Humans

They were talking about global warming on the news again. The last segment was about a hurricane. Little Billy flipped the channel only to find a documentary on obesity. Turning to the newspaper he found headlines of natural disasters, murders, suicides and general portents of doom. Even the Internet didn’t have any words of comfort. The message was clear: the end is coming. He must prepare for the worst.

And so it was on a rather mundane Thursday that Little Billy contacted the local human trafficking agency and placed an order for a portly Asian man of non-specific nationality. The agency in question prided itself of prompt service, the result of which being that Little Billy found himself with a new neighbour a few hours later.

The Asian gentlemen was perhaps the most confused. He’d answered an advert in the local newspaper (of his country) for a position as a foot model. Strangers had often stared at his toes which he took to mean something praiseworthy; it had never occurred to him that flip-flops were hardly considered suitable attire for accountants in large corporations. Nevertheless, he appeared for the photo shoot promptly and was conked on the head with a large frying pan and shipped to a foreign land. He awoke bound and gagged in the living room of an old house. The would-be modelling agents towered over him and instructed him – on pain of death – to eat well, forget about exercising, never leave the house and never open the curtains, all of which the plump man was most willing to do. The kitchen was exceptionally well stocked after all.

Armageddon arrived not long after. And as Little Billy predicted chaos ensued. Riding his tricycle through the city, Little Billy observed people running through the streets killing everything in sight, and nuclear explosions in the distance signalled the beginning of the demise of the human race. As the days wore on, the stench of death filled the air. The dead bodies of all living things – humans, plants and animals – littered the streets. Before long, nuclear winter had consumed the planet and threatened to last a millennium. All was doomed.

The doorbell rang and the now substantially portlier Asian man waddled to answer it. He’d never had a visitor and was rather anxious to find out what all the ruckus outside was about. Also, Winter seemed to be carrying on much longer than usual and like all people, he desperately had the urge to say to another person: “Cold isn’t it?”. He opened the door as widely and as welcomingly as he possibly could and stared out at the remains of a fallen planet. Before even registering the devastation that lay before him, Little Billy jabbed the portly gentleman in his sizeable belly with a stun gun and turned the setting to high.

It was difficult getting a good fire stared but Little Billy managed it after a few tries. The portly man woke to find himself once again bound and gagged, this time to a large metal pole. Little Billy hadn’t bothered shaving the man; the fire would remove the hair anyway. Skipping to the kitchen, Little Billy returned with a bowl of marinade after adding some potato chips to the pan on the stove. He gently lowered the pole over the fire, slowly and steadily rotating it to allow for even cooking. It was his very last meal at the end of the world, and he planned to savour it.

Le Bunny

Le Bunny took a long drag of his cigarette and turned up the volume on the CD player, the wind blowing through his fur as he sped down the suburban back-roads. The effect certainly had the potential to be uber cool had there actually been a CD in the player – and if anyone asked why he was listening to nothing at the loudest possible setting, he would have spouted on about the frivolous and arbitrary nature of popular culture, and how he would much rather be a non conformist. The truth however was that his hearing had deteriorated considerably and he considered “philosophical rebel” to be a much cooler social status than “deaf bunny”, but he would never admit it. He pressed the accelerator and watched the speedometer inch higher when rather suddenly, he ran over quite a large speed bump. Looking in the rear view mirror, Le Bunny saw a little boy lying spread-eagled in the middle of the road, apparently dead.

Le Bunny brought the car to a screeching halt, his heart pounding. The boy in the rear view mirror still hadn’t moved; he was definitely dead. He considered calling the police, but there was no explaining why a bunny was driving a car. “Yes officer, I locked my owner in the cage and force fed him lettuce and carrots until he exploded. Then I borrowed the keys to the family car. The fat git had it coming.” He knew if told the truth he’d fry. Then probably be served with a side of baked potato and mushroom sauce. The thought of it made him lick his lips, it had been a while since he’d eaten. Regrettable though it was, he would have to quickly leave the scene. He hadn’t meant to run over the child, but he couldn’t face these consequences so soon after he’d won his freedom. He shamefully pressed the accelerator again and cast one last fleeting look in the mirror. The boy was gone.

