Chapter 7

Panicked, Isaac did what anyone would do after running over a cat. He hid the body behind a bush, used some of the bush’s leaves to wipe the blood from his hands, and then used those bloody leaves to cover the body, but not before snapping a picture of the body for evidence. There was a pang of jealousy in his gut. The cat got off easy. Isaac’s life was over as he knew it, except his death would happen on a much slower and more agonizing timeline. This was it. Saving the cat had been his one chance, and he blew it. Now Dr. Rousseau would have no choice but to throw him into the Twin Towers correctional facility.

Isaac breathed deeply to calm himself, wondering how to salvage the situation. LA was a big city. There would be plenty more cats to save, but this was a setback. It wasn’t until Isaac’s drive home that his mind cleared, and he could focus on what was really important. Forget the Slytherin assessment. Forget the reward, whatever that may be, for recovering Captain Flapjacks for Anne. None of that mattered. What mattered was the cat from his dreams was real, and that realization caused him to roll down his window and vomit with excitement.

Struggling to find any other interpretation of the facts as he knew them, he concluded he must be a superhero himself. The evidence was twofold. Number one was that he dreamed up a cat. It existed. Number two was that Super Jesus was nearby when he found the cat, just like in his dream. The chances of this occurring were so remote that it couldn’t be a coincidence. There had to be a connection, metaphysical or otherwise. It was a real shame the cat died. Isaac would have loved to interrogate him for answers. Well, no use crying over spilled milk.

The answers, if there were any, had to reside with Super Jesus, so it would be imperative for Isaac to find him. When he got home, he went to his computer to begin a caffeine-fueled research session. He started by following the various Super Jesus social media channels, per the suggestion of the woman at Super Jesus’s house, leading to the discovery that Super Jesus was down at Skid Row, continuing his charitable contributions. Good to know, but Isaac didn’t stop looking there. He trawled the ends of the Internet for any information about the production of Super Jesus 2. Surprisingly, it wasn’t going well. According to the trades, the set was plagued with problems, and the movie was in reshoots on the Fox studios lot, the same one that Isaac passed on his way home from Beverly Hills. Adding to the delays was that they were facing issues with their screenwriter. It wasn’t until Isaac combed through four pages of the Super Jesus subReddit that he found whispers that the screenwriter, one Irving Hodges, had been sent to rehab, drying out someplace in sunny Malibu. Isaac thought that sounded nice, but he didn’t know how to move this information forward other than to pay a visit to Skid Row, and he would prefer to do that in the day. Isaac heard once that sunlight was the best disinfectant.

In the meantime, it was time to come clean. Of course, under normal circumstances, Isaac would have chosen to avoid the responsibility, but he was hoping there was still a chance to get that reward. After all, Captain Flapjacks was no longer missing.

“I’ve got some good news and bad news,” Isaac relayed through his phone.

“Bad news first,” Anne answered.

“Captain Flapjacks is no longer with us, and I don’t mean that in the sense of him being away but dead. He’s dead….” Isaac’s voice trailed off, allowing for a moment of silence.

Finally, he heard her voice crackle: “What’s the good news?”

“I found Captain Flapjacks, of course. So you have, as Dr. Rousseau would say, closure.”

“There’s no closure.”

“Anne.”

“Tell me everything that happened. Tell me everything that you did after you left here. The wheres, the whos, the whats, and the whatnots,” Anne demanded, and Isaac did so to the best of his ability, with one exception—

“That’s when I found him on the side of the street. He stuck out, you know, not too much debris in Beverly Hills. I was lucky to find him before someone disposed of—”

“No, no, no. He’s not dead. That can’t be. It would be totally out of character for him.”

“...”

“He still had seven lives left, Isaac. A cat doesn’t just die with seven of its nine lives left.”

“Did.. did you count them correctly?”

“Yes!” Anne’s usual, calm demeanor broke. “Bring me Captain Flapjacks!”

“Anne. Please. It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie,” Isaac was beginning to sweat. He didn’t think she’d be able to finger him as the perpetrator of the vehicular manslaughter of the cat, but he wasn’t going to press the subject on a psychic until—

“Are you crazy? Even if he was dead, which he isn’t, not by a long shot, I’d still want to give him a proper send-off, read him his last rites… You want your reward, no?”

