Chapter 52

The grey cement room was musty and damp. A buzzing fluorescent light flickered overhead, and the shadows appeared to twitch with angst. The low and shaky hum of 'Mellow Yellow' could be heard echoing along the cinderblock walls, as could the scratching claws of rats searching in vain for a dropped morsel.

Roger, bearded and emaciated was strapped to the table, his face pale and clammy, his once smooth blonde tresses now a tangled greasy mesh. “Stop humming, damn you!” he shrieked, his strident voice hitting the cement like a bat on bone.

“I like to hum as I work,” the shadowy figure murmured from the corner. “It helps me to concentrate.”

“That song… that awful song…”

“Oh, Rodney, dear –”

“It’s ROGER, damn you, Uncle George,” Roger said, his voice cracking on the curse. Then after a pause he said, “You were humming that song when you murdered poor granny.”

“That was a long time ago. I wasn’t quite myself then. And please, dear nephew, call me Georgia for the time being.” the shadowy figure turned, revealing himself. George had transformed halfway back to Georgia, wearing nothing but nylons, red pumps, a pink lace double D and a surgical mask, but no other clothes, and no wig or make-up. He pranced toward Roger, a scalpel in each hand.

“Please, Uncle George, I really don’t want to –”

“Now, Rodney, just a few alterations and you’ll be back to your old self.”

“I’m not Rodney! I’m his twin brother, Roger, remember? Rodney is dead.”

“Don’t EVER –” Georgia dropped one scalpel so he could grab Roger by the hair. He was wide-eyed and shaking, sweat glossing his temples, “– EVER say that." Then, looking toward the unstable fluorescent light, his eyes glazed over as he spoke swiftly and low, as if suddenly possessed. “While I lay comatose and on the brink of death, my loyal nephew Rodney summoned me from the grave, calling upon me to see our mission to its glorious conclusion. We are worthy; we are worthy. Together we shall be transformed and, from both sides of the cemetery lawn, we shall rule all of Manhattan. And it too shall be transformed, not like the first Manhattan, of liberty and open arms and immigrants who bred bad drivers; and nothing like the second, of taxi cabs and skyscrapers; but the third, the third Manhattan, where all the ugly shall be recycled, their redeeming features preserved and given to the beautiful, the worthy. We are worthy, we are worthy…”

Roger watched his uncle as his voice faded into the shadows. “I can’t believe it,” he finally said, “all those years. The whole family pitched in for your therapy, hoping you’d be cured. You are far from cured. Uncle George, you’re a loony tune.”

Georgia ripped off his surgical mask, revealing a cross-stitched-on Roman nose. “Well, nephew,” he said, holding up the scalpel, “we’ll just see who the crazy one is. Now then. Hold still. Those Dumbo ears have GOT to go.”

For the next half-hour, throughout the basement of the abandoned house that sat on an isolated dead-end street just outside of Poughkeepsie, Roger’s screams could be heard. They remained strong for a while, then turned groggy, then ceased.