Little Billy’s parents always told him that much more could be achieved by being polite. “Good manners”, they said, “will earn you the respect you deserve”. And so Little Billy had asked the voices in his head (yet again) to please stop telling him to do bad things. He’d always asked politely but they never seemed to listen, and so it was on an otherwise normal Tuesday that Little Billy attempted to silence them once and for all by stabbing them with a fork. Fortunately his parents were much too miserly to purchase good cutlery and the damage to his head was minimal. Feeling rather despondent, he strolled down the road – the fork still sticking out of his head – when he saw, quite oddly, a bunny driving a sports car with the most extraordinary music playing at full volume. He ran towards the car to waved frantically for the bunny to stop, but the voices had told him to stand in the middle of the road while waving and moments later, Little Billy had the most spectacular view of wheels running over his face. The voices chuckled for a bit as he lay there unconscious, poking fun at the expressions he made while being run over, then decided it was time for a late lunch.

Le Bunny sped onto the motorway and followed the quickest road out of town, hoping to leave behind the dreadful memories of his time there. He refused to look into that rear view mirror; he knew that would only make him remember. He didn’t want to remember. The speedometer refused to go any higher, the car raced forward as fast as it possibly could. Despite every attempt not to, Le Bunny glanced at the rear view mirror and Little Billy smiled from the back seat, the fork still sticking out of his head. The car swerved out of control, Le Bunny panicking at the wheel, causing the vehicle to flip over time and time again, the voices in Little Billy’s head screaming with laughter as loud as they could and enjoying the ride.

The engine caught fire shortly after the car came to a halt slowly sizzling Le Bunny’s thigh. Little Billy calmly climbed out of the passenger window, remarkably unharmed. He quickly dislodged the fork from his head and aimed it at the grilled thigh. No sense in wasting a good bunny.

Skeletor

He-Man was one of my favourite cartoons back in the 1980s. Of course back then every cartoon was my favourite and little has changed since, but I digress. He-Man was the hero of that particular cartoon and as all heroes do he had an arch rival, a loathsome troublemaker named Skeletor who, as you might have guessed, is the subject of this article.

There comes a time in peoples lives when they feel the urge to settle down and replicate themselves. It has something to do with biological clocks; I suspect mine is faulty. So one bright sunny Sunday – I’m stating Sunday as though this is fact when really, this is just a guess – one bright Sunday a little bouncing baby boy is born to two loving parents and they feel their lives have instantly changed for the better. They adore their little bundle of joy and shower him with love and affection. And decide to name him Skeletor.

Really, what chance did poor little Skeletor have? From the get-go the child was being subconsciously programmed to be evil. His life would start out fine, and he would learn to respond to the name Skeletor. Later, while still a very young child he would learn about skeletons. Skeletons are a bad sign; pirates use the skull and cross bones to warn peace loving folk they’re about to have an unpleasant day. When people die, their flesh rots away until all that’s left are their skeletons. Serial killers murder their victims and the news loves showing the remains of the poor victims’ skeletons if the opportunity arises.

And in the middle of all this turmoil sits innocent little Skeletor. Skeleton. Skeletor. He was bound to notice the resemblance sooner or later. He was named after all things unpleasant; after death, pain and suffering. So despite growing up in a loving, nurturing environment, when faced with one of those few critical, life altering decisions we all face at one time or another, it should come as little surprise that Skeletor chose the path less followed and rebeled against the hero rather than chose to be the hero himself.

On some random Thursday – and once again this is a guess, the actual events may just as likely have occurred on a Monday – on some random Thursday little Skeletor arrives home after ballet class and informs his parents that he’d like to be ruler of the universe when he grows up. Consequently, rather than be a productive member of society – an accountant or something of the sort – he would much rather dominate all life and exact harsh retribution against all those who dare to oppose him. And if possible he’d like to begin his career by microwaving the family cat.

