Finding Sheep
- by TC Lai 9th August 2019
When Mary woke one morning and found a sheep missing, she was distraught. It was Tony, her favourite one. Although he was more like a wolf in sheep's skin, she liked the way he played rough with her...biting her, pawing her. - It all so titillating! No doubt she liked her other sheep too but only when she was feeling delicate and girly, especially after hanging out with Bo Beep. But it was Tony and his animal ways that got her "excited".
Presently, she went over to Jack (of the Beanstalk tale) house to enquire. She found him busy as usual counting beans. Jack was secretly in love with Mary but was so shy he kept his feelings bottled up inside. So guarded was he that when he beamed to see Mary, all she saw was a face as blank as a new accounting book. The fact of the matter was Jack desired very much to create a future with Mary. And as with all reliable men in this state of mind, he made plans. One plan was to use a fraction of his vast bean wealth and sleek magic marketing skills to start a business building and renting out grain silos. It's the real estate part of the grain commodity business that's seldom spoken of.
Building a grain silo was plenty easy in this rather dry climate. It's exactly like placing a tin can over a big fan underneath and topping it off with a cone. The fan would both ventilate and dry the beans when needed. And with his innovation: a jack-up construction method, a silo could be built in a single day. It could even be moved if need be given its light sheet metal construction. Jack could even use one to house his own beans and speculate on their future.
To Jack, it was a solid win-win plan and he was mightily pleased. Mary would also be pleased. So pleased she'd swoon over and fall into his arms. She would birth out three kids right there and then.
"Jack?" Mary said, with a wave of her hand. Jack broke from his revelry and nodded, sheepishly. If only Mary knew what was on his mind! But plainly he spoke.
"No, I don't believe I've seen Tony. Maybe wait a day or two when the moon is full. He'll run out and howl."
"Should I check with Red?" asked Mary. Red was the town's girl who liked to wear gothic make-up and a red riding hood. The look she was going for was "bad-ass rapper with philo cred". Mostly, she ended up looking like a drug user. Old people avoided her. The riding hood was a gift from her grandma who lived in the forest and Red clung to it like an orphan with an only blanket.
"No use, I think. She is always into those magic mushrooms she finds in the forest. And I can bet she couldn't even tell a wolf from her grandma on any given day!" said Jack, his face still a mask despite the exclamation mark. Jack was never one to judge. But some beans just need to be sorted, is what he thought.
Jack had once thought of dating Red, the only other girl around his age. But with the kind of business he was in, Red was not the most auspicious girl to consider, even to marry. His parents would likely object and his business might also suffer. So he kept his distance from the girl but secretly wished she would spank him or something. Oh, so gothic! Oh, so mysterious! Even bean counters have their fantasies! But red was a color bad for the books, and his business was hard fought for. He had to go to great heights to kill a giant!
Next, Mary went to check with the other Jack who was a professional jumper. But the townsfolk said he had jumped over one too many candlesticks and was now bedded in the ICU when a fay candlestick reached out and snuck itself into his rectum. Further rumors indicted Lumiere, the candlestick (from Chateau De Chambord where a not-so-handsome beast once lived) who was probably "turned" by the not-so-closet clock fella whom Disney had decided to turn gay. Sort of like the sly way The Children's Workshop went about with Ernie and Bert back in the 70s. "How DO YOU GET to Sesame Street?..." was something many gay folks tried but got nowhere.
Mary then stood at the street corner wondering what to do next. A carriage came by and splashed kerb water all over her. This made Mary cry and the carriage soon stopped a short distance away. Out stepped a fine young lady in glass slippers. Cinderella.
The moment she took a second step, Cinderella fell to her bottom. Thankfully her full skirt saved her from a harsh landing on the cobblestones - her slippers less so. They catapulted from her feet and landed hard; one of them anyways. It shattered into a million pieces of crystal shards and then disappeared into thin air with a fancy "pinnng". The other slipper fell onto a bundle of the day's FairyTimes and was thus saved.
