I’m much more intelligence-y than you are, part deux

Today I was making a sandwich – I make the best sandwiches ever – and I stood staring at my ingredients and the kitchen counter for about half an hour. I knew something was missing, but what could it be? I knew it was important, I had the mayonnaise, the ham, the cheese, the lettuce and the basil vinaigrette dressing I always put on.

This dumbfuck forgot that you need bread to make a sandwich. Yeah, much more intelligence-y for sure.

I’m much more intelligence-y than you are

The other day I was reminded of one of the few good memories I have from high school. Not that I have many bad ones, or for that matter, it’s not as if I have many memories of high school in general.

Not that I abused drugs or alcohol or anything.

I swear, for real.

Seriously, honestly and frankly though, I’m more square than a cube, so there wasn’t much of the abusing of mind altering substances.

I spent most of high school avoided situations that would result in a memory. So that ends my digression from the point.

In Grade 10 Social Studies class I had a man named James Sammon as my teacher. Mr. Sammon ended up, for me, being on e of the most influential voices in the developement of my mind. I’m sure at the time he thought that I was just another slacker student, ‘cos frankly, seriously and honestly, I was. But all slacking aside he tought me life’s most important lesson; ‘think for yourself.’

It still took me years to actually comprehend the lesson, but that’s another story about the fact that I’m much more intelligence-y than you are.

Anyways, in that class we had an assignment, we were to create a fake political party with a fake platform and a fake leader and we were going to hold fake elections. We could team up with a partner or go it alone.

I, of course, gave a go at it alone. Because even then I was a sarcastic little smart ass, I decided to create the world’s worst political party. I built up a party based on sterilisation and castration of the handicapped, to maintain a “clean gene pool” and I was going to sanction euthanasia for anyone in their thirties.

An obvious Logan’s Run reference, but nobody seemed to catch it. Nobody really seemed to be bothered by my “Canadian Heritage Front Party,” in fact I ended up getting 2 votes, which I believe put me in third place. Even though the leader of “CHFP” was called the “Great Unseen Leader” and was nothing more than a shadowy figure.

I found it funny at the time. Mr. Sammon was the only one that appeared to get the joke though.

And that concludes today’s episode of “I’m much more intelligence-y than you are.”

Do they put liquid cancer in the drinking water?

It’s February 2006. Let’s see, what happens in February? Not much, except if you’re me, [and I know that you’re not] it means that last February you quit your semi-well paying job and took a year-long self-imposed sabbatical from the human race.

I know that it can be fun, in a holy-crap-i’m-so-blasé way, which in all honesty, ain’t that much fun. So tell me, why did you do such an idiotic and childish thing? Why the introvert façade? What are you doing, trying to hold on to a dream by shutting out reality?

It’s not fooling anyone and it sure as hell ain’t fooling me. Just because you hate yourself doesn’t mean that you can sleep all day.

Stop trying to be me.

My face hurts

I’ve wanted to post another snippet from Shoddy Penmanship for a while, so here it goes.

Planet 86

A loud moan pierced the silence and it was followed shortly by an even louder groan of pain. Damnit did he ever ache. His knees felt as if they were on fire and he had the oddest craving for kosher pickles. He opened his eyes and was blinded by the bright light that filled his vision. He couldn’t remember where he was, who he was or why he was. He rolled into a sitting position and saw that there was a shadow standing above him and he looked up, shielding his eyes from the bright sun.

The shadow eventually came into focus and the man-who-was-a-tad-blank could see it’s lips moving, but all he could hear was his own breathing. The shadow, which the man-who-knew-not-much now saw as a human male, rolled his eyes and reached down and knocked on the man’s helmet. The man-who-was-slightly-vacant just looked up in confusion as the other gestured emphatically and somewhat angrily. When the other reached down and began to pull on the helmet of the man-who-knew-too-little, he backed away in a panic.

The other continued to speak and the man-who-was-now-scared could tell that the other was now screaming at the top of his lungs. In fact the man-who-was-protective-of-his-helmet could make out a few words here and there.
“…you leave… helmet… run out… oxygen you… king moron… breathe planet’s… air,” yelled the other.

The man-who-was-being-yelled at nodded and looked at a read out on his wrist and saw that the yelling one was indeed correct; the air was breathable. He pushed a button on the same wrist panel and his helmet and his suit seemed to melt away from his body into the readout on his arm. He seemed to know immediately that his space suit was made out of nano-technology and that it could be activated and deactivated at a touch. He knew that the computer on his wrist was capable of many things, but he didn’t know how he knew that.

He took his first breath of alien air and felt the reassuring weight of his gun in his hip holster. The other rolled his eyes with a look on his face that seemed to say; “why the panic?”

