Thursday, 31 May 2012
Episode 5
Episode 5: Not The Crowbard
"Mmmmmyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeih...fwshhhhhhhhhhhhh"
The sound issued from Fishermans lips as he lay face down on the cobblestone, seemingly attempting to walk straight down in to it. All his limbs were performing the correct movements to walk, he was simply aligned on the incorrect axis. Above him a tall, willowy figure in a purple vest stroked his goatee with one hand while the other rested on a crowbar he appeared to be using as a walking stick.
Clem and Fishman both stood nearby, puzzled expressions on their faces. Well, I suppose exactly how much expression a fish can fit on to its face is open to debate however I'm sure Fishman has figured out some ways to express a more human range of emotions in order to better blend in with the general populace.
"That is nothing at all like a cheese." Fishman said.
"You...you must be...The Crowbard!" a horrified Clem manged to squeeze the words outside and around his mouth.
The vested man locked eyes with Clem and spoke for the first time in this episode, but not chronologically and certainly not for the first time in his life, "No." he said with his mouth "I am..."
With a slight shift of his foot he kicked the crowbar upward and snatched it out of the air in front of him. Spinning it in front of himself like a baton he spun a full turn on his heel. When he came to a stop he held the crowbar out horizontally in front with one hand, the other poised above it palm down, fingers splayed....
ONE HOUR EARLIER
The sun beat down mercilessly on Fishermans brow, as did the rain. Just how he was managing to be assaulted by both at once is a mystery unto itself, although I suspect it may have something to do with his offending both of them on a regular basis. Sailors will often curse the weather and simply learn to live with the resultant backlash.
The upshot to this meteorlogical mistreatment was that while the elements were focusing on Fisherman, anyone else directly next to him tended to benefit from a kind of reverse eye of the storm. In this instance it was Fishman and Jim Jub who were benefitting. How wonderful for them. They were on their way to meet a friend of Jim Jubs who was stopping by Fishingtown while on holiday.
As they neared the Uproad that gave the access to the spaceport, the weather eased off a bit on Fisherman. His response was not very mature.
"Ohhh ya' little girls blouse, have ya' run out of yer tears to be crying all over meself? I've felt more heat from a polar bears ARSE."
That is not the way to convince someone (or something) to stop harassing you.
At any rate, they made it to the base of the Uproad. They walked inside the wide arched entrance and sat down on the sofa that transported them rapidly upward to the orbiting spaceport. Patiently they waited under the wide, domed ceiling. Jim Jub lifted himself up on to the tips of his toes to peer over the heads of the crowd and resisted the urge to make use of his Jaguar powers to simply leap above their heads to gain a better vantage. Fisherman rocked idly back and forth on the balls of his feet, whistling tunelessly and peering up at the spotless white panels that covered the ceiling. Fishman doesn't have feet so he just kind of tapped a fin, at least he was in tune thuogh.
"Ooooo, there!", Jim Jub pointed excitedly over the heads of the crowd, "There he is!"
The excitement was too much and Jim Jub succumbed to it. Bunching his haunches he leapt high over the heads of the crowd and landed in front a lanky bearded man in a coat that looked to have once been finely tailored but had seen so many things a coat should never have to see, like a picture of a naked man with a pineapple covering his genitals.
"Clem!" roared Jim Jub, "Clem Babbage, you old transient!"
Clems eyes widened a tiny bit in what looked like shock, but he quickly regained his hobo demeanor and patted Jim Jub affectionately on the upper arm. Jim Jub hooted in glee and turned sideways, arm outstretch to introduce Fisherman and Fishman. Again, Clems eyes briefly opened up in surprise and again he quickly recovered. Fishman noticed this and was briefly surprised too but it didn't really show on his face since he always looks surprised.
"Clem, these are my friends Fisherman and Fishman. Say hello, Clem."
Clem said hello.
A short long distance away, a man in a purple vest stood watching, a long tubular case slung over one shoulder.
HALF AN HOUR LATER - AT THE PUB
They're all at the pub and it's half an hour later, at the pub. They've all been chatting with their mouths and the words that have come out have gone in to each others ears and even the ears of the people that aren't sitting at their table. Sound is like that, very omni-directional, which is why when many people speak at once you get a cacophany which mostly isn't all that good a thing unless you're in the Cacophany Choir, then that's not a bad thing it becomes a good thing.
Clem had been fairly close mouthed throughout the trip to the pub as well as during the first round of drinks but some people could get like that after a long voyage and the distance between destinations when speaking in terms of interstellar travel is immense, so one could assume the same for the measure of 'jet lag' when travelling said distances. At least, so Jim Jub reasoned to himself.
Fisherman had other suspicions...
"Yar, it be gettin on in the length of time don't it? We should be making movements of the legs out of here."
Jim Jub nodded, so they all stood up and started moving their legs in a walking motion towards the exit. As the small group stepped out the door to the pub in to the dazzlingly pleasant sunlight, they heard a voice call to them from across the street.
"Halt, Clem."
They all turned toward the source of the voice, but their eyes were still adjusting to the brightness so it was difficult to make out just the specifics of the man speaking. A tall, thin figure stood at the source and in his hand appeared to be some sort of stick or cane. Maybe an umbrella. He tapped the stick once on the cobblestones, flicked it up, caught it and held it up to point at Clem.
"Clem Babbage! You have f..."
The mans sentence was interrupted by bellow from Fisherman.
"Yar not be interferin' with us here now, yer stick wielding ponce! He be mine, I be claimin' vengeance on this sodden wretch!", and he sprung at Clem, hands outstretched, roaring, "I got yer this time PLUME BEARD!"
