DAWN DEBRIS

A comic book without illustrations

by Tom Lichtenberg
copyright 1996 by Tom Lichtenberg

Smashwords Edition
License Notes: This free ebook is intended for your personal enjoyment only. 

On a quiet September evening, I amused myself by playing 'Fly Me To The Moon'. The moon was full and red on the horizon. Suddenly, I stopped and stood up. Something is terribly wrong! I rushed out the door and onto the teeming city sidewalk, where I stood, confused and battered by pedestrians.

I don't know how to play the piano! - What's happening to me?

It all began when Morris Bevelhead showed up at my office at 9 in the morning, on August the 23rd.

"Dawn Debris? The Private Investigator? I need your help!"

I doubted his story immediately. How could someone steal an idea from someone who looked like he'd never even had one. But that's exactly what he claimed had happened.

"I was on my way to FedCorTron. I had an interview all set up with the Old Exec himself, you know, the man who started it all. I was in my car, driving, and suddenly it was gone. My idea was gone!"

"You mean you forgot"

"No! No! Not forgotten! Stolen! Somebody stole my idea!"

He had heard of me through my reputation. I was on a talk show once.

(KID FINDS HERO IN DEBRIS Chatanooga,Tenn. 
Three-year old Sammy Delinqua thought he had lost his precious teddy bear forever when fourteen-year old babysitter Sheena Ramone accidentally left it by the garbage cans, where it was subsequently hauled away by the ever competent Sunset Scavengers. His parents, twenty-six year old factory worker Jamie Delinqua and his wife, twenty-three year old Marsha, a becoming blonde with shapely breasts, attempted to console the child with replacement bears, but the boy's behavior became increasingly aberrant and reckless. Unable to tolerate the squalling brat any further, the desperate parents turned to a self-styled private investigator, twenty-nine year old Dawn Debris, a nondescript brunette with scarcely any chest to speak of, who nevertheless has a reputation for recovering lost or stolen articles of dubious or negligible value. Through methods unknown to anyone, including herself, no doubt, Debris was able to locate the missing bear, or at least a facsimile thereof, convincing enough to placate the annoying child. Debris accepted no payment or reward for this effort, except for an invitation to a talk show, which certainly served to enhance her small but amazingly loyal fan base) 

"You're the finder of things. Get my idea back!"

Needless to say, I was intrigued. I had found many things before, but never something so insubstantial, so intangible, so obviously nonexistent! There was the case of the accidentally discarded teddy bear. And the lost necktie. Not to mention the case of the missing fibula .

(Why wait any longer? get your copy of "Fissure Monroe" today! brought to you by Pigeon Weather Productions. not available in bookstores or newsstands anywhere) 

This was entirely different.

"I'll take the case! ... but first I need to know what the idea was"

"I have no idea! That's the problem."

"Oh, then maybe you can me where you were, exactly, when you first noticed it was missing."

"I was on I-95 near Baltimore, just south of the Harbor Tunnel. I was driving down from Philadelphia. I only stopped once, at the Maryland House, for an all-you-can-eat breakfast at the Bob's Big Boy there."

"Then that's where I'll begin."

The all-you-can-eat breakfast was tasty, and a bargain to boot. The curious thing was that the waiter had to bring drinks. Evidently it wasn't an all-you-can-drink kind of thing. Morris had told me that the waiter and the cashier were the only people he'd had contact with that day. I showed a picture around , but no one remembered him. Why should they? So I gave up and went home. This was a stupid case anyway. A stolen idea. Who'd ever heard of such a thing?

Well, my friend Jack had, and he wasn't laughing. " Maybe they extracted it", he said.

"Like with a needle to the skull? "

"No. With gene therapy. Where have you been?"

I told him he had better explain what he meant. I had been in Philadelphia.

"The science isn't perfect, but they have come a long way. They've identified thousands of genes responsible for this and that, and it's become quite specific. Everyday another gene is isolated and explained.

