Rem and the Big Case

Part 4. Realization

Finally, I'm beginning to come to grips with my situation. The letter made sense in an odd sort of way. And yet, something was missing, something important. If I am reading into this correctly, and I would like to think that I am, everything, me, L.A., this Kilgor Trout, everything in the universe is at the control of one being, Rem Reeves. Why does that name sound so familiar? So personal? But some aching feeling in my gut tells me that though this picture is big, this isn't the big picture, just one aspect of it. Ok... I think I'm getting somewhere, but for all I know I'm running in circles. For all I know, this is just a crackpot dream. Now there's a thought.

Alright, it's time to fine comb this letter. What else is it hiding? According to Kilgor, the universe has many aspects to it, or at least that's how I understand it. Maybe that's why L.A. was such a very different place than the bedroom with the dead dog, who I gather is also Kilgor Trout.

And what about Kilgor himself. Such an odd bloke. It's as if he worships Rem Reeves, as if he lives and breaths for him. Well, why not, the sad sack is a dog, s'pose that's why they call them man's Jimaney Cricket. But the Kilgor who wrote the letter, the Kilgor who called me at Bernie's Pub, that's not exactly the same Kilgor who kicked the bucket under the bed. No, he's some sort of shadow, a fragment of the dead dog, and more than that at the same time. A recreation, a re-imagining, a reincarnation, an improvement.

Yeah, there's something big here all right, but for my money this is all too big. I'd rather take the small bet and walk home a winner any day. But how do you turn back from where I'm standing, suspended in space, where time has no meaning? How do you turn back from The Big Case? You don't, you can't, you shouldn't, you won't. When all of existence is about to reveal to you it's secrets, you flip it the bird turn tail and run, you stand up tall and say 'thank you sir may I have another.' That's the way I figure it in any case.

Damn I need a scotch bad. Anything to wet the hard edges, kill my nerves a bit, open my mind maybe, but most of all I just want to be drunk. Don't look at me like that, you'd do the same in my shoes. You look the universe in the eye sober, see how that makes you feel, or you can take my word for it when I say it don't feel good. Lets see, there's a way to go about this, like the phone call, or bending space and time, though I don't much like that phrasing.

Close your eyes, picture a scotch in my pocket and reach in, and... there we go baby, that's what I'm talking about! I'm starting to get the hang of this. I pop open the bottle and take a swig of the most delicious scotch I have ever tasted. This isn't top row, this is the top row of the gods, and it burns mightily like moonshine in my gut. I smile. Maybe a little rum would get this scotch on its feet.

Now that I think I'm getting somewhere with this, it's about time for me to try something else. All my leads thus far rest on one person's shoulders, that mutt Kilgor Trout. It's my experience not to chase uncertain leads till you question good and hard the person who gave them to ya. The letter was fine, but I want him to unravel a little more of this tale, and I want to see his eyes while he's doing it. This should be just like the scotch. All I got to do is think of him, imagine him real close, and son of a gun, there he is. Before me stands Kilgor Trout, the small yellow Labrador Retriever from under the bed.

“Hi Kilgor,” I say as I roll myself a cigarette. “Sorry to pulled you away from whatever it was you were doing. I just got good and curious over some of the things you wrote me, and now that I figured out the workings looney bin, I thought I'd ask you a few pointers, man to man, you know. Well, I supose in your case we're gonna have to do the next best thing, man to mut. You look good speechless, has anyone ever told you that? You wear it like a champ.” I wait for a response, but he give's me the silent treatment which I don't like. “Nothing, huh? Some backbone you got there. Alright, let's get down to the dirty details. Who is this Rem Reeves fella you wrote about in the letter? What does he do? How does he do it? And last, what exactly does he have to do with me?”