His outstretched hands latched on to Clems wiry beard and tugged fiercely in an attempt to pull it off to reveal the true plume beard hidden underneath. Nothing budged, but Fisherman was seeing red again. Clem backpeddled but Fisherman had a firm grip, having experience wrestling a variety of beasts out of the depths of the ocean.
The tall stranger was clearer now everyones eyes had adjusted more to the bright sun, and it was now clear he was a tall gentleman in a purple vest, a goatee framing his mouth and a crowbar in his hand. He had begun to lope closer and it became clear he was a man that moved with purpose and a kind of bandy-legged grace. A few paces closer now, he again tapped his crowbar and lifted it to point, this time at Fisherman.
"You, gentleman with a pipe, halt your assault!"
He clearly didn't know Fisherman well enough at all, words from a stranger are only likely to make him even more aggresive.
"Blasted words from a stranger!" Fisherman cursed, "They'll only make me more aggresive!"
Fisherman was standing on Clems chest, tuggnig at his beard twice as aggresively because he was now feeling more aggresive due to the words of a stranger.
The stranger frowned at Fisherman and spoke "Such aggresive behaviour, it will not do. No no no! You sir, you are a cheese and I will make you in to one!"
And with that he double tapped his crowbar on the cobblestones and flicked it in to the air where he snatched it out and held it vertically. He ran his fingers through the air to the side of the crowbar and a beautiful, eery, synthetic sound issued forth. Slowly, he released his hold on the crowbar with his other hand and formed an O with his thumb and index finger then began to wave this too in the air next to the now hovering crowbar.
Fisherman went rigid and collapsed face first on to the cobblestone.
"That is nothing at all like a cheese." Fishman said.
"You...you must be...The Crowbard!" a horrified Clem manged to squeeze the words outside and around his mouth.
"No." the stranger answered "I am..."
With a slight shift of his foot he kicked the crowbar upward and snatched it out of the air in front of him. Spinning it in front of himself like a baton he spun a full turn on his heel. When he came to a stop he held the crowbar out horizontally in front with one hand, the other poised above it palm down, fingers splayed. He released the hand gripping the crowbar, formed an O and began playing. The eerie tune rapidly built to a crescendo and then came to an abrupt halt as he spread his arms wide and a shower of sparks flew out from each palm. Each of the spars built in size and burst to reveal a swarm of bees. The bees flew off in all directions as the stranger revealed his name.
"The Mugician!"
"Oh, nice." said Fishman.
"Clem, you left your baggage at the terminal." said The Mugician.
Clem looked sad, to which The Mugician responded, "Don't look sad, I have a gift for you!" and he pulled a small professionally wrapped gift from somewhere on his person. Clem made a move to take it, but The Mugician threw it high in to the air above his head and pointed at it. It exploded in a small fireball. Clem looked even sadder until he looked back down at The Mugician, who was now standing in front of two suitcases.
Clem said "RAD."
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
The Mugician has joined the quartet for a few drinks at the pub before he heads on the road again, making music with his friends.
"What I don't understand about all this is why you looked so shocked to see us all, Clem." Jim Jub mused while he idly swirled his drink in his glass.
"Yarrrrr" agreed Fisherman, "Ye was looking mighty suspicious-like."
Clem downed a mouthfull of beer and spoke, "Jim Jub, you didn't tell me you'd become an Aztec jaguar warrior, of course I was surprised."
The obvious truth dawned over Jim Jub, but Fisherman still wasn't convinced "Yar, I spose that be makin' sense...but why be shocked apon the sight of me and me mate here?" he queried.
Clems eyes darted between Fisherman and Fishman a few times before he responded, "Well, you know. I didn't expect to see a Fisherman and a Fi-"
He was interrupted by Fisherman screaming "SAUCE", and performing a forward flip on to Clems head, striking him hard with his tail and knocking him unconcious.
Then The Mugician performed a cover of the closing credits theme on his crowbar.
THE END
"Mmmmmyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeih...fwshhhhhhhhhhhhh"
The sound issued from Fishermans lips as he lay face down on the cobblestone, seemingly attempting to walk straight down in to it. All his limbs were performing the correct movements to walk, he was simply aligned on the incorrect axis. Above him a tall, willowy figure in a purple vest stroked his goatee with one hand while the other rested on a crowbar he appeared to be using as a walking stick.
Clem and Fishman both stood nearby, puzzled expressions on their faces. Well, I suppose exactly how much expression a fish can fit on to its face is open to debate however I'm sure Fishman has figured out some ways to express a more human range of emotions in order to better blend in with the general populace.
"That is nothing at all like a cheese." Fishman said.
"You...you must be...The Crowbard!" a horrified Clem manged to squeeze the words outside and around his mouth.
The vested man locked eyes with Clem and spoke for the first time in this episode, but not chronologically and certainly not for the first time in his life, "No." he said with his mouth "I am..."
With a slight shift of his foot he kicked the crowbar upward and snatched it out of the air in front of him. Spinning it in front of himself like a baton he spun a full turn on his heel. When he came to a stop he held the crowbar out horizontally in front with one hand, the other poised above it palm down, fingers splayed....
ONE HOUR EARLIER
The sun beat down mercilessly on Fishermans brow, as did the rain. Just how he was managing to be assaulted by both at once is a mystery unto itself, although I suspect it may have something to do with his offending both of them on a regular basis. Sailors will often curse the weather and simply learn to live with the resultant backlash.
The upshot to this meteorlogical mistreatment was that while the elements were focusing on Fisherman, anyone else directly next to him tended to benefit from a kind of reverse eye of the storm. In this instance it was Fishman and Jim Jub who were benefitting. How wonderful for them. They were on their way to meet a friend of Jim Jubs who was stopping by Fishingtown while on holiday.
As they neared the Uproad that gave the access to the spaceport, the weather eased off a bit on Fisherman. His response was not very mature.