"Sure, like for disabilities and diseases."

"Not just that, but also the opposite. Genes for health and abilities as well."

"So what's that got to do with anything?"

"They can put them in you and they can take them out.”

"Yeah, but you're talking labs and hospitals, not roadside restaurants."

"Come on, Dawn, you've been around. You know how it goes."

I was going to have to look into the matter further. If what Jack said was true, there must be an insidious black market dealing in desirable and undesirable qualities.

(A recent survey of our readers revealed that certain qualities are more desirable than others. Here are the results of our poll. 
beauty 96.2 
grace 93.6 
style 89.4 
charm 89.2 
brains 84.9 
talent 78.6 
patience 66.8 
compassion 66.6 
duplicity 7.9 
hypocrisy 3.2 
the margin of error is +- 0.0006 
(we're that good!)) 

Reputed mafia kingpins would be involved. The potential for profit was enormous! Imagine wanting blue eyes. Tinted lenses are one thing, but actually having blue eyes would be better. Could you actually get injected with the genes for blue eyes?

"Exactly! And not only that, the new gene would be enhanced to override the old one. But you're thinking small potatoes."

Suddenly I understood! There would be secret laboratories, organized crime, federal laws to be ignored, rich people knowing who to know, hush-hush deals, fancy dress parties, fashion statements in the making!

'My god, this is terrible!'

"Welcome to the future."

It wouldn't stop with blue eyes. That was just the tip of the iceberg. They would find the gene that produces wrinkles, and extract it. The gene for curly hair. The gene for perfect teeth. But I was being superficial. If all of this were true, you could make yourself whatever you wanted to be, inside and out. We could all realize our lifelong fantasies! The madness must be stopped!

(A Dissenting Opinion 
by Ferdinand Jerome, "so-called expert". 
I disagree with the foregoing statement, that 'the madness must be stopped'. 
Why, indeed, should it be? 
What could possibly be wrong with everyone realizing their lifelong fantasies? 
I, for one, have long dreamed of losing this bit of paunch I have around the belly. 
I've tried everything, from diets to liposuction to rubbing vaginal cream on my anterior. 
Why not a little DNA insertion, if that would do the trick? 
I feel it would be terribly selfish of Miss Debris to deprive me of this opportunity. 
If you agree, dial 1-900-YES-MA'AM. 
If you disagree, dial 1-900-NO-SIREE. 
Local toll charges apply ) 

And I, Dawn Debris, finder of things, would be the one to stop it. But not right then. I felt like singing.

'Fly me to the moon' I sang, and accompanied myself on the electronic keyboard. The piano sound wasn't very convincing, but I didn't feel like trying to program the damn thing.

I should be recording this. -

Wait a minute, I don't sing, and I don't know how to play the piano. I'm Dawn Debris. What the hell is going on? -

I realized that I'd been altered. I'd been poisoned with talent! My mind went back to the Bob's Big Boy in Baltimore.

- It must have been the juice! -

If that was true, then a vast conspiracy was unfolding around me.

(What's all this crap about conspiracies? 
by Frankie Johnson 
And what the hell is happening to the people of this country that they insist on seeing a conspiracy in every little thing that happens? It's gotten to the point that even if one of these theories turned out to be true, I wouldn't believe it anyway. This is what it all boils down to: UFO's killed the Kennedy's because Marilyn slept with Castro even though he was a homosexual who was blackmailing Khrushchev, who, by the way, was an extraterrestrial agent from a renegade planet which had been secretly bombed by the CIA operating out of a secret nuclear waste dump in Waco, Texas. So there. ) 

They'd gotten to Morris, stolen his idea, then followed him to me. Then they followed me and drugged my drink with genes. Must've been a hell of an idea he had, but nobody messes with Dawn Debris! -
I was intent on revenge, but then I decided to try my hand at watercolors. Soon I had a lovely landscape, with trees,grass,rocks etc... It was like the coast of California , only different.