At all this, Mary cried harder. Hearing her wail, Cinderella cried too and in total embarrassment, scrambled quickly back into her carriage. Oh, what will her fairy godmother think? First day out and she couldn't even take care of her special footwear. How will she trust her using them again and at that all important royal ball later? Thinking of this, Cinderella cried even harder and hoped her effort would attract the attention of her fairy godmother. It worked the last time.
However, this very afternoon, her fairy godmother was away gossiping at a nail salon run by a gaggle of Filipinas. They were telling her how a place of theirs such as Marawi could use a little of her magic. Fairy Godmother nodded but did not commit.
Not far away, a handsome prince saw all that and went over to pick up the remaining glass slipper. He set his jaw tight and determined to find out who that pretty girl was who hurt her hinny. He loved the way her beauty was further enhanced by her pained expression. Actually he was not a prince but baron. A rich baron by the family name of Grey. (I apologise. By fairytale conventions, he has to be of some royal title. Bluff one also nebermind).
The baron paid no attention to Mary, whose looks were actually not bad. But she was more kawaii then stunner. More sheep than doe. More rabbit than alpaca. More...you get the picture.
A gentleman in a cap and cape walked by. He was also smoking a pipe and went by the name Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. He and the other spy gentleman were the same, always introducing themsleves this way. Bond. James Bond. As if offering their first names first was too pedestrian. How annoying!
Holmes surveyed the scene in front of him and decided it was all too illogical and turned away. Fairy tales, all bollocks! Where's the logic? Where's the commonsense?
But Mary recognised him and tugged at his coattails.
"Mr Holmes, you have to help me. I am missing Tony!"
Holmes turned around and sneered. But he softened when he realised she was not a street urchin (given the muddied state Mary was in) but the Little Match Girl.
"Darling, why are you still in this state? What happened to the five hundred quid I gave you the last time? Did someone rob you? Did the matron at the orphanage waste it all on her secret mahjong sessions? Tell me!"
"I..I...bought some sheep and took lessons from the Little Bo Beep academy. I did not disappoint you, Mr Holmes. I left the streets and upgraded myself, as you have lectured. You said it is not 'Opportunities that maketh the man'," but that 'Man maketh the opportunities'. I took it to heart Mr Holmes. And you were right too that lighters would soon replace matches. And cheap. No one could a good fortune from them except arsonists scamming insurance companies. And the profit margins you mentioned...."
Before Mary could go on, Holmes tapped his pipe on her head. It brought her nervous chatter to an instant stop.
"Now what is this Tony business? I hope he is not your pimp, or I'll have him ripped into pieces and thrown into the Thames!"
"No-no Mr Holmes," sniffed Mary, now more composed and rubbing the bump on her head. "He's my sheep. Or rather, a wolf in sheep's skin."
Hearing this, Holmes got angry. "Girl, haven't I thought you anything? A wolf in sheep's clothing is bad economics. It's diminishing returns. Haven't you learnt anything from all those supper nights when I gave you a warm meal and tutored you on life's rudimentals? Or did all that nice kwaychap went up and blocked that space between your ears?" At that, Holmes rapped Mary's head once again. Hard.
"Ow! Mr Holmes!" snapped Mary, who knew she deserved it. Mixing pleasure with business was a no-no in Mr Holmes books, unless it was pleasure AS a business. And that often meant mixing with bad company like Snow White who was a snakehead and smuggled folks from a country well-known for their bereavement in height, but top-class skills in mining. Mining for blood diamonds, that is - a very nasty business. Snow would work them till very sick - sneezing, sleepy, grumpy, doped, etc., and fed them poisoned apples and afterwards disposed of their bodies in the dead marshes of nearby Dagorlad, where ancient armies fought and the spirits of those who died - orcs and men, still lingered. Travel guide Smeagol looked worn and thin from just passing through that place many times, so wicked the air there had grown.
"Tell me! Has that wolf touched you in any indecent way?" demanded Holmes, who had earlier developed a soft spot for the girl and adopted her in his mind as his godchild, even if the very idea repelled him. Having any children in his life would interfere with his devotion to forensic science, his first love. And since he liked shooting holes in his living room wall at will, kids would simply get in the way.