Naturally his parents would be devastated; their hopes of him attending some prestigious university dashed in an instant. They would likely try to convince him that being evil isn’t, well, good, which little Skeletor would see as opposition to his plans of domination and would thus result in the untimely elimination of his parents; a social faux pas of the highest order.

And so Skeletor’s life would slowly snowball into oblivion. Society would attempt to exact vengeance upon him for dispatching his parents which would make him an outcast. His only friends would likely be chosen from those handed a similar lot in life and Skeletor’s criminal career would formally being, and soon be a thing of legend.

It’s little wonder then that Skeletor was He-Man’s nemesis. And quite frankly, with a name like Skeletor, what else might one expect?

Meeting Meat

I was riding to work early the other day when a few places in front of me was a van belonging to a wholesale butchery called “Meet the Meat”. It was one of the funniest names I’ve ever heard of, and serves as the inspiration for this little story.

One might easily imagine a dark alley; the kind typically associated with shady drug deals and spicy Korean food. The patter of hooves could be heard in the distance, each one bringing the beast closer. Standing under a street light, a sheep glanced cautiously from one side to the other ensuring he’s alone. He wore an Armani suit, minus the pants of course. Stylish dark glasses told casual observers both that he’s up to date with the latest trends and that money really is no object. In one hand he carried a leather briefcase, a clear sign he’s indifferent to the suffering of his cow cousins. Confident he’s not being followed, he stepped into the blackness and knocked on a door at the far end.

The door opened silently and the sheep stepped into a darkened room. He wasn’t nervous; everything had been prearranged. The door shut silently behind him and a soft click informed him that he’s now locked in. The lights flickered briefly before illuminating the room, a bare dank hovel with little more than a table and 2 chairs.

Little Billy sat at the far end of the table. Also an Armani fan, his appearance was quite striking, though much of the casual effect he’d hoped to achieve was lost when one noticed his feet were nowhere close to touching the floor. The sheep sat opposite him and for a moment they stared one another in the eye. Without a word, the sheep placed the briefcase on the table and pulled out several papers. Little Billy scanned the documents briefly and smiled. Everything was in order. Little Billy removed a slip of paper from the inner lining of his jacket and slid it across the table. The sheep did not seem pleased but nodded curtly, indicating his consent.

They rose quietly and headed to the next room. Condiments lined the shelf covered walls and a heated pan lay in the middle of the blackened coal stove. The calm lining of the sheep’s face began to crack and for the first time he seemed to be little more than a frightened sheep, not the cool, calm and collected businessman the world saw. Wrapping a towel underneath his arms (or forelegs you prefer), the sheep turned his back to Little Billy and, while trying to preserve what little dignity of his remained, he removed all traced of wool from his body. Little Billy retrieved a fork and knife from a nearby cabinet and pondered for a moment over whether mustard would suit the occasion better than the conventional Worcester sauce. Eyeing a juicy thigh, he decided both would be required, but for different courses.

A harsh bleating pierced the still night air. The sizzle and smell of fresh meat whet the appetite of passers by, rousing their carnivorous instincts, making them yearn for flesh. And Little Billy ate wholesomely before drifting off to a peaceful sleep.

Magic

Little Billy waved his magic wand reciting the incantation that had saved Harry Potter from the dementors so many times before, yet for all his practice, nothing happened. He’d read all the books and watched the movies, he’d studied the folk lore are memorised all the spells that made Harry Potter and his friends heroes of the wizarding world, but after much tireless effort Little Billy seemed no closer to casting his first spell. And time was running out.

The school yard bully had challenged Little Billy to a pistol duel at high noon on the third Wednesday after the Winter solstice. Little Billy wasn’t quite sure when that was precisely, but was assured by his friends that he would be dead before the end of the week. Being a practical sort of chap Little Billy assumed the bully was exaggerating, but his doubt effortlessly dissipated on Tuesday at high noon, when a pistol duel in the playground resulted in the untimely death of a student.