I oughta get myself an agent!-

All I ever wanted to do since childhood was to fight crime and protect the weak and innocent. Well, I couldn't do that, but at least I could find missing things and serve the public that way, but none of that seemed important anymore.

-Let them find their own damn things! -

I was busy exploring my inner nature. Okay, so maybe it wasn't my own inner nature. Okay, so it had been insinuated into me through a glass of juice. Anyway, I was discovering things about myself I never knew before, because they'd never been in me before. I was going to museums and actually appreciating the art! I was listening to modern jazz, and enjoying it! I watched the evening news with interest!

(NOW MORE THAN EVER 
NEWS YOU CAN USE 
FROM THE TEAM YOU CAN TRUST 
WE'RE THERE WHEN YOU NEED US MOST 
WHICH IS NOW MORE THAN EVER 
stay tuned for more news from THE news leader ... ) 

My friends were worried about me. I was boring them with talk about the transitory nature of experience. My girlfriend, Ruby, was especially upset.

(Ruby Replies 
I wasn't that upset, really. I was getting kind of bored with the old Dawn, and this was something new. Imagine actually having a new conversation with your lover after eleven years of cohabitation! Imagine all of a sudden not knowing exactly what she'll say under any given condition. Imagine a different reaction to the same old stimulus. Imagine having sex with someone else and it's not cheating because it's still her, sort of. So I wasn't especially upset. But since Dawn likes to think she's the tough one, I let her think I was. ) 

"What happened to the Dawn Debris I know and love?"

My cousin Larry had even less patience than usual.

(Larry Says 
As usual, Dawn is exaggerating. I have a lot of patience, at least more than she does. Remember that time the waiter took twenty minutes to bring the water? Who was screaming and yelling, huh? Who got us thrown out of the restaurant? And the time we got stuck in traffic on the beltway? Who threw the tire iron at the beamer? Not me. ) 

"You need help!"

Of course it was Jack who took action.

"I'm taking you to a specialist!"

Larry and Ruby had to hold me down all the way to the hospital. The specialist declared it was impossible for someone to be turned into an effete bohemian dilettante through genetic transfusion.

(PERSISTENCE OF DISORDER IN CRYOMATIC PATIENTS 
Journal of American Cryomatosis, June 2016 
In clinical trials occurring over a period of eleven years, it was determined that cryomatosis tends to persist in those patients in whom the disease lasts longer than in others. ) 

"Stop wasting my time!"

Every doctor they dragged me to said the same thing.

(PERSISTENCE OF DISORDER IN CRYOMATIC PATIENTS 
Journal of American Cryomatosis, June 2016 
In clinical trials occurring over a period of eleven years, it was determined that cryomatosis tends to persist in those patients in whom the disease lasts longer than in others. ) 

Finally Jack had enough.

"No more so-called experts! Now let's get down to business!"

They took me to the secret laboratory of Dr. Hideo Tarantula. He scraped samples from various parts of my body. While I waited, strapped down in a dentist's chair, he studied my scraps under a microscope.

(My husband is a dentist. 
That's why I would never trust my teeth 
to anyone but FedCorTron 
Makers of an assortment of fine products. ) 

Occasionally he shook his head and grunted like a pig. Ruby held my hand and tried to keep from crying.

(Ruby Replies 
Actually, I was trying to pry her off me. There was an issue of Highlights in the waiting room that I wanted to read, but she wouldn't let go. ) 

As for myself, I was pondering the rites of consecration, and their relation to tribal dance forms. Finally the doctor reach a conclusion.

"I'm afraid the news is bad!"

Ruby couldn't contain herself any longer.

"What is it ,doctor? What the hell is going on?"

(Ruby Replies 
I wasn't really paying attention, to tell you the truth. That's why I asked what the hell was going on. ) 

"I'm afraid her genetic code is being overwritten at an alarming rate. It seems that not only traits, but an entire personality has been insinuated into her system."

"But who is it?"

"There's no way to know."

"What about the real Dawn? How can we get her back?"