"No, no. We just go into heavy petting that's all. He's more like a dog to me, actually," confessed Mary. Holmes, who was a man of the world and familiar with beastial porn, was livid. That wolf has to die, he decided. Sexual grooming in the fairy tale land? What is the world coming to?
"Come, you will go see my colleague Dr Watson. He will examine you and decide if you have been violated. We will then decide if we should bring the full force of the law on that bast....." Holmes checked his language. He was after all in the presence of youth. With his army buddies, it was a different matter altogether and it would be KNS this or CB that.
Mary wanted to protest but was helpless to do so. She knew when Mr Holmes decided on something, it was difficult to change his mind. If only she had cocaine on her; it was catnip to Mr Holmes - make him weak and more agreeable. But all she had white on her were some samples of sheep wool - stuff she had wanted to bring to the Wool Exchange and ask for a quote. But all this business with Tony had derailed her plans. Maybe he wasn't so good for her after all. Maybe Jack from Beanstalk & Co? Hmm....Men can be fashioned like clay, right?
After Holmes deposited Mary with Watson, he went to the Homeless Shelter and entered a special room. Through that a garden and then towards a small piles of stones by the corner. He stooped and rearranged them into a special way, a code. A request for a hitman, to the trained eye.
The other time he inquired was when his nemesis Moriarty became a life-threatening nuisance. This time he had to see to it that Tony the Wolf got hunted down and disposed of. More than Moriarty, he hated wolves in sheepskin. With Moriarty, at least it was WYSIWYG. With wolves, one can often get blindsided and betrayed.
Two weeks after the stones were placed, a wolf was reportedly killed in the forest. It was dressed in old lady clothes and was about to harm Red, that gothic girl from town. They also found evidence that Wolf could be in cahoots with a baker lady operating in the same forest. A large oven was discovered in her candy decorated hut and remains purportedly of children found. Was it cannibalism? Was it paedophilia? In any case, a major crime ring was smashed and Holmes was awarded the town's Key to the City - such was the ambition of the mayor. Only the fairytale folks were not too happy as they detested men of logic; they made life no fun and often diminished their existence. Just like like how one-party ruled states become after a long while... They tended to lose all spontaneity and verve.
The board of Hogwarts had also decided to set up their school elsewhere, denying the further development of magic in the region. That was a harsh pill for the fairy tale folks to swallow. They had yet to forgive the major for that. But paedophilia was paedophilia and had no place even in fairy tales. Maybe in religion. But that's for another realm of discussion and judgement.
The end
Background: Was thinking of fairy tales and this came up.
Showing posts with label 50 Shades of Grey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 50 Shades of Grey. Show all posts
Friday, August 9, 2019
Three Wishes
Three Wishes
- by TC Lai, 29th July 2019
When John woke up, he was surprised to find his personal belongings missing. Even the beach umbrella shading him was gone. Out in front the ocean still lapped, the sun above still wicked. And when he got up, the towel that he was lying on turned into wispy smoke and vanished.
All this would surprise anyone but not John. He had gone through a lot recently and was in no mood to be pranked. However, at the back of his mind, he felt there was something more than odd going on.
He tugged at his swim trunks and ran a finger along the seam at the crotch. Sand had nestled there. Wait a minute... John distinctly knew he'd arrived in boxers and was now wearing a Speedo. And an expensive one at that.
He'd also gotten a six-pack.
My, my....what is going on here?
What's next? Baywatch girls bouncing up from a distance?
John stood and waited, one hand on a hip.
And waited. But no one came bouncy up - male or female.
Evidently that was not part of the "dream". It sure felt pretty real though.
Subsequently John moved forward and immediately stubbed his toe.
"Ow, motherfucker..."
Grabbing his hurting toe, John looked down at the offending object. It was a lamp of sorts, you know, of the kind often narrated in Arabian Night Tales or at Disney World.
It was partially buried and so he dug it up.
Lo and behold, it was really an Aladdin lamp, genie stamp at the bottom just above the Made in China label. And just as often, the lamp looked dull. Brass dull.