The entire affair seemed rather odd quite frankly. Little Billy had woken early that Tuesday morning, readied himself for school as usual, kissed his mother goodbye and headed off to catch the school bus. Lessons were as boring as ever followed by lunch; a little before midday. All the kids headed to the playground when suddenly the school bully announced the duel would take place for “grievous and unjustified insult cast against his God fearing soul.” The children had stopped their games and rather confused by the accusation but excited nonetheless, they quickly gathered to observe this new development.

Shackled and obviously terrified, a little girl of perhaps 9 or 10 years old was being led by the art teacher to the middle of the playground. She quickly turned her head left and right, her gaze darting to each of the children staring curiously at her. When without warning she hurled insult after filthy insult at the crowed, damning them to eternal hell fire in language to make sailors blush and spitting furiously at all within her range. Her brown tongue snaked out from between her rotten teeth and even from a distance she reeked of an odour so foul it evaded all description.

On seeing the poor wretch, Little Billy could not help wondering how this all came to be. After all, he’d finger painted with the little girl just a few minutes ago and she seemed perfectly normal. Being the curious sort he was, he asked a nearby teacher to explain this sudden and rather unexpected turn of events, but was told to “let not the evil ways cloud thy judgement. She be of heinous upbringing, and deserveth is she of the cleansing torment of death. Heil Bully. He is the way.” And once again, the medieval rantings and 18^th century attire of the school staff didn’t quite fit with this time or place, but not wanting to be an unnecessary bother, Little Billy helped himself to a handful of rotten vegetables (which were suddenly available in wooden pails when he’d turned around), and joined the rest of the crowd in pelting the evil child.

It was only a few minutes before she’d been ushered to the middle of the playground where the school bully leaned casually against the see saw, picking last night’s supper from his teeth with a sharpened chicken bone. He stood a little over 6 feet tall and bore battle scars from the various wars he’d served in. Playground gossip said he’d been forced to leave school early and before long was recruited into the Gulf war back in the early nineties. He’d later served as a mercenary in South America and finally got into drug trafficking for the Columbian cartels. It was only a year ago he’d decided to pick up the tattered remains of his life and live on the straight and narrow, starting by continuing his education. But having never completed primary school, he was forced to continue his schooling in Little Billy’s grade.

The righteous headmaster served as mediator. The little girl was handed a water pistol; after all, the school took the safety of its pupils very seriously. The bully was allowed to choose from a selection of well maintained automatic weapons and settled on two AK-47s and a few hand grenades. Technically he also carried a hunting knife which gave him an advantage, but the headmaster ruled he could keep it, but would not be allowed to use it unless the knife was thrown. Civilised conduct prohibited both hand-to-hand combat and close range stabbing.

Standing back to back, the little girl and bully took 10 paces away from one another, pistols in hand. With the crowd watching nervously, the headmaster instructed they turn and fire.

It was a close thing, but the bully had proven the better. The little girl’s body was buried on consecrated ground and she was marked absent for the remainder of the school year. She never did progress to the next grade, and served as a constant reminder to all students of the danger of absenteeism.

Little Billy wasn’t quite sure what it was that he’d done to insult the bully, or when for that matter, but the gun smugglers were delivering another shipment as school ended for the day and the school gardener was seen collecting the less edible vegetables. The woodwork teacher smiled at Little Billy before measuring his height, then worked vigilantly on the coffin. More than a tad worried, Little Billy returned home and explained the situation to his parents who simply stated that “fair is fair”, to which Little Billy had no response.

And so, after learning little from the Chuck Norris marathon on television, Little Billy turned his thoughts to the boy wizard who’d suffered so much and triumphed against all odds and placed his last hopes on magic. His eyes closed wearily repeating yet another incantation, dreading the coming day.