1 Chapter 1: Ad Aware, Part 1

Death by midlife crisis, Richard Bringham thought as he tumbled through the void. Please, don't let them put that on my tombstone. He had never expected death to be so... annoying. If he had only lived, he could have sued Fun-Sport JetPaks for incorrectly labeling their product. It should have read, "Not to be purchased by men in their forties hell-bent on proving - "

"Mister Bringham," someone said in the darkness, "please open your eyes."

Richard jerked as the voice sluiced away the bliss of oblivion. He heard the whine of machinery, and felt his limbs sting with pins and needles. He was corporal again, and his burning lungs demanded that he breathe. He gasped, opening his eyes.

The reek of ammonia flooded his sinuses. He lay on his back, suspended by an antigravity harness within a vast, mint-green chamber. An array of Nightingales hovered above, scanning him with flickering rays of blue light. He raised his head an inch, and was rewarded with a stomach-churning vertigo.

A man with a smooth face and glistening spectacles loomed into Richard's view. "Welcome back from the abyss," he said, arching his eyebrows on the last word. There was a "W.E." embroidered on his white coat: the insignia of a Wellness Extraspecialist.

Richard's mind spun. There were life lessons here, he realized: Do not JetPak through Times Square, even if some schmuck from marketing dares you. Remember that skyscraper canyons create wind tunnels. When you lose control and find yourself tossed around like God's beanbag, please feel free to wet yourself. But most important of all, stay away from Port Mort Kola billboards, especially if they are giant LCD displays designed to be seen from space, because it will hurt and hurt bad when you smash into one. He tried to speak with the numb piece of meat that was his tongue. "How?" he mumbled. "Crash."

"Yes," the W.E. said. "You were electrocuted, I'm afraid. It cooked your heart beyond repair." He grinned. "But you'll be happy to know we've replaced it with a fully functional, biomechanical one that's top of the line."

It took a moment for the words to sink into Richard's addled brain. His eyes widened as understanding brought with it a pang of anxiety. "Money," he said, "can't afford..."

"Ah, ah, ah, don't worry about that," the W.E. said. "Americana Coverage: free health care for all, no matter the need, no matter the cost. We cover everyone."

The fear in Richard's mind waned. "Free," he said.

"Just about," said the doctor. He bowed from the waist. "Call me Doctor Hank. Perhaps you've seen my face on the Americana posters conveniently located..."

Richard smiled as he sank back onto his pillow, ignoring the idiot's prattle. He was alive, and he was covered. What else mattered?

"Free," he whispered.

"Port Mort Kola! Port Mort Kola! Port Mort Kola!"

Richard woke to the sound of his own screams. He slumped back onto sweat-damped sheets.

Two weeks had passed since the accident. Two weeks, and the nightmares would not stop, but all Doctor Hank offered in the way of help was psychobabble. "The billboard was the last thing you saw before death," the quack insisted. "It's only natural for the subconscious to replay its tragedy." Richard had no stomach for that kind of crap. In fact, he wanted to wring the W.E. by his patronizing neck.

He blinked. His thoughts had taken him out of his bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen. He sank to his knees on the cold, tiled floor, trembling. He was going insane. He was losing his mind.

He was thirsty.

Christ, he was thirsty.

He opened the Suck It 2 Me. They were still in there, of course, twelve of them. They sat innocently on the shelf. Richard caressed one, feeling the cool, sleek glass in his hand. He read the label: Port Mort Kola. He yanked it out of the refrigerator, tore off the cap, and chugged it down. The empty bottle fell from his fingers and shattered on the floor as he grabbed another, then another, and then another. He let out a long, triumphant belch, the sticky Kola dribbling down his chin.

After a few minutes, the refrigerator spoke up. "Excuse me, sir," it said, "but you're letting all the cold air out."

Richard ignored it as a chill settled over him. He could not see any more bottles. He tore the shelves out, throwing moldy leftovers and condiments to the floor.

"More Port Mort," he said. His throat burned.

"May I suggest some Fruity Fun Punch?" the Suck It 2 Me asked. "It's nutritious, tastes great, and keeps you regular, all for one credit."

"More Port Mort."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm out," said the refrigerator. "If you'd insert only four credits, I'll have another twelve-pack sucked to me in a jiffy." Richard slammed the door. He sniffed. There was some sweet, sweet Kola somewhere close. He fell to the floor amongst the shards of broken bottles. A drop here, a drop there. He could sense them. He stuck out his tongue and lapped up the delicious Port Mort Kola, garnished with just a touch of glass.

A month later, Richard waddled into the Wellness Clinic. His bloodshot eyes were downcast, staring with guilt at his tremendous gut. He leaned against the wall, and waited for his Wellness Extraspecialist's tirade.

"Richard," said Doctor Hank as he strolled into the room, "it seems you have put on weight." He stumbled backward as Richard leaped at him, grabbing the W.E. by his collar.

"You've got to help me, Doc," he said. "I'm going insane."

A benign, pitying smile came to Doctor Hank's face. He clapped his hands, and the lights dimmed. The examination table inflated, and molded itself into a couch. "Fortunately for you, your Americana Wellness Extraspecialist is trained for everything," he said, pulling a small pad out of his coat. "Please, tell me what the problem is."

Richard sank onto the couch. He closed his eyes, and recounted his recurring nightmare:

"I crawl through the desert," he said. "The sand burns my skin. I'm dying of thirst. On the horizon, I see an oasis. I run to it and drink, but the water is bitter, and stings my throat like rotten grapefruit juice. I look up, and a camel is doing its business in it. Nauseous, I crawl to the next oasis. It's full of milk - sweet, cool milk. But by the time I get there, it's moldy, and reeks of decrepit cheese. Green blobs float in it. I sally forth, and finally I reach another oasis. This time it's Port Mort Kola. I really don't like Port Mort, but of course I drink it, and it's the most refreshing thing I've ever had. Suddenly, I'm not in the desert anymore. I'm at a beach party, and there are half-naked women jiggling around me, cheering my name. Then I wake up."

"Hmmm," said Doctor Hank as he scribbled. "And I assume..."

"Yes," Richard said, nodding his double chins. "When I wake up, all I want is Port Mort Kola. I get kegs of it vacuumed to my house now. I had to get a bigger fridge."

Doctor Hank munched on the end of his pen for a few seconds. "This is very serious," he said, clapping his pad shut. "You clearly have a problem with taking responsibility for your actions. You have gained thirty pounds in the past month. You sit around the house swilling soft drinks, but instead of blaming yourself, you blame your dreams. Very serious." He leapt to his feet, and clapped his hands again. Fluorescent light flooded the room once more. The couch tossed Richard to the floor, and deflated. The W.E. walked to a wall console, checked a display screen, and made a few adjustments.

Richard jerked, feeling a stinging in his chest. "What are you doing?" he asked, clutching his chunky breasts.

"I'm reprogramming the heart to compensate for your extra weight, and to keep up with the aerobic regimen I'm going to prescribe."

"What about my nightmares?" Richard asked. He grimaced as his heart surged against his ribs.

Doctor Hank sighed. "I've told you," he said, "the subconscious is a fickle mistress. You have to listen to her. Like it or not, she's the boss." He tapped another section of the display, causing Richard to twitch in synch. "My advice to you is to listen to your dreams. They know what you need to be happy." He gave Richard a few more spasms by remote. "See you next month."