"Rub it," said John's little devil on his left shoulder.
"No, put it back," said the little angel on his right. "You don't know what trouble it will bring."
John shrugged his shoulders and the two pleading kaypohs vanished. He looked closely at the lamp and a message struggled to make itself read. Perhaps it was a laser display from the inside, made difficult by the bright sunlight.
"YOU...KNOW...WHAT...TO...DO," it said. Birds from a nearby jungle flitted away en masse, as if Godzilla was storming through.
"YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO?" This time it was John sounding rather angry. He picked up the lamp and threw it into the ocean. It made not a sound (as the lamp was pretty aerodynamic) and simply entered the water with a quiet "ploop". So much for that.
"KNOW WHAT TO DO??? BASTARDS!"
Obviously something had triggered his mini meltdown or had brought him to this beach in the first place. Now he was all alone with only his six pack for companionship, so there was no way to know what he was thinking. We just have to wait until someone comes along to act as a sounding board. We hope it will be soon.
And before anyone could say BUKKAKE (sunscreen lotion on face), John stubbed his toe again. This time it did not hurt as the digit was already numbed.
"What the fu**...." John, visibly upset, picked up the offending object. It was the same Aladdin lamp curved spout and handle et al.
"Bloody souvenir stalkers!" And like before, he threw it back into the ocean. Once more it entered the blue space with nary a splash. Nor plop. But the ocean did seem to rear up as if in a groan to say: "Just look at the damn bloody thing!" The ocean was probably tired of all the trash it had to coddle, not to mention the many creatures sickened by it. Mother Nature, some say, have her limits. And the ocean being her bosom, weighed heavy - she was bound to notice.
All the while Father Nature stared and did nothing. Typical.
And John did indeed give the chance to look at the bloody lamp again as another one soon reared its ugly spout and stubbed his toe once more. The poor toe was now swollen and giving him a limp.
"Motherf***ing piece of shit!"
Begrudgingly (remembering what the ocean had indicated to him) John beheld the lamp and looked carefully at it, turning his back against the sun so as to read its message better, kind of like how ordinary folks struggle to read their handphone screens under bright sunlight. Same with birdwatchers when they forget to bring their screen hats.
"I SAID...YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO!" repeated the lamp, as if it had been the same lamp or had a cctv or skydrone watching the preceding proceedings.
"Dumbcock!" John cursed. He had never liked playing mind games and wished people were more direct. It was because of this personality quirk that got him into trouble recently and him ending up on the beach.
Thinking it was the right thing to do, John rubbed the side of the lamp. How many times should I..., he wondered. But before he could arrive at an answer, out poured a whole lot of smoke. It looked like as if someone had just thrown a smoke grenade.
Kennasai, thought John, who expected a more graceful issue. Wasn't that what they always showed in the movies?
When the smoke finally cleared, John was squatting on his hinds looking pretty impatient. He also had a rock in hand, just in case.
*Cough, *cough....
"I swear, one day I am going to end with lung cancer with all this secondary smoke."
The being that spoke these words looked real enough to John but not enough to frighten him, so he exuded disdain instead. Its apparition seemed to project from a pebble on the beach, with the lamp pulsating blue at its base. It seemed a master-slave kind of arrangement, thought John, who owned a pair of TrueWireless Bluetooth headphones. They had since disappeared with the rest of his stuff.
John was piqued. The being in front of him looked like an apparition, yet complained of the smoke which John could clearly smell. He decided to test its constitution by throwing a pebble at it. The normal kind of pebble, that is.
"Ouch!' complained It. "Stop that!"
Interesting, observed John. Next, he kicked the lamp a short distance away. The apparition flickered but largely remained the same.
"Hey, don't do that! It's my home!"
"What's the worry? Must be magic or something," decried John, making an assumption assumed by most of the population at large, if they were still beyond the borders of this deserted beach. And reasserting that assumption by throwing more senseless money at that remake-of-a-remake of that Aladdin movie starring a very blue real-life person. What a stupid endeavor!
Can't Hollywood come up with anything original anymore? Has James Cameron gone senile?
