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taizo hori the world knew him as dig dug, but i called him father. he still wore the uniform from his great campaign, years after the last pookah had been popped and he had settled down to raise a family. at the age of four, he took away my doll and put a drill in my hands. he was there at my side when i saved tokyo from the block menace, scowling that the pink and periwinkle uniform - his one concession to my wishes - would be caught on camera for the world. they wanted to know my name, but as i opened my mouth to say "susumu" he nudged me from behind, unseen by the cameras, and hissed, "mr. driller! you're mr. driller!" that night i couldn't sleep - there were dark things moving in the earth - and i rushed to his room, like a child, hoping to wake him. he whipped out his drill, named "kissy" - for my mother - from under the bedcover (i hadn't known it was there) and aimed it, not recognizing me, as if i was some fygar, something he could defeat, not like the creatures who had taken my mother in the depths of some distant world, leaving only a yellow spacesuit - kept in my father's room, perfectly polished - and a man who sleeps with his helmet on. he makes sure the cameras are there on my missions, though i am out of sight within moments, in the womb of the earth, drilling through blocks the colors of my dreams. |