"Ohhh ya' little girls blouse, have ya' run out of yer tears to be crying all over meself? I've felt more heat from a polar bears ARSE."
That is not the way to convince someone (or something) to stop harassing you.
At any rate, they made it to the base of the Uproad. They walked inside the wide arched entrance and sat down on the sofa that transported them rapidly upward to the orbiting spaceport. Patiently they waited under the wide, domed ceiling. Jim Jub lifted himself up on to the tips of his toes to peer over the heads of the crowd and resisted the urge to make use of his Jaguar powers to simply leap above their heads to gain a better vantage. Fisherman rocked idly back and forth on the balls of his feet, whistling tunelessly and peering up at the spotless white panels that covered the ceiling. Fishman doesn't have feet so he just kind of tapped a fin, at least he was in tune thuogh.
"Ooooo, there!", Jim Jub pointed excitedly over the heads of the crowd, "There he is!"
The excitement was too much and Jim Jub succumbed to it. Bunching his haunches he leapt high over the heads of the crowd and landed in front a lanky bearded man in a coat that looked to have once been finely tailored but had seen so many things a coat should never have to see, like a picture of a naked man with a pineapple covering his genitals.
"Clem!" roared Jim Jub, "Clem Babbage, you old transient!"
Clems eyes widened a tiny bit in what looked like shock, but he quickly regained his hobo demeanor and patted Jim Jub affectionately on the upper arm. Jim Jub hooted in glee and turned sideways, arm outstretch to introduce Fisherman and Fishman. Again, Clems eyes briefly opened up in surprise and again he quickly recovered. Fishman noticed this and was briefly surprised too but it didn't really show on his face since he always looks surprised.
"Clem, these are my friends Fisherman and Fishman. Say hello, Clem."
Clem said hello.
A short long distance away, a man in a purple vest stood watching, a long tubular case slung over one shoulder.
HALF AN HOUR LATER - AT THE PUB
They're all at the pub and it's half an hour later, at the pub. They've all been chatting with their mouths and the words that have come out have gone in to each others ears and even the ears of the people that aren't sitting at their table. Sound is like that, very omni-directional, which is why when many people speak at once you get a cacophany which mostly isn't all that good a thing unless you're in the Cacophany Choir, then that's not a bad thing it becomes a good thing.
Clem had been fairly close mouthed throughout the trip to the pub as well as during the first round of drinks but some people could get like that after a long voyage and the distance between destinations when speaking in terms of interstellar travel is immense, so one could assume the same for the measure of 'jet lag' when travelling said distances. At least, so Jim Jub reasoned to himself.
Fisherman had other suspicions...
"Yar, it be gettin on in the length of time don't it? We should be making movements of the legs out of here."
Jim Jub nodded, so they all stood up and started moving their legs in a walking motion towards the exit. As the small group stepped out the door to the pub in to the dazzlingly pleasant sunlight, they heard a voice call to them from across the street.
"Halt, Clem."
They all turned toward the source of the voice, but their eyes were still adjusting to the brightness so it was difficult to make out just the specifics of the man speaking. A tall, thin figure stood at the source and in his hand appeared to be some sort of stick or cane. Maybe an umbrella. He tapped the stick once on the cobblestones, flicked it up, caught it and held it up to point at Clem.
"Clem Babbage! You have f..."
The mans sentence was interrupted by bellow from Fisherman.
"Yar not be interferin' with us here now, yer stick wielding ponce! He be mine, I be claimin' vengeance on this sodden wretch!", and he sprung at Clem, hands outstretched, roaring, "I got yer this time PLUME BEARD!"
His outstretched hands latched on to Clems wiry beard and tugged fiercely in an attempt to pull it off to reveal the true plume beard hidden underneath. Nothing budged, but Fisherman was seeing red again. Clem backpeddled but Fisherman had a firm grip, having experience wrestling a variety of beasts out of the depths of the ocean.
The tall stranger was clearer now everyones eyes had adjusted more to the bright sun, and it was now clear he was a tall gentleman in a purple vest, a goatee framing his mouth and a crowbar in his hand. He had begun to lope closer and it became clear he was a man that moved with purpose and a kind of bandy-legged grace. A few paces closer now, he again tapped his crowbar and lifted it to point, this time at Fisherman.
"You, gentleman with a pipe, halt your assault!"
He clearly didn't know Fisherman well enough at all, words from a stranger are only likely to make him even more aggresive.
"Blasted words from a stranger!" Fisherman cursed, "They'll only make me more aggresive!"
Fisherman was standing on Clems chest, tuggnig at his beard twice as aggresively because he was now feeling more aggresive due to the words of a stranger.
The stranger frowned at Fisherman and spoke "Such aggresive behaviour, it will not do. No no no! You sir, you are a cheese and I will make you in to one!"
And with that he double tapped his crowbar on the cobblestones and flicked it in to the air where he snatched it out and held it vertically. He ran his fingers through the air to the side of the crowbar and a beautiful, eery, synthetic sound issued forth. Slowly, he released his hold on the crowbar with his other hand and formed an O with his thumb and index finger then began to wave this too in the air next to the now hovering crowbar.
Fisherman went rigid and collapsed face first on to the cobblestone.
"That is nothing at all like a cheese." Fishman said.
"You...you must be...The Crowbard!" a horrified Clem manged to squeeze the words outside and around his mouth.
"No." the stranger answered "I am..."
With a slight shift of his foot he kicked the crowbar upward and snatched it out of the air in front of him. Spinning it in front of himself like a baton he spun a full turn on his heel. When he came to a stop he held the crowbar out horizontally in front with one hand, the other poised above it palm down, fingers splayed. He released the hand gripping the crowbar, formed an O and began playing. The eerie tune rapidly built to a crescendo and then came to an abrupt halt as he spread his arms wide and a shower of sparks flew out from each palm. Each of the spars built in size and burst to reveal a swarm of bees. The bees flew off in all directions as the stranger revealed his name.
