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This is for baddog.

Never does the mortal experience so crave its wings as in those moments before death. Press ?PLAY.? So, I heave my tired bones from some gothic summit, surmounted by the fierceness of a purple sky, where millions of bats are making their dark festivities in the air. Very nice. Already I can take my cue from this. What an ironical God has been mine. He touches me even in my play. Fuck the new technologies, they only give the bastard more ways into my head. So this is my new sim deck, hot and Japanese. A true totem of my success. I can live anything I want, be any person I want. Total sensory immersion. It is my birthday, so I?ve given myself some time for this. I have 37 minutes of Nero?s life. The right 37. And then there?s the gender reversal thing, where I can play any one of an assortment of roles within the orgy scene. But right now there?s this cheesy intro to watch. Manufacturer?s chip: travel ads and all kinds of ?thanks for choosing Sony? crap. Whatever. It gets better. This is some sort of death sim. A cool freebie. I?m still falling, surrounded by bats. They?re creepier than I thought at first. In their terrible squawks, the airborne demons do make a music fit for dying. There?s even a Hebraic theme, weaving the bat cries into a melody. Oh, this is priceless. It?s pegged me for a Jew. Now the merchant?s cry is to escort me from this world, oh my. Avarice has certainly been the engine of my life. Even as I woke into childhood, from the numbness of my infancy, I saw the two ways in which a Jew?s life can be lived. I had my choice before me, and as any man who sees a choice would do, I chose the smoother road. I fattened. I became the impassable camel, and my sense of heaven became an excluding doorway through which I could never slip. So wedged into that needle?s eye, it seemed, I was now being conducted to heaven by a swarm of bats. Their faces came large before me, became human and more horrible. I, no longer falling, and they, no longer flying, now filled a room with a grey interior. Shabbily dressed, the bats, now men, were all in a row in front of me. It was an office, oh, a very functiontal place. Whatever words were spoken, had that physical effect, and put a gel of tautness in the room, some three or four feet deep. I have known places such as this, even in my fattened life. Inevitably, there are those enterprises which are leech-like in their essential nature. They exist only to parasitize the legitimate businessman. What license now, commissioner? What permit? I wrote my checks, of course. But the waiting room is another matter. Then the Ubergruppenfuhrer comes through the door, and I become aware of my scandalous attire. What sort of ratty schmatta is this? Oh, the whole concentration camp theme is in effect. Now this is a little foolhardy. Fiddler on the Roof is one thing, but this. C?mon Sony. Nobody gets away with more antisemitism than the Japanese. These dark trips have all the subtlety of the illustrations in Jehovah?s Witness literature. Even the beards are stylized. No naked rabbi ever looked so petulant. And there?s just too much luster on those Nazi epaulets and wings. Of course, they want me. ?Come out to the yard with us a moment, Mr. Cohen?? Sure, whatever, Heinrich. I definitely register a drop in temperature when we go from the dim incandesacent indoors of the field office into the silver twilight outside. Northeast German dusk in Winter, circa 1939. Very convincing. The big stormtrooper has an excruciating grip. I can almost feel my famine-withered humerus crunching under the pressure. His gait is perfect, all the precision you?d want to believe was actually there, not a man, a machine. Evil. Heinrich does not look at me, though I am staring openly at him. Smiling, even. In my head, I?m wearing an Armani and lying on my couch, and this guy is nothing but a few million pixels. But in the main yard at Dachau, Heinrich is the shit. Don?t fuck with Heinrich. I suddenly understand the naturalness of the Schwarzenegger/Republican connection. There is something reassuring to them in that accent. Heinrich speaks: ?You will work here!? he says, and points behind me. But I can?t look over yet, must be programming on the fly. The German words are deciphered gutteral and harsh. There?s some extra emotional coloration in there, too. I guess the program thinks I should be more scared of Heinrich. This is going somewhere now. Big Hank?s resolution suddenly sharpens up a bit, as if to set him apart from the drab historical context for a moment. He?s more colorful, more real, than the foetid barracks behind him, more than the column of smoke rising from the oven. Suddenly the full miracle of this new technology becomes apparent, as Heinrich steps out of a recorded 3D video and into my head. Holy Shit! Heinrich is flawed and beautiful. His uniform has signs of wear, and he?s looking at me now. He knows he?s just a man, and there is that fear in him. Fear especially torments the cruel, as I remember. We are walking, Heinrich and I, and there is a way in which the programmed terror of that moment for the encamped Jew knows how to draw some fluid of life from the enormous Nazi. How those poor wretches must have clung to life, and wrung it from wherever it lay in any abundance. We are in the place I am to work, a pen of sorts, rectangle of mud and barbed wire. Heinrich is a man I may have chatted with briefly on the subway in Munich. A boy really, but I can?t be sure. He is imperfectly shaven, and there are those peculiarities in his throat as he speaks. I can imagine his nervousness before some fearsome Gertrude, on a beery Thursday. What a dimensional creature he is! Morality is a drama playing inside his eyes, when he places the gun into my hands. There is the sensation of the metal, the contact. It?s colder than the German winter, textured, grainy, too pregnant with tactile detail. It is insufferable. Then there?s the mechanical Germanness of it, some ancient solidity in manufacture, a faithful dedication to function. It is an executioner?s side-arm. I took it into my hand. Heinrich makes the most solemn expression in his repertoire, then smiles, then looks mortified and forlorn. There is a queue of wobbly old Jews. Rabbis all, teetering and leaning, mouths silent but in some scriptural movement. They have borrowed faces from my childhood in New York. There, a pickle seller. There, the man who drove a van. This is extraordinary. Heinrich has kept a Luger for himself. ?Pop?, into the first Jewish skull. ?Pop?, Mr. Pfefferberg, the kindly butcher. All are kind, in my memory, below a certain age. Kind even as I am moved to kill them. Heinrich watches me approvingly. Hate and detestation come so near to admiration. Alone, in a rectangle of mud, in Dachau, a Jew may briefly inflect his bile into a prayer. The deities of abstract custom have fled, leaving in their wake only gleaming German angels. I am, inside my most private mind, feeling all the exhilaration of a suicide jumper. From my moral heights, I plummet into Heinrich?s arms. Expended as a revolver, I am limp in his tenderness. The bodies to my credit are already welcomed into the mud. There is a strange tendency to dissolution, to erasure. Heinrich draws his oarsman?s thumb across my brow, and I am sadly estranged from him. His theme of color intensity has been adopted across the yard. There is a convergence, a bleeding zone of reds and pinks, in the middle of a sepia wall, a barrack wall. Inside, the moaners dream their sepia dreams, while outside, the colors of my American perspective run gaudy from the sky. Oh! My father is configured symbolically behind his counter. Above his head, etched in neon pink, are the words which proclaim his commerce, so strident, more glaring than the blood which would be red if the place permitted any color. The Nazis and the gassers and the rapists and the injectors are all lined up to buy his fragrant product. There is chit-chat on the line, amiability. With a coffee and a ring of deep-fried Jewish flesh, they go forth from ?Dachau Donuts?, and back to their rounds. Fucking Sony.

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