"Any technology advanced enough will look like magic," It intoned. That was a quote from Arthur C Clarke, that famous but mostly dead sci-fi author.
"So you are neither agreeing nor disagreeing?" pursued John, who was clearly avoiding the obvious thing to do, that is to quickly asking for his three wishes.
"Spatial cognition, if supported by enough data points...."
"Oh, shut up," said John, clearly irritated. Despite all that had happened, he was still in holiday mood and had no wish to engage in tech talk. Besides, this creature did not sound like the altruistic sort who was dying to grant people wishes and make their lives better. If anything it seemed a tourist lost on his way to somewhere. Or a mixed-reality AI projection on its first iteration. Still a baby.
John decided to test it.
"Aren't you supposed to grant me three wishes?"
"Ah, we have come to that. Yes, the three wishes. Ok, spit it out."
John rubbed his chin and paused for effect, as if to think for a while. He already knew what to ask of It.
"I wished for three things. Number 1, I want to be the guy in 50 Shades of Grey, that Christian fella. And I want you to be Anastasia. Possible?"
"Done!"
At that, It realised he (she?) was too quick too agree, not fully understanding what he was granting. Eventually It and John returned to the beach, the former looking a little abused and the latter, refreshed. John certainly gave his six packs a good workout. That and other muscles best not mentioned. John was surprised how easily he mastered the whip and other instruments of BDSM as well as abusing the wealth of Christian. About that, he was conflicted. Is that the real me? he wondered. Can money really change a person?
'It' was also feeling conflicted after that Grey to Freed saga and could barely look at John. Much time also seemed to have passed. Once there were fluffy clouds, now they were hard edged. Or was it just the current situation making the clouds "edgey".
It said (in barely a whisper), "What is your second wish?" Inside, It was trembling. Like John, he also did not understand the limits of "magic". After that first wish, he wondered if there were boundaries. If not, he was certainly in for a rough ride, kind of like what just happened. It also tapped into his gender insecurities. They were as paper thin as his apparition. How could one be sure when you looked down and saw nothing?
"Number 2," said John, now feeling a bit more in control of the situation. "I wish for all the shipwrecks in the world to surface on the Australian central desert."
"Really?" It was truly surprised by this request. So unusual, so.... He couldn't find the words. It was nostalgic, academic, generous, humanistic, etc. "All of the above" kind of givingness. It now looked at John with renewed respect and was even thinking of forgiving him for what what went on previously in the Grey mansion. However, post traumatic stress disorder feelings can easily mask themselves as a kind of residual Stockholm Syndrome. And muscle memory can be strong, especially of the sphincter kind. That is why children find it hard to forget their first instance of constipation and remember it for life. Maybe like smell it had a quantum (dingleberry?) component. Research money was available but no doctoral student ventured to "look" into the matter. And thus the field remained a "narrow" one. The nose was more favourable although it too has its nasty moments.
The truth is that John had been a fan of author Clive Cussler since his first novel The Mediterranean Caper. And he had brought Cussler's latest book collaboration to the beach to read. It too had since disappeared.
And why the desert in Australia? John had thought it safer than the Sahara's. If it had been there, all the wrecks would have been stripped and sold for scrap before anyone could say "karang-guni". The aborigines in Australia seemed more respectful of history and the dead.
And of course, there were no nomadic tribes to worry about too. Only dried-out bones of dead creatures and tourists too dumb to read a brochure.
"And what is your third wish?" asked It, once more smiling and feeling a little more hopeful.
John was not. He looked a devilish.
"Number 3, I wish for three more wishes."
'It' sighed as only an apparition could sigh. Nearby a crab cocked an eye in sympathy. It wanted to do more but it had a hardshell and making any kind of facial expression to suit the moment was beyond it. That is why crabs also do not hold funerals for their kind. No one misses anyone; no one could tell. And crabs don't have any manner of speech. However, some scientists believe crabs click their claws as a means of communication. Yet they were so similar to aggressive postures that a simple good morning can lead to a "ler kuah simi" standoff. This is why in some human societies, a one-night-stand slang is "Come, let's crab it." Make love and then move away to the sides of the bed (as strangers). "I'll call you" - which is never. Crabs live very complicated social lives - as do people who hang around in pubs, mostly alone and suffering quietly from crabs (pubic lice).