“I’m Winsome,” he said. “Welcome to Planet 86.”

“I don’t know who I am,” said that man-who-was-surprised-at-understanding-the-other.

“That’s not all that uncommon around here,” said Winsome. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

It was only then that the newcomer noticed that they were in a small town filled with dozens of odd looking beings who all had the same depressed and dejected look on their faces. In some cases, on things that did not look like something that could be called a face. The newcomer’s thought was that they all looked like their parents had left them behind on a family vacation.

He followed Winsome down an alleyway, marvelling at the scope of the town. It was magnificent in its blandness and run-down features. Winsome paused when they come to what the newcomer assumed was the town’s square. A water fountain stood in the middle of the square and it seemed to be churning out mud rather than water. He saw a muscular man sitting on a bench clothed in a red spandex jump suit with “MM” embroidered on his chest. Winsome followed his eyes and saw the man that the newcomer was looking at.

“That’s Mars Man,” he said. “He was created by the same guy that thought you up, for a grade 7 art project, I believe it was. He’s got the usual powers, super strength, speed and the ability to fly and to breathe in outer space, even thought that makes no sense. Pretty standard really.”

“’Mars Man’? That’s the most retarded name I’ve ever heard,” said the newcomer. He didn’t seem to realise that it was only the second name that he had ever heard. The newcomer puckered his brow at the thought of the same guy that had thought up that weirdo in the spandex suit had created him too. He wasn’t what that meant and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Winsome saw the look on his face and smiled.

“His real name is Captain Thomas Howard, astronaut,” said Winsome. After a moments thought he said; “you’re going to need a name, what do you think about Adam?”

“As in Adam and Eve?”

“Hell no, as in Adam Baldwin of Adam Baldwin fame. He’s got his own statue and everything. He’s like a god in this galaxy.”

The newcomer liked the way that that sounded and accepted the moniker with a nod and a smile.

“You can smile. That’s good, full range of emotions? That’s more than a lot of people can say around here, isn’t it Mars Man?”
Winsome looked over at Mars Man who responded with a sneer.

“He can only feel anger and rage and fury and wrath.” Winsome lowered his voice to a conspiring level. “You know, the guy that thought the two of you up is a real menace. We’ve got almost half a province full of his half-assed creations and the porn galaxy has a full parsec. He can’t seem to follow through on anything.”

“What does that mean, our ‘creator’?” Adam asked, dismissing Mars Man’s emotional issues. His happiness over being named was replaced with his previous feeling of confusion.

“Ah yes, my usual speech. There’s this planet called Earth, heard of it?”

“That’s where I was born.”

“Wrong. You were never born. Every time that a member of Earth’s indigenous population creates a fictional character he or she pops into existence in this universe. There’s a galaxy for every genre. Two galaxies over is ‘classic literature,’ its full of Jane Austin characters and tea and crumpets. You following?”

Adam just stared at Winsome.

“It’s like an intergalactic library without a librarian or readers. This galaxy is the science-fiction galaxy and this solar system is for the ideas that didn’t pan out; the failed creations.”

“Failed creations?”

“Every time that someone writes up or thinks up a character and gives up on him or her, they pop up here, or on one of the other planets in this system. Come on.”

Winsome gestured and led Adam into a building next to the mud fountain and Adam saw a mass of what looked like yarn, that was vaguely shaped like a person.

“This guy,” said Winsome, “was thought up by a physicist. He was going to be the world’s first superhero whose powers were based on string theory. His powers are an uncanny ability to be… all stringy, I guess. String-a-ling here’s creator was killed in a car crash before finishing him. So, he was sent here, with the rest of us failings. Get it?”

“So I’m not real?” inquired Adam after a moment’s pause.

“Oh no, you’re real, you’re just fictional. One hell of an existential complex isn’t it?”

“So, if we’re real, and yet we’re not, is it even possible for us to die?” asked Adam, not believing a word of Winsome’s whimsical tale.

“Oh yeah, but remember, creation and art are fickle mistresses. It’s rare for a new idea to come along anymore. Let’s say that Mars Man there eats a bad oyster and croaks, well, there’s this magical place on Earth called ‘California’. It’s like our heaven, or more accurately, our version of reincarnation. Except it’s more of a regurgitation than a reintegration. You may cease to exist out here, but sooner or later a new version of what is essentially you will pop back into existence. Sometimes the new version is better than the old, but more often then not, the new version is more of a shell.”

“This is bullshit,” said Adam, turning and walking out the door. Winsome watched him leave and shook his head.