"I'm not sure it's possible."

"Isn't there anything you can do?"

"Well, the best hope is Counter-Adaptive Replacement Therapy"

(COUNTER_ADAPTIVE REPLACEMENT THERAPY 
Journal of American Counter-Adaptive Replacement Therapy, September 2028 
A survey of American Counter-Adaptive Replacement Therapists reveal that a significant majority favor the use of Counter-Adaptive Replacement Therapy. ) 

"In other words, we locate someone similar to the old Dawn, and overwrite the overwritten genes with those. But you must tell me what she was like before."

My friends proceeded to describe the me that no longer was. Apparently, I was rude, crude, ignorant and ill-mannered. All I cared about was finding lost things and pocketing the fee. I had no use for culture of any kind. I preferred anything superficial to anything of substance. I was a bloodhound, a single-minded private eye with a taste for the street and a nose for the criminal underground. The doctor was pleased.

"I have just the thing. I just happen to have here the personality blueprint of one Inspector Slaymaker, formerly of the Newark police, now in a coma in Secaucus."

My friends rejoiced, and before I could escape they were pouring more O.J. down my throat. The next few days were a blur. I lay on the couch, exhausted, as Slaymaker's traits did battle with those of the snob, which were still kicking my own around. One minute I hankered for a violin to pluck. The next I craved a shotgun to blow away my TV set. I would draw a sketch, then set it on fire with my lighter. I tried to listen to the opera on the radio, but then I'd fiddle with the dial, trying to find the police scanner frequency. I sipped wine. I swallowed six-packs. I threw up frequently. I couldn't eat, because I didn't like anything I wanted, or want anything I liked. Dr. Tarantula took notes at a furious pace, while Jack and Larry played poker in the corner.

(The Notes of Dr. Hideo Tarantula 
What are these people doing in my lab? I told them to get out of here it seems like days ago they're driving me nuts i mean how much poker can you play how many hoagies can you munch just what the hell do i have to do to get these morons out of my house? i gave her the damn shot so why don't they leave? like i really care how all of this turns out. i take mastercard, what else do i need? ) 

Gradually I realized what I had to do to get out of there. I managed to inhale some more hoagies and belched. I asked Jack for a shortwave, so I could nap to the soothing sounds of emergency dispatches.

(911 Transcript 5784398723872 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: Hello? Hello? 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: Is anybody there? Can you hear me? 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: Somebody please answer, it's an emergency. 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: Hello? 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: I've been shot! 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: I'm bleeding to death. Is anybody there? 
Dispatcher: what? 
Caller: aaaah .... 
Dispatcher: what? 
Dispatcher2: what was that? 
Dispatcher: wrong number, I guess. 
Dispatcher2: what? ) 
I kept my mouth shut. By morning, I had convinced them I was better. Slaymaker made me buy a trench coat and a fat cigar. On the street, I was aware of every nuance...

... a 501 in progress ... (visualize a man in Levi's, if you will)
... a 411 going bad ... (someone talking on the phone)
... a 666 heading south on Main. (Satan driving his Mustang)

I felt my veins turn to ice as I thought of all the slime I'd put away over the years. I reached for my piece, but all I found was a ticket to the Grovzny Ballet. Wait a minute. I can't go like this. I'll have to go home and change. The bus ride took forever . Finally home, I headed straight for the bathroom. But then I saw myself in the mirror.

"Who the hell is that?"

I didn't recognize myself at all! Of course, I knew who I was. I was Dawn Debris, inspector of things, formerly from Secaucus, now in a coma, listening to angels singing 'Fly Me To The Moon'. And I could remember my life, or sort of. For example, my 6th birthday, though of course at the time I was 34, and hadn't even been born yet. The time I brought down Sonny the Snake. I must have been 2. The first time I had sex. Well, the three times I first had sex.