"The Mugician!"
"Oh, nice." said Fishman.
"Clem, you left your baggage at the terminal." said The Mugician.
Clem looked sad, to which The Mugician responded, "Don't look sad, I have a gift for you!" and he pulled a small professionally wrapped gift from somewhere on his person. Clem made a move to take it, but The Mugician threw it high in to the air above his head and pointed at it. It exploded in a small fireball. Clem looked even sadder until he looked back down at The Mugician, who was now standing in front of two suitcases.
Clem said "RAD."
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
The Mugician has joined the quartet for a few drinks at the pub before he heads on the road again, making music with his friends.
"What I don't understand about all this is why you looked so shocked to see us all, Clem." Jim Jub mused while he idly swirled his drink in his glass.
"Yarrrrr" agreed Fisherman, "Ye was looking mighty suspicious-like."
Clem downed a mouthfull of beer and spoke, "Jim Jub, you didn't tell me you'd become an Aztec jaguar warrior, of course I was surprised."
The obvious truth dawned over Jim Jub, but Fisherman still wasn't convinced "Yar, I spose that be makin' sense...but why be shocked apon the sight of me and me mate here?" he queried.
Clems eyes darted between Fisherman and Fishman a few times before he responded, "Well, you know. I didn't expect to see a Fisherman and a Fi-"
He was interrupted by Fisherman screaming "SAUCE", and performing a forward flip on to Clems head, striking him hard with his tail and knocking him unconcious.
Then The Mugician performed a cover of the closing credits theme on his crowbar.
THE END
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
Episode 4
Episode 4: Spanich Cludding
It wasn't long before the long or short of it became too long for now, at least for now. In between and around these times, seeping over and under the wafer thin fabrics of causality was the Spanich. But again, at least for now, this was all for now.
EXT. DAY, ROAD
Fisherman and Fishman have taken a wagon to French Onion. All roads lead to French Onion which makes it rather easy to get there. They are sitting in the back while Jim Jub sits at the front, next to the wagon driver. The wagon driver is humming a jaunty tune. His name is Fymens Ave. Breaking from his jaunty tune, Fymen half turns to ask Fisherman and Fishman a question, "What number mate?"
"Make it a low scoring match thanks, kind sir." replies Fishman.
"Appreciable." mutters Fisherman. He's in a mood. He crawled inside of it earlier on and got caught willy in it's zipper.
So Fymen recounts to them a low scoring soccer match using wild gestures and precise finger movements to convey the action. It's okay, it's a horse and cart so he doesn't really need to use his hands. They know to follow the road and failing that to just follow the onion scent.
The cart hit a bump in the road and the carrots flew over the side. They landed in the ditch on the side of the road, then rolled down the gentle slope until they hit the river at the bottom. The river hit them right back because it was the Standup River, and it always stood up for itself. Egos bruised, the carrots limped back wounded to their village to live out the rest of their lives as simple firemen.
The day powered on as is it's want, and dusk soon crept up on it like a roamer in the night. They needed to retire somewhere safe for the night, for it was out in the dark of the night that the Non-Euclideans came out. They were usually fairly harmless, however Fishman found their peculiarities nauseating and sometimes this manifested itself as vomits out of his mouth. Being a fish, his vomits often came out with alot of heaps big force because they were forced out of that silly "O" mouth.
Angler fish obviously didn't suffer from these problems. Turtles always look happy. When you think about it, so do crocodiles. Maybe that's saying something about the human condition, you know. Why...stop smiling...when you have the strongest jaws on the planet? Which you don't but you could, if science lifted it's game.
There was a little diner on the side of the road on the way down to the direction they were headed, and a motel next to it with rooms you could hire to sleep in. This is what they did, but first they went to buy and eat some food inside of their mouths at the diner.
They sat in a little booth in the back corner of the diner, so no one could ambush them or surprise them and make them a little bit scared. Fishman had ordered a plate of nauchies, Fisherman went with the meat plant, and Jim Jub ordered fried eggs, sunny side up, because he was still an Aztec Jaguar warrior and he worshipped a sun god. Also he needed the protein.
Glancing down the length of the diner, Jim Jub made brief eye contact with someone. The someone was about 300 mil tall, and very white. They had an open and almost hostile stare and only blinked very rarely. Jim Jub couldn't help but shake the idea that this person was in fact not a person, but a chicken.
It dawned on Jim Jub that he was eating eggs...
With a pained screech, the chicken leapt up on to the counter and began sprinting down its length at Jim Jub. His newfound Jaguar warrior instincts kicking in, Jim Jub leapt on to the booth table and screamed at the sky. The sky screamed back, and the roof of the diner caved in. The sky immediately regretted this but what can you do, hey? Crawling out of the wreckage of the diner, the trio of friends were now stranded out in the dark.
A dark filled with Non-Euclideans...
Panicking at the very thought, Fishman began a mad dash for the safety of the motel. It wasn't the first time he had run somewhere, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
Startled by the suddeninity of a collasing structure and the wild eyed Fishman sprinting from the wreckage, the Non-Euclideans panicked too. A stampede of unsettled Non-Euclideans can be a dangerous thing and doubly so for someone like Fishman that can only barely handle them when they are moving slowly and in fairly straight lines. The rushed and whirred in every direction, their distorted shapes blurred by the speed of their passing only causing Fishman to become even more nauseated. His eyes flicked left and right and up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B then A and he dry retched a little bit. He could feel it building up deep within his inside of himself and it was something he wished he could just ignore. But he couldn't, because it is puke and it wants to be heard.