“You’re catching on,” called out Winsome after Adam, “everything here is bullshit. This whole concept of reality is based solely on how our creators conceive their own existence. Do you think that if we could shape out own lives we’d be hanging around this desert? No, we would build ships and we would fly away from here to better places, have adventures, but it isn’t in out nature, it isn’t our purpose. We are here because we are here. That’s it, that’s all there is.”

Adam kept his back to Winsome, not daring to face him as he spewed out Adam’s worst fear. Life for life’s sake wasn’t really life, but what else could there be? He had no purpose other than to exist. He had knowledge but he had no memory.

“You seem to have all the answers,” he said with a touch of resentment in his voice.

“I was created by an anal-retentive number-cruncher with self-esteem issues,” answered Winsome. “Why else do you think I’m called ‘Winsome’? ‘Charming or attractive’ that’s how the Collins dictionary defines me. I’ve got a seamlessly unending repertoire of knowledge and the ability to gain new knowledge without even knowing that it exists. I know everything that there is to know. I’m like God, except without the whole omnipresent and omnipotent thing.”

Winsome stepped up next to Adam and put an arm around his shoulder.

“Come on, I’ll show you a place where you can stay.”
It took a long time, maybe it was years, but eventually Adam decided that he didn’t like this existence. He didn’t like the fact that he existed only to exist. There had to be more to this reality than what was plainly available. Winsome visited him occasionally, when he wasn’t doing his tour guide routine with the newcomers.

Adam stared at the newcomers with the same vacant stare that he had seen in the eyes of the other inhabitants when he had first arrived. It brought him a sick sense of comfort to reciprocate the feeling at the new arrivals. He never shaved but he had a permanent five o’clock shadow. He never felt hungry or thirsty or tired, though he did eat and drink and sleep. But he knew that if he stopped doing these things it wouldn’t kill him. Winsome had told him that the suicide rate among the new arrivals was a high as “fifty percent within the first week” of what passed as time around the desert. There was a night time, but it was the same as the daytime and even though the sun went down, Adam had a hard time differentiating between the two.

Winsome told him that eventually he would remember his creator and that he would gain some sort of insight into who or what he was. He also warned Adam that regardless of the knowledge of what he would uncover, it wouldn’t be anything new, and it would only be what already existed in his mind. He would find some part of his creator within himself, some personality trait or habit. He found that it was a smoking habit, provided by a pack of cigarettes that he found in his jacket’s inner pocket, a pack that seemed to be perpetually full.

He occasionally sat on the bench next to Mars Man in the town square, playing round after round of ‘rock, paper scissors.’ Winsome would watch the two of them with an amused smile on his face. Mars Man seemed to do everything ‘angrily’ with his motivation being ‘anger.’ It was as if he was a tortured being with an unrelenting rage inside at being wronged and a drive to right all the wrongs but instead he was relegated to sitting on a bench in the middle of nowhere twenty-four hours a day.

“I’m a cliché,” seethed Mars Man one afternoon after losing another round of ‘rock, paper scissors.’ He always played ‘rock,’ as if he was unable to do anything with his hand other than to make a fist. But it was him that continually demanded a rematch with Adam. Adam wasn’t sure how to answer him, so he went with ‘scissors’ on their next round. Mars Man looked as if he was furious at winning.

A loud boom, something that Adam immediately recognised as the sonic boom of a spacecraft entering a planet’s atmosphere, interrupted their next round. Mars Man growled upon hearing it and Winsome stood straight up, a look of half panic in his eyes. Adam looked around and saw that the population was scattering, shutting themselves inside the buildings.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his right hand instinctively resting on the butt o his holstered gun.

“Badgers,” replied Mars Man with his usual rasp.

“Reavers?”

“Badgers,” said Winsome, drawing out each syllable of the word ‘Badger’ as though he was speaking to a child.

“Burrowing rodents?” asked Adam with a laugh.

“No idiot,” Winsome’s voice now had a hint of terror. “Badgers, as in those who ‘mock or annoy’ as the Collins dictionary defines them.”

“Interstellar insult comics?” Adam didn’t understand what the big deal was. Winsome hadn’t told him about the Badgers. Badgers were residents of the galaxy that were complete. Characters, whose creators had created a full history for, completed their story, characters whose makers had not given up on. Winsome explained it as fast as he could as he led Adam to shelter. Every door they came to they found were locked or barricaded from the inside.

“We’re The Partials. The Completes inhabit the rest of the galaxy, outside of our solar system. The Completes and The Partials, funny right?”

“Funny.”

“Right. The Completes mostly stick with their own ‘verses, their own counterparts in whatever book, television series or movie they belong to. Some intermingle.”