Anne had his attention now. Isaac bit his lip in contemplation. “Yes, of course.”

“Well, the reward is contingent on you bringing me Captain Flapjacks.”

“What’s the reward?

“A complimentary session with yours truly. Palm reading, tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves, seances. You name it, whatever questions you want to ask with whatever technique you want to use. Your wish is my command, so long as you deliver me Captain Flapjacks.”

“Can I wish for money instead?”

“You don’t understand. What I’m offering you is priceless.”

Isaac deliberated, not on the offer, which he found to be enticing, but how to cover his tracks on killing the cat, specifically his tire tracks. “Okay, I’ll do it. Leave your cell on.”

“Isaac?”

“M-hmm.”

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“If you don’t bring him back, I’ll curse you for a thousand years. Good luck.”

That’s how Isaac found himself back in Beverly Hills again. He was spending more time here than a Starline bus driver. This visit would be his shortest yet, however, partly because it was easy to find the bush where Isaac stashed the body but mostly because there wasn’t any body to be found. Captain Flapjacks was gone. A shiver wriggled its way down Isaac’s body. Spooky didn’t even begin to cover it. He tried to think of all the rational reasons why the cat was gone. A coyote ate him. A groundskeeper found it and deposited the body in a nearby storm drain. Isaac suffered a hallucinogenic flashback from the joint Seth gave him and never found a cat in the first place. Super Jesus resurrected him. But, in his heart of hearts, he knew Anne was right. Captain Flapjacks was always alive, he had nine lives, and Isaac let him slip through his fingers. Isaac should have never doubted the cat. After all, he manifested the cat from his imagination. It was foolish to apply real-world logic to a dream kitty. Anything was possible, so he had to stop getting surprised.

Isaac shrieked, scared by a sudden rustling of branches off to his right. Captain Flapjacks. Isaac crept over to where he could best place the sound.

“Pss-pss-pss,” Isaac cooed.

It was all quiet now. He looked around, not wanting to arouse any suspicions for digging into the landscaping of a Beverly Hills taxpayer, but he was all alone, not another soul in sight. He peered into the gigantic, 15-foot hedge, hoping to coax out the cat, but couldn’t see anything besides absolute black. A chill emanated from the space despite the air around him being still and heavy with humidity. Isaac’s blood pulsed faster in response and did so again when the branches renewed their shaking, causing the huge hedge to sway like it was in an earthquake. Isaac took a step back, having a hard time believing that a maimed cat was responsible.

The icy fingers of terror gripped his spine. If his dream was real, then that had larger, more dangerous implications than he first realized. The cat wasn’t the only creature populating his dream. There was another, something that flashed its fangs at the end of his script, the vampire. Isaac froze as the branches in front of him parted. Out of the dark, there was a distant whistle of the wind. It was as if there was no bottom to the black in front of him. The breeze was warm like an exhaled breath, and riding on that current was the musty smell of death. It was an intoxicating scent in the insidious way that gasoline fumes are. Isaac stuck his tongue out, skin prickling, tasting the foul air for the threats, and his mouth watered with the copper flavor of fear. Isaac crept back, fighting the gravitational pull he felt, keeping his focus on the well of darkness in front of him until he tripped on one of Beverly Hills’ silver fire hydrants. He fell on his hands and knees and turned around to the street. That’s when a noise erupted behind him, something crashing out of the hole, rushing through the brambles towards him.

Isaac ran to his car, lungs burning, without looking back. When he got the chance to sneak a peek through the rearview mirror, there was nothing there but a hulking shadow darker than the night. Terror seized him, and the adrenaline pumping from Isaac’s flight instinct corrupted his short-term memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When his consciousness came back online, he was stopped at a green light. His eyes scanned his surroundings for shadows and street signs. Whether through blind luck, a subconscious desire, or predestination, Isaac found him across the street from Dr. Rousseau’s office. The doctor was in. Isaac could see the soft pink light of the Himalayan sea salt lamp aglow through his second-story office window.

“Well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Dr. Rousseau remarked as Isaac collapsed into the chair in front of his therapist’s desk.