Some distance back, Jim Jub and Fisherman were trying to catch up to Fishman in order to help him get through the herd of Non-Euclideans. Seeing him slow down, they increased their pace for fear that Fishman had injured himself. As they neared Fishman they saw his chest and head heaving in unison, like some sort of dubstep dancing fused with spinal column damage. It was like during the breakdown in a dubstep song, and after the breakdown usually comes...
Fisherman dug his heel in to the dirt and spun on it in a furious one hundred and eight degree turn. Jim Jub performed two backflips and one of those mid air spirals that leave you facing the opposite direction to what you were facing before. Now they were both facing away from Fishman they proceeded to sprint fearfully away. Glancing over his shoulder Fisherman watched as Fishman gave one last heave. The world around them all seemed to slow down and grow still.
Then came the laser light show.
Night turned to day as Fishman arced his spine back and spewed a stream of luminous green into the sky. The clouds rushed out of its path before it even had time to shake their hand. Startled again, the Non-Euclideans rushed away in any direction that was away from Fishman. The stream began to waver and developed more of a sine curve before stopping entirely. Sagging a little from the effort, Fishman bent a little in relief before shuddering rapidly again and letting forth another sine wave of pulsating light out, this time aimed at the ground a few meters away. The light this time was purple, occasionally flashing white, yellow, and somehow black. Black light is strange.
Being a Jaguar warrior, Jim Jub could see some way into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums, and what he saw was beyond what any of you with your mundane vision can comprehend. Describing it would be really hard, so I won't. Just know that most insects would have an easier time understanding than you or I would, if they could only understand english.
This stream was maintained longer, and as it petered out over the course of abuot a dozen seconds the sine waves became more pronounced. Eventually they broke and the peak of each wave shot out as the beam of light vomit disippitated. The ground didn't fare so well against this assault, but it's a big boy so no one really cares.
As the world appeared to stop rippling and the after-image faded from their eyes, Fisherman and Jim Jub approached Fishmans still body as he lay prone on the ground. Crouching down, Fisherman touched Fishman lightly on what Fishman attempted to pass off as a shoulder.
"Fishman, ye' blubbery salt dog. I'll never understand how yer be fittin' all that light up inside yer..."
Fishman carefully rolled over to face up at Fisherman and gave a pained smile, "I coil it up tightly, chap. Ever so tightly."
Supported between his best of friends Jim Jub and Fisherman as they made their way back to the rubble of the diner, Fishman thought to himself, "I really am blessed to be doing clambake with friends."
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Seated in shoddily reconstructed stalls set haphazardly amidst the rubble of the diner, Jim Jub, Fishman, Fisherman and the chicken are lined up along the wreckage of the counter.
"Bgrrrrrk!", says the chicken.
Jim Jub smiles sheepishly, "I know, I can find my protein elsewhere and there are plenty of other ways to worship bloodthirsty sun gods."
"Yar should be rethinkin' yer worship o' the sun, Jubby boy, it be seemin' there be a sun inside of Fishman here and that gets me thinkin' that thar it not can be innit a whole LOT of sun in all to thinkin' it be special for worship."
"Oh not so, chap!" chimes in Fishman, who is feeling significantly refreshed, "Truth be told all of our most base elements are sourced from the very same place the sun is, in essence making all of us like small suns ourselves, minus the constant nuclear explosions."
"Bgkaaaaark."
"Oh rightly so my flightless avian friend, rightly so!" replied Fishman.
And they all toasted to the chickens wisdom.
UNDER THE WAFER THIN FABRICS OF CAUSALITY, MIDDAY
Long before the now and under the short of it watching for too long for now in between and around the time, the Spanich stirred. Again roused for now at least by the sines and the light, rippling in and under it's continuity, it's attention turned on Fishman and the light he held within...
THE END (????)
It wasn't long before the long or short of it became too long for now, at least for now. In between and around these times, seeping over and under the wafer thin fabrics of causality was the Spanich. But again, at least for now, this was all for now.
EXT. DAY, ROAD
Fisherman and Fishman have taken a wagon to French Onion. All roads lead to French Onion which makes it rather easy to get there. They are sitting in the back while Jim Jub sits at the front, next to the wagon driver. The wagon driver is humming a jaunty tune. His name is Fymens Ave. Breaking from his jaunty tune, Fymen half turns to ask Fisherman and Fishman a question, "What number mate?"
"Make it a low scoring match thanks, kind sir." replies Fishman.
"Appreciable." mutters Fisherman. He's in a mood. He crawled inside of it earlier on and got caught willy in it's zipper.
So Fymen recounts to them a low scoring soccer match using wild gestures and precise finger movements to convey the action. It's okay, it's a horse and cart so he doesn't really need to use his hands. They know to follow the road and failing that to just follow the onion scent.
The cart hit a bump in the road and the carrots flew over the side. They landed in the ditch on the side of the road, then rolled down the gentle slope until they hit the river at the bottom. The river hit them right back because it was the Standup River, and it always stood up for itself. Egos bruised, the carrots limped back wounded to their village to live out the rest of their lives as simple firemen.
The day powered on as is it's want, and dusk soon crept up on it like a roamer in the night. They needed to retire somewhere safe for the night, for it was out in the dark of the night that the Non-Euclideans came out. They were usually fairly harmless, however Fishman found their peculiarities nauseating and sometimes this manifested itself as vomits out of his mouth. Being a fish, his vomits often came out with alot of heaps big force because they were forced out of that silly "O" mouth.
Angler fish obviously didn't suffer from these problems. Turtles always look happy. When you think about it, so do crocodiles. Maybe that's saying something about the human condition, you know. Why...stop smiling...when you have the strongest jaws on the planet? Which you don't but you could, if science lifted it's game.