Adam drew his gun and looked at Winsome with a gesture of his gun, silently asking him if he had a weapon. Winsome shook his head negative.

“Mostly everyone gets along,” Winsome said as they continued on, “though you can imagine there are an infinite amount of points of view and an infinite amount of reasons to fight. Every ‘verse or reality has its versions of bad guys and good guys and the bad guys do their usual bad guy business and the good guys do their good guy stuff. The galaxy is pretty much divided down that line, good and evil, each one within their own world, interacting with each other, fighting along side each other and against each other.”
Adam frowned as he pushed futilely against another door and turned to Winsome.

“I don’t think I’m following you,” he said.

“For example, Darth Vader and his Imperial Stormtroopers fought along side the Cylons and the Romulan Empire against The United Federation of Planets, who fought along side the Twelve Colonies and the Rebel Alliance. Good versus evil. If there ever was a universal constant, that’s it. Get it?”

Adam nodded.

“Boomer’s hot.”

Winsome stopped in his tracks and look sideways at Adam with his eyebrows raised.

“Original Battlestar Galactica or the Re-Imagined Battlestar Galactica?” he asked.

“Oh, Re-Imagined Battlestar Galactica, totally,” replied Adam, maybe a touch too quickly. A moment of awkward silence befell the two as they searched for a hiding place and Adam felt that he needed to have more clarification.

“So, where do the Badgers come in?” he asked as Winsome nodded and
pointed towards a staircase that led up to a clock tower.

“Of all the parties that remain neutral, the ones that do their own thing, some band together to exercise their superiority fixation. They come here and shove the fact that they’re full beings into our faces. Sometimes, most times, they stay for weeks, ransacking the place, blowing up buildings, killing us. Generally acting like cliché bad guys.”

“Nobody fights back?” asked Adam, taking the steps two at a time.

“It’s not our place to fight back,” said Winsome, a touch of sorrow in his voice.

They reached the top without speaking another word and Adam kicked the door in and cleared it, gun in front as he did. He supposed that he was meant to be some sort of intergalactic marine, or something similar. He looked out the clock tower’s window and as he holstered his gun he was that the Badger’s ship had landed and its crew of a half dozen men was heading towards the town’s square, firing their weapons – a particle, laser and gunpowder arsenal – randomly into the buildings. Anybody that was unlucky enough to be caught outside was gunned down.

Adam looked around and it was only now that he noticed that Mars
Man was not with them.

“Where’s Howard?” he asked, turning around to face Winsome. Winsome pointed out the window and Adam followed his finger and saw Mars Man sitting on the bench in the town’s square.

“He’s going to get himself killed, “ said Winsome softly, with a shake of the head. Adam spun; turning to walk out the door and Winsome grabbed him by the arm tightly.

“If you go after him, you’ll die.”

Adam watched helplessly as the six Badgers leisurely surrounded Mars Man in a half circle, their weapons trained on him. One of the six stepped forward, Adam assumed he was their leader, and slapped Mars Man brutally across the face. As if on cue the six holstered their guns and drew cudgels from identical sheaths on their backs. Adam struggled against Winsome’s solid grip as the Badgers began to beat Captain Thomas Howard brutally. Mars Man just sat there, taking every hit without raising a hand in his defence.

Adam let out a snarl and re-drew his gun and shoved it into Winsome’s temple.

“Let me go,” he said quietly and Winsome had no doubt that he would pull the trigger if he didn’t let him go. Adam pushed pass Winsome and rushed out the door as Winsome stared after him. He leapt down the stairs as quickly as he could and when he reached the ground floor he took off in a full sprint towards the town’s square.

****

It’s a little bit of a bizarre concept, one that I’ve had kicking around for over a year. Conceptionally it was originally a first person narrative from the point of view of a character who knows that he’s a fictional character and hates his creator [i.e. me]. But it was too self-deprecating, to the point of being self-serving.

The idea stuck with me and I eventually decided to blend it with another idea I had about an astronaut who crashes on an alien world and finds out that every single science-fiction cliché is a reality on that planet.

This is only the first draft of ‘Planet 86’ and I plan on re-writing it quite a bit. The first of many changes will be changing the character ‘Winsome’ from male to female. I feel that ‘Winsome’ is a more feminine name than a masculine. Besides, Winsome’s too smart to be male.

Mars Man was really a comic book hero that I made up for a grade 7 art project. The name “Mars Man” is absolutely absurd, to the point of nearly being camp. It wasn’t intended to be camp when I made him up. Hey, I was 12 at the time. I plan on using his superhero name far less often in future drafts, just because it looks and sounds ridiculous.