After Life

It was the first time in journalism history that the headlines were written with glitter. The expensive kind. Newspapers the world over spared no expense spreading the joyous news to the public; financial difficulty be damned. And the public rejoiced, they ran screaming in the streets, tears of joy and relief pouring down their faces. Every news station on television and radio, every newspaper, every Internet feed reported the very same thing:

Little Billy was dead. Nobody was quite sure how it happened, but as a rather guilty looking man threw a frisbee off an exceptionally high cliff in an attempt to persuade his neighbour’s annoying chihuahua to get better acquainted with the local sealife, he noticed the well preserved body of a little boy floating vertically in the ocean. After a rather frantic call to the coast guard – who, it bears mentioning were unamused by the chihuahua’s background commentary – a search and rescue team confirmed the death of the well known anti-hero. They considered being mournful for a shade longer than two moments, then whipped out the balloons.

Death, for those who have not vacationed there previously, is followed by a view of a long tunnel with a bright light at the end. After walking through the tunnel one enters an elevator with no buttons. Good people are gently raised to heaven. The bad are raised as well, but only as a joke. Once their spirits are sufficiently lifted the floor of the elevator disappears and perdition takes over.

Little Billy, oddly enough, found himself at the back of a long queue of people waiting to enter heaven. The administrative staff at heaven’s door were processing a huge backlog of the recently deceased. Suffice it to say that Little Billy was quite busy during his last days. Nonetheless, he did qualify for entry into heaven, for the laws of entry contained a loophole which he qualified to exploit: children are technically considered “innocent” and are granted entry regardless of their mistakes.

The scene was less than pleasant. While nobody wished to risk their entry to paradise by causing a fuss, almost everyone seemed intent on ensuring Little Billy got a hairy eyeball full of their most nasty stare. Little Billy however, quite unaffected by the glares of his more recent victims smiled serenely at each glowering face, often greeting them by name and asking if the knife in the back was really as painful as it looked, or reminding them just how delicious they tasted with the right combination of condiments.

The queue slowly shortened bringing Little Billy ever closer to the gates he so dearly desired entry into when finally, after what seemed like an eternity in his breathless anticipation, he found himself face to face with a rather sour looking doorman who seemed none too thrilled with allowing Little Billy passage. He examined Little Billy’s file and scanned and rescanned the regulations hoping against hope that some by-law perhaps had been passed recently which would work in favour of heaven’s inhabitants, but to no avail. And finding none, he unwillingly stepped aside revealing behind him, the beauty of paradise.

And there they stood. Santa with his crowbar standing beside Rudolph holding a flame thrower and eagerly awaiting Little Billy’s arrival. The tooth fairy carried a butcher’s spoon, very large and very blunt so as to really hurt when cutting through bone. And behind them stood an army of cows, udders at the ready, waiting with mad, gleeful expressions on their faces for their tormentor’s arrival. Little Billy’s victims gathered in their vast numbers, each seeking their heavenly wedgie of retribution.

Little Billy smiled his most delicious smile; the one his soon-to-be persecutors were all too familiar with, and a shadow of doubt crept over the waiting horde. He smiled serenely, looking left and right at the angry but confused faces staring back at him, then turned and ran as fast as his little legs would carry him towards the elevator, the armies of heaven pouring out in their multitude behind him, pitchforks ready and torches lit. Little Billy hammered at the closed doors, kicking and screaming for them to open; Santa almost at his back, the rest of the crowd a field length behind. And fate – glorious fate – shone down upon the little anti-hero once more. The elevator doors parted to reveal a kindly old gentleman, a look of sheer relief on his face for the eternal bliss awaiting him. Little Billy ducked to the ground tripping up Santa, causing him to crash into the old man. Little Billy grabbed the crowbar and stomped on Santa’s jolly belly time and time again until finally, with Santa screaming for Rudolph to use the flame thrower and end his misery, the floor gave way. Little Billy clutched onto Santa’s beard and rode the fat man down the elevator shaft, leaping off at the door to the tunnel and prying them open with Santa’s crowbar of doom. The crowd screamed their rage from above and Little Billy, the smile never leaving his face, caught a whiff of flame grilled Santa before speeding down the tunnel, back the way he came.

The cemetery was cold and dank, a heavy frost settling on the graves, soaking the ground. An ever louder crumbling noise shook the night air and the plump grounds keeper peered into the darkness for the source of the disturbance. He neared the grave of the infamous boy so despised by so many and for a moment, he felt a pang of sympathy for the deceased child who, despite all the wrong he may have done was, after all, just a child. Little Billy’s hand leapt out from the grave and grabbed the grounds keeper’s leg, clutching on with a vice grip. The poor man screamed blue murder into the thin air where not a soul heard his pleas for help. And Little Billy crawled back to life, that most delicious smile on his face, the grounds keeper at hand and just a hint of flame grilled Santa dizzying his senses.

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.