There was a little diner on the side of the road on the way down to the direction they were headed, and a motel next to it with rooms you could hire to sleep in. This is what they did, but first they went to buy and eat some food inside of their mouths at the diner.
They sat in a little booth in the back corner of the diner, so no one could ambush them or surprise them and make them a little bit scared. Fishman had ordered a plate of nauchies, Fisherman went with the meat plant, and Jim Jub ordered fried eggs, sunny side up, because he was still an Aztec Jaguar warrior and he worshipped a sun god. Also he needed the protein.
Glancing down the length of the diner, Jim Jub made brief eye contact with someone. The someone was about 300 mil tall, and very white. They had an open and almost hostile stare and only blinked very rarely. Jim Jub couldn't help but shake the idea that this person was in fact not a person, but a chicken.
It dawned on Jim Jub that he was eating eggs...
With a pained screech, the chicken leapt up on to the counter and began sprinting down its length at Jim Jub. His newfound Jaguar warrior instincts kicking in, Jim Jub leapt on to the booth table and screamed at the sky. The sky screamed back, and the roof of the diner caved in. The sky immediately regretted this but what can you do, hey? Crawling out of the wreckage of the diner, the trio of friends were now stranded out in the dark.
A dark filled with Non-Euclideans...
Panicking at the very thought, Fishman began a mad dash for the safety of the motel. It wasn't the first time he had run somewhere, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
Startled by the suddeninity of a collasing structure and the wild eyed Fishman sprinting from the wreckage, the Non-Euclideans panicked too. A stampede of unsettled Non-Euclideans can be a dangerous thing and doubly so for someone like Fishman that can only barely handle them when they are moving slowly and in fairly straight lines. The rushed and whirred in every direction, their distorted shapes blurred by the speed of their passing only causing Fishman to become even more nauseated. His eyes flicked left and right and up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B then A and he dry retched a little bit. He could feel it building up deep within his inside of himself and it was something he wished he could just ignore. But he couldn't, because it is puke and it wants to be heard.
Some distance back, Jim Jub and Fisherman were trying to catch up to Fishman in order to help him get through the herd of Non-Euclideans. Seeing him slow down, they increased their pace for fear that Fishman had injured himself. As they neared Fishman they saw his chest and head heaving in unison, like some sort of dubstep dancing fused with spinal column damage. It was like during the breakdown in a dubstep song, and after the breakdown usually comes...
Fisherman dug his heel in to the dirt and spun on it in a furious one hundred and eight degree turn. Jim Jub performed two backflips and one of those mid air spirals that leave you facing the opposite direction to what you were facing before. Now they were both facing away from Fishman they proceeded to sprint fearfully away. Glancing over his shoulder Fisherman watched as Fishman gave one last heave. The world around them all seemed to slow down and grow still.
Then came the laser light show.
Night turned to day as Fishman arced his spine back and spewed a stream of luminous green into the sky. The clouds rushed out of its path before it even had time to shake their hand. Startled again, the Non-Euclideans rushed away in any direction that was away from Fishman. The stream began to waver and developed more of a sine curve before stopping entirely. Sagging a little from the effort, Fishman bent a little in relief before shuddering rapidly again and letting forth another sine wave of pulsating light out, this time aimed at the ground a few meters away. The light this time was purple, occasionally flashing white, yellow, and somehow black. Black light is strange.
Being a Jaguar warrior, Jim Jub could see some way into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums, and what he saw was beyond what any of you with your mundane vision can comprehend. Describing it would be really hard, so I won't. Just know that most insects would have an easier time understanding than you or I would, if they could only understand english.
This stream was maintained longer, and as it petered out over the course of abuot a dozen seconds the sine waves became more pronounced. Eventually they broke and the peak of each wave shot out as the beam of light vomit disippitated. The ground didn't fare so well against this assault, but it's a big boy so no one really cares.
As the world appeared to stop rippling and the after-image faded from their eyes, Fisherman and Jim Jub approached Fishmans still body as he lay prone on the ground. Crouching down, Fisherman touched Fishman lightly on what Fishman attempted to pass off as a shoulder.
"Fishman, ye' blubbery salt dog. I'll never understand how yer be fittin' all that light up inside yer..."
Fishman carefully rolled over to face up at Fisherman and gave a pained smile, "I coil it up tightly, chap. Ever so tightly."
Supported between his best of friends Jim Jub and Fisherman as they made their way back to the rubble of the diner, Fishman thought to himself, "I really am blessed to be doing clambake with friends."
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Seated in shoddily reconstructed stalls set haphazardly amidst the rubble of the diner, Jim Jub, Fishman, Fisherman and the chicken are lined up along the wreckage of the counter.
"Bgrrrrrk!", says the chicken.
Jim Jub smiles sheepishly, "I know, I can find my protein elsewhere and there are plenty of other ways to worship bloodthirsty sun gods."
"Yar should be rethinkin' yer worship o' the sun, Jubby boy, it be seemin' there be a sun inside of Fishman here and that gets me thinkin' that thar it not can be innit a whole LOT of sun in all to thinkin' it be special for worship."
"Oh not so, chap!" chimes in Fishman, who is feeling significantly refreshed, "Truth be told all of our most base elements are sourced from the very same place the sun is, in essence making all of us like small suns ourselves, minus the constant nuclear explosions."
"Bgkaaaaark."
"Oh rightly so my flightless avian friend, rightly so!" replied Fishman.
And they all toasted to the chickens wisdom.
UNDER THE WAFER THIN FABRICS OF CAUSALITY, MIDDAY
Long before the now and under the short of it watching for too long for now in between and around the time, the Spanich stirred. Again roused for now at least by the sines and the light, rippling in and under it's continuity, it's attention turned on Fishman and the light he held within...