(SEX CLAIMS EXPOSED Chatanooga,Tenn. 
A series of recent revelations have revealed that seventeen-year old Anna Kingsley of Milltown, a redhead with still under-developed but promising boobs, recently had sex for the first time. So-called experts familiar with such claims have claimed that such claims are not altogether unheard of. One of these over-exposed pundits, thirty-six year old Ferdinand Jerome, pointed out the case of Swami Lotu Boptu, the holy hermaphrodite who was said to have deflowered himself in a fit of remarkable dexterity. Another, forty-three year old Miss Joanna Johnsberry, a fairly obese strawberry blonde with an incalculable bosom, referred to the situation involving one Mary X, a woman of varying descriptions but with historical breasts, who was impregnated through the ear by the breath of an eternal spirit. ) 

I knew I couldn't go on like this. It was a situation that called for breakfast. A Bob's Big Boy all-you-can-eat breakfast at the Maryland House off the turnpike. Every instinct in my body, and I had a lot of them, told me I was on the right track. When I arrived, everything seemed normal. I was instantly on guard. The waiter came over.

"Nothing to drink, thanks"

He seemed more than annoyed.

"Are you sure?"

I ate 14 of those little sausages. They were excellent. Afterwards I hung around out back, smoking a stogie. There was no unusual activity. I became suspicious.

(UNUSUAL ACTIVITIES 
A recent survey of our readers revealed that certain activities are more unusual than others. Here are the results of our poll. 
nude bowling 96.2 
water walking 93.6 
disco yoga 89.4 
hair whacking 89.2 
tree sniffing 84.9 
latex polishing 78.6 
fruit squishing 66.8 
avalanche gazing 66.6 
group potty training 7.9 
ankle twitching 3.2 
the margin of error is +- 0.0006 
(we're that good!) ) 

Hours passed. Nothing happened. Finally a truck pulled up, and the driver began unloading cartons. I peered out of the bushes to get a closer look. The cartons displayed the initials: F.C.T., and on the truck was the slogan, "Everybody Loves Our Juice".

(FedCorTron! Isn't it nice to know that FedCorTron is always there? ) 

I decided to follow it back to its point of origin. Just then, I was grabbed from either side and hauled out of the bushes by two big men.

"You keep quiet!", the uglier one said, as they threw me into the back of the truck.

I made a thorough inspection of the cargo. Same old boxes, containing nothing but cartons of juice. I was feeling a little thirsty.

Don't do it, Dawn. You've had enough already!

Eventually we arrived at FedCorTron headquarters.

(My mother always said 
"There's no time like the present." 
That's why I would never waste my time 
with anything less than a FedCorTron product.) 

of course, F.C.T., FedCorTron! Duh! –

(Minor Back Pain? 
Persistent Throat Irritation? 
Soreness In Those "Sensitive" Areas? 
Need Life Insurance? 
Any Problem Whatsoever? 
FedCorTron is always there for you.) 

I was forced to wait in a rather nice office while the goons kept watch over me. A good looking young man in a suit came in and took a seat behind the desk.

"You must be public relations."

"At your service."

We stared at each other like lizards eyeing the same sunny slab.

"Well, Miss Debris, it seems you enjoy our breakfast!"

"I know what you're up to, and it won't work."

"Probably not, but I doubt you really know."

"You're infecting innocent people with desirable qualities!"

(A recent survey of our non-readers revealed that certain qualities are more desirable than others. Here are the results of our poll. 
fat feet 96.2 
gray eyes 93.6 
split ends 89.4 
a lisp 89.2 
drool 84.9 
bad breath 78.6 
cackling 66.8 
apathy 66.6 
beauty 7.9 
grace 3.2 
the margin of error is +- 0.0006 
(we're that good!) 
tells you something about our non-readers, doesn't it? ) 

"Now, why would we want to do that?"

"I haven't figured that part out yet."

"All we want, Miss Debris, is for everyone to love our juice. Really."

"You mean it's all about marketing?"

