Pepper

Third place - summer 2001

© 2000 Brent Zirheld
All rights reserved.

Don Pepper's life had been relatively simple until he discovered the cache of magazines in a hidden cellar beneath his barn. Talk about shocks. He'd never seen anything like them before and their content ... well, that was nothing short of awe-inspiring. For Don, it had been so much more than a simple eye-opening experience; it was the dawn of a new era in his life. Oh, and there had been a dead body among the magazines, too.

Now, as he waited in a receiving room in one of the tallest buildings in the world in the middle of the biggest city in the world, Don's mind wandered to the previous year when he found the secret cellar. Don had been cleaning out a horse's stall when he'd noticed a loose board. He'd been looking for a side project to do in his spare time, and refurbishing the floor himself seemed like a great idea. He'd moved his horse to another stall and had set about tearing out the old floor that very weekend.

Once the floor had been removed, Don had found a trap door under a layer of dust. Surprised by his discovery, he opened the gateway and found the cellar. It was an unusual place, filled with magazines the likes of which he'd never before seen.

At first, he'd been frightened. For the first week, he pretended they didn't exist—that he hadn't really found them. However, each night, the covers of those damned glossy periodicals haunted his dreams, turning them to nightmares.

The following week, Don had visited the cellar again. He'd fled before opening any of the magazines, though. How could he even touch them? They were wrong ... just wrong! Human eyes weren't meant to see such things, much less what might be inside of them. Perhaps that was the reason a body was down there, too. The desiccated corpse with its flannel shirt had used a gun to end its life. Don eventually discovered the body was that of a man since, even in a dried-up state, one could sufficiently tell genital differences.

In the weeks and months that followed the magazines' discovery, a gradual progression occurred in which Don acclimated himself to trips into the cellar. Once he was sure he wouldn't be caught, his trips became more frequent. Soon he found himself opening the magazines. Ultimately, he read the words without fear of reprisal. Visits to the cellar became nightly; however, Don never let his obsession hinder his ability to get grain and produce to the market on time. No, should he become lax in his duties, the world would know something was amiss and he couldn't allow that ... not yet.

"Don will see you now," Donna Pepper said.

Don stood and stared at the receptionist. Her long brown hair cradled a face Don knew well. It was a feminine version of himself. As he walked toward the double doors that led into the Bureau of Vocation's highest office, Don looked over his shoulder at the others who were waiting their turn. Despite the pinstriped suit of the first man; the plaid shirt and blue jeans of the second; despite the last man's dapper monochrome suit and dignified air; all were the same as Don. All shared the same first and last name. All shared the same face. The only difference between them was the life one lived or the particular Dons one knew.

It disgusted him.

Pushing open both doors, Don Pepper entered the room as a man in swivel chair behind the desk turned slowly from the large glass panel that allowed for an unimpeded view of the city.

"Hello, Don," the man in the chair said.

"Hello, Don," he replied, trying desperately to keep his disgust, his anger, in check as he used the standard greeting.

Another Donna smiled as she used a hand-held device to scan the barcode on Don's left hand. She looked the same as the receptionist, except her hair was much shorter and her cleavage was on ample display in the low-cut, breast-hugging blouse she wore. Don knew that she was wearing a push-up bra, because if you'd seen one Donna, you'd seen them all.

Looking at the monitor on his desk, Don Pepper of the Bureau of Vocation scanned the words that identified the particular Don Pepper who visited him.

"What brings you to our offices today?" Don asked. "Oh, it says here that you find farming no longer suitable to your needs, but you are undecided which occupation would better fit you."

"Actually, I've given that quite a bit of consideration," Don said. "I'd like to be the top Don. The numero uno Pepper, if you will."

"Excuse me? The top Don?" the man in the chair inquired. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Well, you're a Pepper, I'm a Pepper, she's a Pepper, wouldn't you like to be the top Pepper, too?" Don asked.