THE END (????)
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Episode 3
Episode 3: Spiderclam and the Crabsharks
The dark canopy of a beautiful summer night stretced before Fisherman as he lay on his back on the sands of Fishingtown beach, his arms stretched up and hands clasped behind his head for support. This far from the bulk of the light put forth by the city the cloudless night revealed the stars to their full extent, each occasionally blinking out for a nanosecond as some unknown distant object far in space and time occluded the journey of their rays into Fishermans eyes. A rogue light broke from the group and streaked earthward, splitting into two seperate lights as it neared the surface of the planet.
"What the hell ARE you?" briefly flashed through Fishermans mind, but was soon displaced by the tranquility of the scene.
Soon after tranquility was re-established, it was broken again by the sound of a disturbance in the sound over to Fishermans left. He rotated his head to take a glance in that direction but all he could see was the usual detritus found on most any sandy beach. Cuttlefish bones, clam shells, shark eggs, driftwod, discarded needles and the like. Thinking perhaps his perception of sound had somehow been inverted without his noticing, Fisherman rotated his head 180 degrees. Obviously rotating it clockwise, if viewed toward the top of his head. 180 degrees counterclockwise that way would be impossible for any humaoid creature with a spine such as his. However the view to the right was pretty much identical to that of the view on his left, save for the Vader standing knee deep in the water collecting a jug of salty sea-water.
Concluding that his intial belief that the sand disturbance was on his left was correct, Fisherman once again rotated his head to look to his left. It all once again seemed clear. Certain that he had not imagined the sand rustle he turned his head to look back up at the stars but slyly turned his eyes to keep a good peripheral view on his left. The sand-shuffle sound came again as the suspiciously large clam shell he had overlooked began to move. It opened slowly around its circumference as eight thin legs cautiously poked their way out and gently steadied themselves on the sand. They pushed and lifted the bulk of the shell up until it was standing legthways upright, tottering unevenly on it's spindly legs.
Fisherman snapped his head a full 90 degrees to his left once more and cried out in victory, "Caught ya', ye wee little BAHSTERD!"
He had never fully recovered from his bout of Irish and suffered from occasional relapses.
The eight legged creature leapt in surprise, or shock. It's hard to tell when all you have to go by is legs and a clamshell. A sound like a man blowing over the top of a half empty beer bottle came issued out which in turn made Fisherman let out a similar shocked sound through his pipe, which in turn made a second sound issue forth from the clamshell but this time it was a bit closer in tenor to the sound that Fishermans pipe had emitted.
The clamshell creature stood stock still, as did Fisherman. He wasn't sure what he was dealing with, and in such situations he found it best not to make any sudden moves. He'd learned this the hard way, on his first encounter with Sergeant Starfish. After a few tense moments Fisherman let another 'toot' from his pipe, this one dipped down low in the middle and came to a pleasent crescedo. The clam creature mimiced the sound.
"A chill wind be blowing me nipples...", Fisherman ground out between his clenched teeth, "...and I be needing me a good feed."
He eyed off the clam creature, and his stomach gurgled.
THE PUB
A good hearty fisheye stew in his belly, Fisherman sat across the table from the inedible Spiderclam. Fishman was seated on his left and the seat on the right was empty because Jim Jub was interstate at a conference and Ronald Chocaber was in water somewhere. Between the two of them, Fisherman and Fishman had managed to train Spiderclam to whistle out something resembling English and it was now using these words it had just recently learned to string together suspiciously fluent full sentences. Spiderclam was relating to them the his tale of how he came to be on the run from the Crabsharks and washed up on Fishingtown shore.
"So I came to wear this clamshell as a disguise", Spiderclam whistled out in his pitch-perfect tenor, "in order to have a convenient means of disguise and protection. The Crabsharks are mean dudes and they're out to get me man!"
"Makes sense, chap." piped up Fishman although in his head he was thinking with his brain that something seemed off. The Crabsharks he knew from his time in the sea could be brutal, yes, but always acted for a just cause. That previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...
(CRAIG!... I THOUGHT IT WAS FISHMAN, NOT FISHERMAN THAT USED TO BE A FULLTIME FISH....?????) (I have no idea what you're talking about, crazy woman.)
"Yarrr not a worry ye shell-lubber. Ye be alright by my keelhaul.", but Fisherman had his doubts too. Fisherman knew for a fact that he did not even resemble a Crabshark, not even in the dark. He knew this because he often looked at himself in the mirror in the dark and he resembled a kumquat. So why then had Spiderclam been avoiding him?
Both of these thought processes were interrupted by the sound of a boot kicking in the door to the pub. It was Reece. Reece had a shaved head and a goatee and becase of this he liked to fight. He backed up this statement by shouting at the top of his lungs.
"OI!" Reece tilted his head back and rolled his eyes forward, and swept his gaze across the pub. Once he had surveyed the whole pub he brought his gaze back the opposite way, this time meeting each and every persons gaze, "Any of youse BELLENDS want to FIGHT?"
Fully expecting no response from anyone, Reece had come prepared to start a fight the traditional way. He had brought his fighting fists, and his Scottish handshake.
Embarassingly he had only brought one of his fighting feet, or else he would have double kicked the door down. Placing a firm grasp on the nearest bellends shirt collar Reece introduced him to his Scottsh handshake. Everyone present knew the correct response to this.
Simultaneously, one person at each table stood bolt upright and flipped their table while anyone seated with them slid off their stool (or chair, the pub was very accomodating to all lifestyles) and brandished it above their heads menacingly as they charged at the table to their left. Everyone did a fight and it was heaps good. Once the good fight had subsided and all the splinters had been cleared from the floor so no one injured themselves on them because they'd really sting and they might need to see a doctor to get them removed from their bodies with tweezers (the local doctor was known for being very gentle, but that's for another story), Fisherman and Fishman took a look around and realised Spiderclam wasn't anywhere to be found.