Isaac chuckled, and there was an undercurrent of mania in his laugh. “I’ve had a breakthrough, Doc. I’m insane.” He clapped a hand to his mouth, but it was too late. “Don’t write that part down unless you want to mark that down as a figure of speech.”

“Understood,” Dr. Rousseau came around the desk and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “When was the last time you took your pills?”

“Uh,” Isaac fingered through the files in his memory and returned empty-handed. “I don’t know.”

“Here you go,” Dr. Rousseau rummaged around a pocket before holding out a hand festooned with multi-colored pills. “There’s a Jelly Belly or two in there to help them go down easier,” he warned.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Isaac thanked him as he took the pills without question.

“Might be one of those in there, too, if you’re lucky.” He met Isaac eye-to-eye, “You ready?”

“Ready.”

“Are you steady?”

“Steady,” Isaac fisted the pills down his throat, and dry swallowed. He coughed and coughed and coughed, “I feel better already. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Well, anytime, so long as you’re willing to pay my overtime rates, which is how I will be invoicing this session, by the way.”

“I figured as much,” Isaac said before relaying the story so far to his therapist.

“Wow,” was all Dr. Rousseau could utter at first, busy writing down all the details. Once done, he managed to spit out, “Consider me curious. Do you have any pictures of the cat?”

Isaac unfolded Anne’s flier from his pocket and gave it to him.

Dr. Rousseau examined it. “Hmm. That’s not at all how I envisioned the cat in your script.”

“No? What did you have in mind?”

“Something a little smaller. Do you know Smoothie?”

“Smoothie?”

“It’s an Instagram-famous cat.”

“No, can’t say I’m familiar.”

“Well.”

“...”

“It’s cute. But what I’m trying to say is, how do you know your interpretation of the dream you don’t remember dreaming is factually correct? That logic is tenuous at best if I’m being charitable. Maybe your mind is making leaps and connections that are merely convenient. It’s in the very nature of the human brain to try and organize data and put it into a pattern, even when there is none.”

“I know that.”

“Good. You would do well to remember that.”

“Has Seth mentioned anything good about me to you?” Isaac blurted out.

“He has not, but I expect a formal report from him soon. But, for now, no news is good news.”

Isaac took a relieving breath.

“But, from afar, with your delusions of grandeur aside, I must commend your behavior since your last visit. If what you told me is true, and I’ll have to await Seth’s assessment to know for sure, you’ve done an admirable job at taking positive action to save a cat. If you would consider me an audience member of your life, which I am, I’m invested in seeing you further your progress,” said the therapist.

“I’m glad to hear it. I can imagine the critic reviews of my story already: ‘man looks to save a cat but, in the end, saves himself.’ But I don’t know what to do next.”

“I have an idea,” Dr. Rousseau paused for dramatic effect, “I think you should think about finishing your script.”

“You mean the dream script?”

“The very same,” Dr. Rousseau pressed, “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It kept me up at night. I’ve told you before that I’m a writer, right?”

“Once or twice.”

“Well, I think your script is good, and I’m not telling you as your therapist, but as the guy who worked in the writers’ room of Hawaii 5-0, the one featuring Scott Caan. Have any interest in sending your script around as a spec?”

Dr. Rousseau had a point, Isaac thought. The script had undoubtedly left an impression on both him and the doctor. Maybe it was good. At the very least, it was magic, so he had that going for him. If only he could get on the set of Super Jesus 2, then he’d have a chance to meet the real Super Jesus and get to the bottom of this whole mess with the cat. Maybe this script was his golden ticket. “I did hear they lost their screenwriter,” Isaac stated aloud to pump himself up to the idea. “Maybe this is my second act break.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Dr. Rousseau paused again for emphasis, “I know a guy working on the production of Super Jesus 2.”

“You do?”

“Friend of mine. And I took the liberty to send your script over to him as a sample.”

“You did?”

“He’d like to meet you. And if you’re brought on board, it’ll qualify as gainful employment to the Slytherin Board and the Ministry of Magic.”

Isaac felt his heart pound, and he listened to it, excitedly, thinking back on the teachings of the fake Super Jesus. He was right. Isaac was a good dude, and all his dreams were coming true.