(WEBSTER'S BRAVE NEW WORLD DICTIONARY 
Cryomatosis: Genetic disposition to laugh hysterically at other people's misfortunes. 
Gruntoma: Irrational fear of Klingon mating rituals. 
Dimentia: Belief that reruns are proof of the General Unified Theory. 
Pompukus: Involuntary protein spill at the mention of the word 'morality'. 
Borascia: Allergic reaction to slow motion instant replays. 
Marketing: Plague affecting late twentieth century civilization that led to the near-eradication of independent thought. 
Unabombast: Achieving notoriety by means of anonymous threats and posturing. 
Flare Devils: Mythical creatures who visit the scene of an accident.) 

I don't know why I was surprised. The Young Exec seemed to be deciding just how much to tell me.

"I admit we've made some mistakes. We were blundering about, really. Hare-brained schemes...

(Hare Brained Schemes 
1.Mutually Assured Destruction. 
2. Racial Purity 
3.Saving the World With Orange Juice )

But then we came across a peculiar notion in the secretions of one of our test subjects."

I realized it must have been Morris!

"Yes, most interesting. We were trying to create the ideal consumer. “

(The Ideal Consumer. Has nothing, wants everything. Give 'em a lot of money. ) 

Dumb idea, really."

(A recent survey of our readers revealed that certain ideas are dumber than others. Here are the results of our poll. 
Love Thy Neighbor As Thyself 96.2 
It's All In The Cards 93.6 
Big Boys Don't Cry 89.4 
What Goes Around, Comes Around 89.2 
Virtue Is It's Own Reward 84.9 
God Helps Those Who Help Themselves 78.6 
Things Go Better With Coke 66.8 
Forgive And Forget 66.6 
Every Dog Has His Day 7.9 
Mind Your P's And Q's 3.2 
the margin of error is +- 0.0006 
(we're that good!) ) 
"It's been tried before.'

"You might say it is the only thing that's ever been tried; propaganda, advertising, all of that. Change the consumer. Make him what you want him to be. Make him want to be what you want him to be. Make everybody want to be that person. Old hat, really. Makes you wonder where the creativity's gone. But everybody else is doing it ...you know the argument ....

... But it is not so easy nowadays, not with all this new genetic technology. Not when you can literally turn them into what you want them to be. Too much competition, if you see what I mean. The Pepsi people want you to be one thing, the Coke people something else. Where's it all going to end? ....

... I mean, you can't give someone a new genetic code after every meal! It would cause too much instability'

"Tell me about it."

"That's where this idea comes into play. Very simple, really. What we want to do is fortify your genes, make them immune to further tampering, and along the way we slip in our little desire. A small price to pay. Well worth it, I would say."

"So you plan to save the world with orange juice!'

"Why not? It is good for you anyway. And we can feel good about our product. They tell me that is important here at FedCorTron.”

(It's true! 
We do feel good about our products. 
We're FedCorTron, and it shows.) 

"Not to mention the profits.'

"Of course. So what do you say? Can I offer you some juice?"

"You have got to be kidding. I'm not touching any more of that stuff!"

"But I insist. Boys?"

The goons grabbed me and held me down, while the Young Exec poured it on my face. The goons let me go, and the bigger one offered my his hanky to clean up with. The Young Exec looked a little sheepish.

"I am sorry, but this is for your own good. Really. You're free to go now. Junior will take you back to your car"

Junior turned out to be a good guy, for a goon. We became friends. And I became myself again in a couple of days. No more opera. No more cigars. No more Fly Me To The Moon. The only thing I regret is that I can't play the piano anymore. As for my client, he was very happy to get his idea back. I pocketed a hefty fee. I didn't bother to tell him that the idea was worthless now that FCT had gotten it for free.

(FCT stands for FedCorTron. 
FedCorTron stands for Quality. 
Look for us wherever anything is sold. 
Anywhere) 

I also did not inform him that he could've gotten it back for the price of a glass of juice. Hey, I've got to make a living somehow. After all, I have an O.J. habit to support.

the end