Don of the Bureau of Vocation folded his hands, his face betraying the confusion he felt. His confusion shifted momentarily, as if he at last grasped the meaning of what Don had said. "I think I understand," he said. "You want to be different. You want to be ... an artist."

Laughing, Don said, "No, I want to be the Top Pepper. Mister Pepper number one. Or at the very least, I'd like to meet him."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know who you're talking about. There is no Top Pepper. Are you referring to World President Pepper? If so, he is the world's busiest man and has no time for, um, shall we say, frivolous meetings." Bureau Don was quick to add, "Not that there isn't validity to your particular P.O.V."

Don shook his head. No. The Top Pepper, the man in charge of the whole shebang would not be the World President, the man in charge of overseeing the entire earth. The Top Pepper would live in luxury, watching as all the little Peppers did their thing. The Top Pepper would live in obscurity while the other billion Don and Donna Peppers did their part to keep the machine oiled and working. In reality, World President Pepper was just another cog in the global village.

"No, I'm not interested in meeting that Pepper, nor World Vice President Pepper. I want to meet the Pepper who started this whole thing. Pepper Prime, if you will." Don was saddened. He wouldn't find the Top Pepper here, nor would he discover where to find the Top Pepper.

"Well, we could always randomly assign you a new vocation," Bureau Don said. "Something that will afford you a bit more free time, or even less if you would like."

Don waved his hand. Vocation, schmocation, he didn't come here to find a new way of life. Suddenly it hit him.

"I want to meet the oldest Pepper in the world. Where can I find him?" he asked. Hell, it stood to reason that Pepper Prime, the Top Pepper, would be the oldest living Pepper. Right? What impeccable logic. Why, those magazines had opened his mind far more than anything he'd ever learned in Don Pepper Elementary or Don Pepper High.

Bureau Don let his fingers tap dance across the keyboard. At last he smiled, content that he'd be able to please this man before him. If nothing else, a Don Pepper always did his best to please another Don Pepper. While that ensured world peace, it sure made this particular Don Pepper sick to his stomach. This thing called homogeneity was as disgusting as seeing your own face mirrored in your lovers'. Granted, none of this bothered him before the great awakening when he had found those stacks of magazines.

"Ah yes, the oldest living Pepper. According to the records, that would be Don Pepper number zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-one."

Holy shit! It had to be the Top Pepper.

"He's in Pepper Memorial Hospital in this very city, Mister Pepper," Bureau Don said.

"Which Pepper Memorial Hospital?"

"Oh, that would be number zero-zero-three," Bureau Don said. "I'm afraid that he isn't in the best of health these days. Wow. He's listed as being ninety-eight years old here. That's a full thirty years older than the next Don Pepper."

Elated, Don Pepper left the Bureau of Vocation and went to the hospital in question.

"I need to see the oldest Don Pepper you have in your care," Don said to the receptionist.

"That would be Don Pepper..."

"Zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-zero-one," Don finished for her.

He was given the floor and room number, so he hurried along. The excitement gave an extra spring to his step. He was so full of energy that he bypassed the elevators and used the stairs, taking them two at a time until he was at the eighth floor. At the top, he pulled his pants back up to his waist, feeling the heavy object in his right pocket—the one that had helped gravity tug at his drawers on the way up the flight of stairs.

Don carried on and entered the oldest living Don Pepper's room with a triumphant force that knocked the door against the wall.

"Pepper Prime!"

"Ah shit!" the old man exclaimed, nearly jumping out of the bed. "You nearly made me knock my catheter out!"

Don Pepper smiled as he stared at the old man.

"Who the hell are you?" Pepper Prime asked.

"You started all of this, didn't you?" Don asked. "You were the first Pepper. What did you do with everyone else?"

"Everyone else?" the old man asked.