"Look, I cannot grant you that."
"Why?"
"Wouldn't we be stuck here forever and other people cannot wish to make their lives and worlds better?" offered It, who somehow found the answer easy-coming.
"You cannot do it, can you?" said John, trying the oldest trick in the history of mind games.
"I can, but what's the point?" Again It found his answer too easy-coming, as if someone else had typed it and he mouthed it.
"Try it," insisted John, who had nothing to lose except all those things he had brought to the beach, including his pot belly. (Well, there might be some regret there!)
And so the apparition tried as it was meant to grant wishes.
However, the conflict was so great that the lamp bubbled and tittered and eventually exploded in a brilliance of light.
John shielded his eyes and waited for the glare to subside. And when it did, he found himself lying on the beach, on his beach towel and Clive Cussler (the book) resting on his chest. His beach umbrella was about to be blown away. Kennasai, it was all just a dream, muttered John as he struggled to launch his pot belly and the rest his lethargic and cynical self after the wilful shade.
The end
Background: (Inspiration) Just wanted to come up with an original take on this timeless tale to amuse some army buddies on Whatsapp. After writing that 72 Virgins.
- by TC Lai, 29th July 2019
When John woke up, he was surprised to find his personal belongings missing. Even the beach umbrella shading him was gone. Out in front the ocean still lapped, the sun above still wicked. And when he got up, the towel that he was lying on turned into wispy smoke and vanished.
All this would surprise anyone but not John. He had gone through a lot recently and was in no mood to be pranked. However, at the back of his mind, he felt there was something more than odd going on.
He tugged at his swim trunks and ran a finger along the seam at the crotch. Sand had nestled there. Wait a minute... John distinctly knew he'd arrived in boxers and was now wearing a Speedo. And an expensive one at that.
He'd also gotten a six-pack.
My, my....what is going on here?
What's next? Baywatch girls bouncing up from a distance?
John stood and waited, one hand on a hip.
And waited. But no one came bouncy up - male or female.
Evidently that was not part of the "dream". It sure felt pretty real though.
Subsequently John moved forward and immediately stubbed his toe.
"Ow, motherfucker..."
Grabbing his hurting toe, John looked down at the offending object. It was a lamp of sorts, you know, of the kind often narrated in Arabian Night Tales or at Disney World.
It was partially buried and so he dug it up.
Lo and behold, it was really an Aladdin lamp, genie stamp at the bottom just above the Made in China label. And just as often, the lamp looked dull. Brass dull.
"Rub it," said John's little devil on his left shoulder.
"No, put it back," said the little angel on his right. "You don't know what trouble it will bring."
John shrugged his shoulders and the two pleading kaypohs vanished. He looked closely at the lamp and a message struggled to make itself read. Perhaps it was a laser display from the inside, made difficult by the bright sunlight.
"YOU...KNOW...WHAT...TO...DO," it said. Birds from a nearby jungle flitted away en masse, as if Godzilla was storming through.
"YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO?" This time it was John sounding rather angry. He picked up the lamp and threw it into the ocean. It made not a sound (as the lamp was pretty aerodynamic) and simply entered the water with a quiet "ploop". So much for that.
"KNOW WHAT TO DO??? BASTARDS!"
Obviously something had triggered his mini meltdown or had brought him to this beach in the first place. Now he was all alone with only his six pack for companionship, so there was no way to know what he was thinking. We just have to wait until someone comes along to act as a sounding board. We hope it will be soon.
And before anyone could say BUKKAKE (sunscreen lotion on face), John stubbed his toe again. This time it did not hurt as the digit was already numbed.
"What the fu**...." John, visibly upset, picked up the offending object. It was the same Aladdin lamp curved spout and handle et al.
