollar and said it was lucky, that it helps make empty lives worth living. So, I wished I could feel wanted, fell asleep, and here I am.”

Vicki glances out of the window. Chick turns to see half a dozen townspeople looking at them.

Vicki picks up her pocketbook, springing from the booth. “I have to go.”

“Wait... I just wanted to say I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you had your…”

“Breakdown. I’m fine now. Doctor Brandenberg takes care of me. He looks out for all of us.”

Chick passes the playground on his way to Doctor Brandenburg’s office.

The same two boys are shooting baskets. They stop to stare at Chick, who picks up his pace.

“They say he’s the answer,” the first boy says.

“Good, then we can all go home,” says the second boy.

“Home? What do you suppose home’ll be like after sixty years?”

“I dunno,” the first boy replies. “I guess my sister’s got grandkids our age. But I’m sure gettin’ tired of playin’ horse with you. How much do you owe me?”

“Two and a half million.”

“Double or nothin’?”

Brett bursts into Dr. Brandenberg’s office. Her blonde hair brittle and grey, her once immaculate figure sagging and lumpy, Dulcey looks up at him with tired, rheumy eyes.

“Don’t worry, I gave her an antidote,” Dr. Brandenberg says. “She should be your beautiful partner again in a few minutes.”

Brett holds Dulcey in his arms. Her voice is barely a whisper. “The serum worked for you and the captain. You should go home.”

“There is no home without you.”

Captain barks harshly.

“I’m aware of my duty, Captain,” Brett says.

Brett turns to Dr. Brandenberg, his friendly surfer dude features turning icy.

“Are you trying to help us, or kill us?”

“This serum will work. I swear it. Where’s Goldsby?” Dr. Brandenburg asks.

“Having breakfast.”

“Do you think the key to your going home should be walking around unsupervised?”

“I have eyes everywhere.”

Chick hears s series of meek taps on his door.

Basil darts in, quickly closing the door behind him. Twitching, he can barely look Chick in the eye.

“You need to get outta here, now!”

“Why?”

“You’re the answer,” Basil replies.

“I don’t even know the question.”

“I used to have a full head of hair. I drove a Harley with my pinkie finger. Now I can barely twist the cap off a bottle of Coke. Dr. Brandenberg did this to me. And he’s going to do it to you.”

Chick puts the key in Basil’s battered Buick.

Brett taps at his window.

He gives the Chief a guilty smile, rolling down the window.

“Doc Brandenberg said you shouldn’t leave town yet. He meant it, and I can enforce it.”

“I’m not going to let you turn me into an obedient zombie like everyone else in town. I’m not going to let you torture me.”

“Torture? Is that what you think is going on here? Nearly everyone in Pharoah was running away from something, including you. We’ve given them a purpose, something to run to.”

“I’d rather not join your band of lobotomized outcasts.”

“We need your help, Mr. Goldsby. You can either give it willingly or we can take it.”

Brett raises his hand, holding what Chick thinks is a can of mace. Brett sprays him in the face and the blistering summer sun begins to fade.

Chick tries to sit up, realizing he’s in restraints.

Dr. Brandenberg, Brett, and Dulcey are gathered in the center of the room. They are looking down at Captain, who is sitting on his haunches, his paws moving as if he was arguing with them.

“I’m tired of getting knocked out!” Chick shouts. “I want off of this rollercoaster!”

Captain walks toward Chick on his hind legs. He puts his paws on the bed and looks Chick in the eye saying, “You’re going to help us go home.”

“A talking German Shepard! I must still be unconscious…”

“No. The reason we call him Captain is because Captain Perro was in command of our mission,” Brett says.

“What mission?”

“Exploration,” Captain Perro replies. “A hundred years removed from covered wagons, you Terrans developed nuclear weapons and were preparing for space exploration. We needed to see what other potentially dangerous advancements you were capable of. But the information we had about your atmosphere was in error. When we landed here, a virus caused most of our crew to age rapidly, killing them in a matter of weeks.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since 1947,” Captain Perro replies.

“You should have talked to Truman or Eisenhower. Kennedy would have rolled out the red carpet to help you.”

“He did,” Captain Perro says. “Truman and Eisenhower kept us locked away like trophies at a facility near Groom Lake. Pharoah was a ghost town, the perfect place to hide. Kennedy allowed us to settle here. Your scientists stopped the virus, but the cure meant we could no longer survive in our own planet’s atmosphere.”

 “So, you needed another serum that could send you home. How come it’s taken nearly eighty years to find it? You may be great explorers, but you suck at research.”

“Time moves far more slowly for us than for you,” Dulcey says. “Eighty of your years are eight of ours.”

“And just who are you?”

“The Khufu.”

“Also, coincidently, the name of the pharaoh who built the first pyramid,” Dr. Brandenberg points out.

“Not a coincidence, I’m sure,” Chick replies. “So let me guess. Only a few Terrans, like me, have a metabolism like the Khufu. And you purposely picked people with no relatives, people who were vulnerable and depressed with no future, people who wouldn’t be missed. That silver dollar Dulcey gave me knocked me out. Then you brought me here to join your other lab rats.”

Dr. Brandenberg‘s pleasant gaze narrows. “I’m not proud of everything I’ve done in the name of science. Many of the people here represent my repeated failures to help the Khufu. Some of our people died, aging rapidly like the Khufu did, others regressed all the way back to their childhoods...”

“…Like the two boys playing basketball…,” Chick says.

“Others, because they were fragile to begin with, suffered further mental breakdowns…”

“…Like Vicki…”

“But only you have what we need in abundance,” Captain Perro says.

“I’m not a gas pump,” Chick says defiantly. “Jeez, a freaking talking German Shepard! I knew you weren’t any run-of-the-mill pup by the way you stared at me. You should have tried blinking occasionally. I have no problem helping Brett and Dulcey, but you….”

“Captain Perro was the first to volunteer to test the serum in the 1950s,” Brett notes. “It was a huge risk.”

“And a stupid one,” Dulcey adds. “They used animal blood and turned him into a dog!”

“And you thought the disease that killed so many of us was a mere infection,” Captain Perro says sharply.

“I told you it could be serious, but you wanted to complete the mission,” Dulcey rails in return. “You kept us here when we could have still made it home.”

“Enough!” Brett shouts. “I’ve spent an eternity listening to the two of you blame each other. Forget about it. We’re going home.”

“Is all of this for the Khufu or for a Noble prize, Doc?” Chick asks. He tugs at his bonds, but they don’t budge.

“I won’t refuse any monetary rewards, or recognition that comes my way. Out of the hundreds of researchers assigned to this project, I’m the one who discovered a solution, and it lies in your blood. Think about it, Mr. Goldsby, when I adapt this serum for humans, our life expectancy will be extended by hundreds of years.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Chick returns.

Rifling through a collection of instruments assembled on a table next to Chick’s bed, Dr. Brandenberg holds up a large syringe.

“This won’t hurt a bit. Well, maybe a little.”

Chick looks around, wondering how he got lost heading to the parking lot. Brushing back his white hair, he leans on his cane as he wobbles down the grimy Las Vegas street.

Turning the corner, he sees a thin, skeevy-looking addict arguing with a tall man in an army jacket. Both men turn and glare at him.

“Don’t get involved,” he says to himself, turning around.

Looking up, Chick sees a streak of bright light racing across the darkened sky. Several names he doesn’t recognize enter his head and he says, “Safe home, Brett, and Dulcey… And you too, Captain Perro.”