Don reached inside his coat and pulled out a magazine. He tossed it to the bed, right between the old man's bony legs. Pepper Prime took one look at the Playboy magazine and his eyes nearly shot from their sockets. On the cover was a scantily clad woman who looked nothing like any Donna Pepper the world had ever seen. Her face and body were ... unique.

"The Pepper Patrol got rid of most of these years ago," the old man whispered. With frail hands he picked up the magazine and opened it.

"Don't rip it, that's my favorite," Don said.

"I bet it is," the old man said, leafing through the pages with a look of nostalgia so intense that tears formed in his eyes.

"What did you do with all the people who looked like her?" Don asked. "All the people who didn't look like us?"

"They were destroyed. Killed by a plague. I alone was immune. So I cloned myself. Over and over and over."

Don cringed. "Where did Donnas come from?"

The old man smiled. "An altered chromosome. Quite easily done in a lab setting."

"Egads! You mean I've been screwing myself?"

"Better than a hand, wouldn't you say? Hell, you're all sterile, anyway."

Don pulled the gun from his right pocket. Without hesitation, he aimed it at Pepper Prime, knowing full well what the weapon was capable of doing because he'd read several issues of Guns and Ammo. "I came here to kill you."

"Why?"

"Damned if I know. I was really pissed off at the time and I thought killing the guy responsible for this lie might make me feel better."

"Humanity had to go on. History was wiped clean. What use did we have for the truth? The truth is so depressing."

"But only you? Why not clone different people?"

Pepper Prime smiled. "Not in my lifetime. There is a program that will reintroduce diversity into the cloning process. A hundred years from now, cryogenically frozen genes will be used to create human variety once again. In the meantime, Don and Donna Peppers will keep the world functioning. The infrastructure will continue to hold together until humanity can be reborn without the threat of pestilence wiping us out again."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Don asked. "Sounds kind of funky that some virus comes along and wipes out all humanity but you. I don't know if I buy that."

"Are you still going to shoot me?" Pepper Prime asked.

Don nodded. "I think so."

"Why?"

"Because you're lying."

"How the hell would you know?"

Don shrugged. Maybe reading too many issues of The Skeptical Inquirer had muddled his ability to take things on faith.

The old man smiled and tossed the magazine to the foot of the bed.

"I killed them all," he said, nodding. "Destroyed them because they didn't believe I could. Then I recreated a paradise in my own image. I was what they called a 'mad genius.'"

"Damn you!" Don squeezed the trigger.

Pepper Prime looked down at his chest in the aftermath of the explosive blast. Then he said something Don couldn't hear due to the ringing in his ears.

"What?"

"How the hell could you miss from there?" Pepper Prime exclaimed.

"I've never fired a gun before, you genocidal bastard! Think I'll miss again?"

"Oh, I don't doubt you'll hit me given half a chance; the odds favor it. But will you kill me or just take off one of my arms? That's what I'm wondering. Come here and put the gun against my head, you useless twat!"

Don stood his ground at the foot of the bed and aimed at Pepper Prime's head. He took the next shot and the glucose bag hanging above Pepper exploded.

"I slaughtered six billion people and you can't kill one?" Pepper Prime asked. His heart monitor was going wild. "You're not worthy of the name Don Pepper!"

Don fired the gun. A spot of red bloomed in the middle of Pepper Prime's chest.

"Now we're ... talking," Don read from the old man's lips.

Don found he was crying. He didn't know why. Maybe because after fifty years he'd reinvented the act of murder.

"The first story was true," Pepper Prime whispered. "More or less."

"What?"

Pepper's chin touched his chest as his life ended.

Nurse Donna Pepper burst into the room, a scream dying in her throat when she saw Don and his gun. "You killed Dr. Pepper!" she exclaimed.

Don looked into a mirror and tried hard to remember the face he'd most resembled in those magazines. It was time for a new name. A new life. New goals.

"Don Pepper, how could you do this?" Nurse Donna asked.

He pocketed the gun and smiled.

"Call me William Shatner."

Back to top of page