"Bloody souvenir stalkers!" And like before, he threw it back into the ocean. Once more it entered the blue space with nary a splash. Nor plop. But the ocean did seem to rear up as if in a groan to say: "Just look at the damn bloody thing!" The ocean was probably tired of all the trash it had to coddle, not to mention the many creatures sickened by it. Mother Nature, some say, have her limits. And the ocean being her bosom, weighed heavy - she was bound to notice.
All the while Father Nature stared and did nothing. Typical.
And John did indeed give the chance to look at the bloody lamp again as another one soon reared its ugly spout and stubbed his toe once more. The poor toe was now swollen and giving him a limp.
"Motherf***ing piece of shit!"
Begrudgingly (remembering what the ocean had indicated to him) John beheld the lamp and looked carefully at it, turning his back against the sun so as to read its message better, kind of like how ordinary folks struggle to read their handphone screens under bright sunlight. Same with birdwatchers when they forget to bring their screen hats.
"I SAID...YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO!" repeated the lamp, as if it had been the same lamp or had a cctv or skydrone watching the preceding proceedings.
"Dumbcock!" John cursed. He had never liked playing mind games and wished people were more direct. It was because of this personality quirk that got him into trouble recently and him ending up on the beach.
Thinking it was the right thing to do, John rubbed the side of the lamp. How many times should I..., he wondered. But before he could arrive at an answer, out poured a whole lot of smoke. It looked like as if someone had just thrown a smoke grenade.
Kennasai, thought John, who expected a more graceful issue. Wasn't that what they always showed in the movies?
When the smoke finally cleared, John was squatting on his hinds looking pretty impatient. He also had a rock in hand, just in case.
*Cough, *cough....
"I swear, one day I am going to end with lung cancer with all this secondary smoke."
The being that spoke these words looked real enough to John but not enough to frighten him, so he exuded disdain instead. Its apparition seemed to project from a pebble on the beach, with the lamp pulsating blue at its base. It seemed a master-slave kind of arrangement, thought John, who owned a pair of TrueWireless Bluetooth headphones. They had since disappeared with the rest of his stuff.
John was piqued. The being in front of him looked like an apparition, yet complained of the smoke which John could clearly smell. He decided to test its constitution by throwing a pebble at it. The normal kind of pebble, that is.
"Ouch!' complained It. "Stop that!"
Interesting, observed John. Next, he kicked the lamp a short distance away. The apparition flickered but largely remained the same.
"Hey, don't do that! It's my home!"
"What's the worry? Must be magic or something," decried John, making an assumption assumed by most of the population at large, if they were still beyond the borders of this deserted beach. And reasserting that assumption by throwing more senseless money at that remake-of-a-remake of that Aladdin movie starring a very blue real-life person. What a stupid endeavor!
Can't Hollywood come up with anything original anymore? Has James Cameron gone senile?
"Any technology advanced enough will look like magic," It intoned. That was a quote from Arthur C Clarke, that famous but mostly dead sci-fi author.
"So you are neither agreeing nor disagreeing?" pursued John, who was clearly avoiding the obvious thing to do, that is to quickly asking for his three wishes.
"Spatial cognition, if supported by enough data points...."
"Oh, shut up," said John, clearly irritated. Despite all that had happened, he was still in holiday mood and had no wish to engage in tech talk. Besides, this creature did not sound like the altruistic sort who was dying to grant people wishes and make their lives better. If anything it seemed a tourist lost on his way to somewhere. Or a mixed-reality AI projection on its first iteration. Still a baby.
John decided to test it.
"Aren't you supposed to grant me three wishes?"
"Ah, we have come to that. Yes, the three wishes. Ok, spit it out."
John rubbed his chin and paused for effect, as if to think for a while. He already knew what to ask of It.
"I wished for three things. Number 1, I want to be the guy in 50 Shades of Grey, that Christian fella. And I want you to be Anastasia. Possible?"
"Done!"
At that, It realised he (she?) was too quick too agree, not fully understanding what he was granting. Eventually It and John returned to the beach, the former looking a little abused and the latter, refreshed. John certainly gave his six packs a good workout. That and other muscles best not mentioned. John was surprised how easily he mastered the whip and other instruments of BDSM as well as abusing the wealth of Christian. About that, he was conflicted. Is that the real me? he wondered. Can money really change a person?
