Mad Professor Read Free

of watching the McNguyen and the Pootie Party shows, I followed Jack to the room we shared at Journey’s End. I was apprehensive, but eager to achieve immortality.
    â€œVoilà,” he said. He showed me a knit skull cap. It was blue and orange and silver. It was the worst job of knitting I had ever seen, and I told him so.
    â€œOne of my University of Louisville honors students made it for me,” he said. “An extra credit grab. She had a B, and she wanted . . .”
    â€œNever mind all that,” I said. “What does it do?”
    â€œGuess,” he said, showing me the cord with the computer jack. “The silver yarn, clumsily woven, I admit, is a dermo-thalamic web which uploads to the processor inside my Whortleberry to speed up your internal computational sequences. If I hadn’t pissed away so much time grading homework for all those sections of business math, then maybe I would have been able to productize this and . . .”
    â€œNever mind that,” I said, sensing immortality. “What do I do?”
    â€œPut it on,” he said. “Start counting sheep, from one, until you fall asleep. As soon as your consciousness logs off, the Whortleberry’s processor kicks in, and the counting accelerates.”
    â€œHave you ever tried it?” I said.
    â€œThere was no point,” he answered. “It’s only good for counting by ones. I ended up giving her an A minus, since . . .”
    â€œNever mind that,” I said. “Plug it in. Give it here.”
    I pulled on the magic beanie and lay down on my bed.
    It was tight. “Should I shave my head?”
    For once Jack looked confused. “You’re bald,” he said.
    â€œOh, yeah.” I’d forgotten.
    I closed my eyes and started counting sheep. They were jumping a fence, faster and faster. I dreamed I was herding them up a boulder-studded hill.
    +   +   +
    â€œWake up.”
    I sat up. The light through the filthy windows told me it was morning.
    Jack was standing over me, smiling. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind?” he asked. “Don’t think about it, just say it.”
    â€œTwelve million, three hundred and forty-five thousand, three hundred and twenty-two,” I said. Even though my head was splitting, I counted to the next number. “Twelve million, three hundred and forty-five thousand, three hundred and twenty-three.” 12,345,323 in digits.
    â€œVoilà,” said Jack. “You’re gaining on the monk already. You’ll pass him by breakfast.”
    And I did. Jack uploaded the results to the Winners site and we slapped hands. I was now a world record holder.
    I ate some powdered eggs. I didn’t even mind that they had lumps like the oatmeal. I was immortal.
    But it didn’t last. Nothing does. Isn’t that what old age is all about? After lunch, between the Casa Hayzooz and Brenda Bondage shows, Jack checked the Winners site and discovered that the monk in Wichita had logged twelve million, three hundred and forty-five thousand, nine hundred and seventy-nine, beating me by eighty-six. I had 12,345,893; he had 12,345,979.
    â€œThat Buddhist bastard,” I said, with grudging respect. “I thought Kansas was a red state.”
    â€œHe must have nothing else to do,” said Jack.
    â€œNeither do I!” I closed my eyes and started counting.
    When we logged in later that night, after the McNguyen show, I was ahead by nine hundred and forty six. I went to bed exhausted, but pleased.
    I was immortal again.
    +   +   +
    Powdered eggs, the breakfast of champions. I was still feeling like a winner when Jack dragged in, late, looking glum.
    â€œBad news,” he said. He whipped out his Whortleberry and showed me the Winners site. The mad monk was up almost ten grand; he’d reached twelve million three hundred and fifty-four thousand, two hundred and nineteen. 12,354,219.
    He must have stayed up