'It' was also feeling conflicted after that Grey to Freed saga and could barely look at John. Much time also seemed to have passed. Once there were fluffy clouds, now they were hard edged. Or was it just the current situation making the clouds "edgey".
It said (in barely a whisper), "What is your second wish?" Inside, It was trembling. Like John, he also did not understand the limits of "magic". After that first wish, he wondered if there were boundaries. If not, he was certainly in for a rough ride, kind of like what just happened. It also tapped into his gender insecurities. They were as paper thin as his apparition. How could one be sure when you looked down and saw nothing?
"Number 2," said John, now feeling a bit more in control of the situation. "I wish for all the shipwrecks in the world to surface on the Australian central desert."
"Really?" It was truly surprised by this request. So unusual, so.... He couldn't find the words. It was nostalgic, academic, generous, humanistic, etc. "All of the above" kind of givingness. It now looked at John with renewed respect and was even thinking of forgiving him for what what went on previously in the Grey mansion. However, post traumatic stress disorder feelings can easily mask themselves as a kind of residual Stockholm Syndrome. And muscle memory can be strong, especially of the sphincter kind. That is why children find it hard to forget their first instance of constipation and remember it for life. Maybe like smell it had a quantum (dingleberry?) component. Research money was available but no doctoral student ventured to "look" into the matter. And thus the field remained a "narrow" one. The nose was more favourable although it too has its nasty moments.
The truth is that John had been a fan of author Clive Cussler since his first novel The Mediterranean Caper. And he had brought Cussler's latest book collaboration to the beach to read. It too had since disappeared.
And why the desert in Australia? John had thought it safer than the Sahara's. If it had been there, all the wrecks would have been stripped and sold for scrap before anyone could say "karang-guni". The aborigines in Australia seemed more respectful of history and the dead.
And of course, there were no nomadic tribes to worry about too. Only dried-out bones of dead creatures and tourists too dumb to read a brochure.
"And what is your third wish?" asked It, once more smiling and feeling a little more hopeful.
John was not. He looked a devilish.
"Number 3, I wish for three more wishes."
'It' sighed as only an apparition could sigh. Nearby a crab cocked an eye in sympathy. It wanted to do more but it had a hardshell and making any kind of facial expression to suit the moment was beyond it. That is why crabs also do not hold funerals for their kind. No one misses anyone; no one could tell. And crabs don't have any manner of speech. However, some scientists believe crabs click their claws as a means of communication. Yet they were so similar to aggressive postures that a simple good morning can lead to a "ler kuah simi" standoff. This is why in some human societies, a one-night-stand slang is "Come, let's crab it." Make love and then move away to the sides of the bed (as strangers). "I'll call you" - which is never. Crabs live very complicated social lives - as do people who hang around in pubs, mostly alone and suffering quietly from crabs (pubic lice).
"Look, I cannot grant you that."
"Why?"
"Wouldn't we be stuck here forever and other people cannot wish to make their lives and worlds better?" offered It, who somehow found the answer easy-coming.
"You cannot do it, can you?" said John, trying the oldest trick in the history of mind games.
"I can, but what's the point?" Again It found his answer too easy-coming, as if someone else had typed it and he mouthed it.
"Try it," insisted John, who had nothing to lose except all those things he had brought to the beach, including his pot belly. (Well, there might be some regret there!)
And so the apparition tried as it was meant to grant wishes.
However, the conflict was so great that the lamp bubbled and tittered and eventually exploded in a brilliance of light.
John shielded his eyes and waited for the glare to subside. And when it did, he found himself lying on the beach, on his beach towel and Clive Cussler (the book) resting on his chest. His beach umbrella was about to be blown away. Kennasai, it was all just a dream, muttered John as he struggled to launch his pot belly and the rest his lethargic and cynical self after the wilful shade.
The end
Background: (Inspiration) Just wanted to come up with an original take on this timeless tale to amuse some army buddies on Whatsapp. After writing that 72 Virgins.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)