Naturally they assumed someone had punched him so hard that he had disintergrated or been sent back in time, like Jesus.
So it came as a surprise to them whern they left the establishment to see a ring of menacing Crabsharks circling Spiderclam on the street, pinching their claws and darting in and out to attack. Spiderclam seemed a little worried. Or excited? Hard to tell, he is a Spiderclam. Fishman decided to go in to negotiate, since Fisherman would probably end up trying to fight or eat everyone present.
"I do say chaps. I do say. I say I say. Eye say! Chaps! Who on earth thinks wearing chaps is fashionable? Cowbys, I'm told, although I've never met one to prove or disprove the fact. I once met a Viking Farmer. He found it very hard to live with himself, always pillaging his own land. Last I saw he had signed up for the space navy an-" Fishmans tirade of entirely relevent prose was rudely interrupted when a Crabshark whirled round and snapped his claws a fins distance in front of Fishmans face.
"Back off son, lessin' I go full pinecone on your tail. We be dolin' out some seven seas JUSTICE to this franger head."
"But may I enquire as to why, good sirs? This clam seems most unusual to be sure but he hardly seems to be threatening. Timid, perhaps cowardly yes. But not thre-" and once again Fishman was cut short.
"MAAAAAN. DUDE. This clambake 'aint no to be doing with friends, and iffin' you see what he be chaffing in behind his grill opened WIDE you'd not even know to wanting to make to want the KISS." and with that, the Crabshark threw up the a gang sign as best he could with a claw.
"He isn't a Spideclam? Pray tell, what is he then my friend! In something a bit closer to English if you can manage, please."
With the most ominous expression that can be mustered when you have the face of a shark, the Crabshark spokesmen spoke only one word. In fact, not one word. One name. He spoke one name, "Plume Beard."
With a huge puff and splutter Fisherman sprang to life, "Plume Beard! You wee BAHSTERD, that be why ye' be sneakin' away when ye' recognise me! Didn't recognise ya though, hidden as ye' be in a clamshell and speaking only in Beerbottle Blues!"
Spiderclams shell began to open wider to reveal Plume Beard hidden within. He was a man wizened beyond his years by sun and surf, a full beard of feathery plumes sprouting from his chin hiding his disproportionately small body. A beer bottle poked out of his beard and sat near his mouth. Presumably he had some mechanism to operate the spider legs hidden in there, or he had them surgically attached.
"Fisherman...", ground out Plume Beard in a voice that sounded like boulders tumbling down a waterwheel. In the dark. "...long time, soft lamb."
As rage overtook Fisherman Reece exited the pub, "OI!" he screamed across the street. He'd sensed another bald, bearded man nearby. Spotting Plume Beard he launched himsef across the street with a roar of "Would you like some POUND CAKE?"
The street erupted in to chaos. Half of the Crabsharks pivoted to engage prevent Reece from reaching Plume Beard while the other half tried to close ranks around him to stop him from fleeing again. Fisherman lost his cool and began a charge at Plume Beard as well, and so the Crabsharks split in half once again in order to contain the threats. Seeing his only chance to escape from this unmolested by claws, Plume Beard burst his clamshell open to reveal each half was attached to one of his stubby arms. Bracing his right arm and holding it in front of him like a shield he charged directly toward one of the Crabsharks surrounding him. It braced to take his assault, rightfully confident that he could stop the puny man. He would have too, if Plume Beard had not darted around the bulk of the Crabshark, deflecting it's huge claw with his clamshield.
Restrained by a handful of Crabsharks, Fisherman watched on and howled in fury as his long time nemesis broke free from the ring of Crabsharks. Sensing the rage building in their captives body the Crabsharks turned to see what had upset him so much. Realising their quarry had escaped, they released Fisherman and the lot of them set off down the street after Plume Beard.
Eight spindly legs furiously peddling away beneath him, Plume Beard cackled with glee as he began to break frmo the pack and pump his arms.wildly. Pipe puffing wildly Fisherman steamed ahead through the lagging Crabsharks and began to close the distance to Plume Beard. He was running on pure rage alone, now. Glancing back to find Fisherman inching closer to him Plume Beard bunched his leg muscles and leapt skyward, arms now pumping so hard that the clamshells were just a blur. Knowing his sturdy sea legs wouldn't be able to launch him high enough to catch Plume Beard, Fisherman slowed himself down and came to a stop. Falling to his knees in exhaustion he sucked in a massive breath of air and screamed at the top of hos lungs "PLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUME!"
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Jim Jub pushed open the door to the Pub and took a look around. Piles of rubble had been swept to the corners of the room and what remained of the furniture had been set out as best as the management could handle. The usual assortment of Fishingtown citizenry had gathered here for the evening, although more than usual were left standing. Among those seated, however, were a large group of Crabsharks accompanied by Fisherman and Fishman. They all bore somber looks apon their brows.
Adjusting his heavy duffle bag to sit more comfortably on his shoulder, Jim Jub approached his friends. Seeing him come nearer, the Crabsharks tensed but were quickly reassured by Fisherman and Fishman.
Using his extensive deductive and conclusionary skills, Jim Jub had come to the conclusive deduction that something was wrong, so he went ahead and asked them, "What's got these Crasharks so spooked?"
"Plume Beard was in town. He escaped.", explained Fisherman.
"Who is Plume Beard?" enquired Jim Jub.
"He is..." Fisherman furrowed his bushy brows and breathed deeply, "...definately not a thing that he isn't not being, or having ever been, but possibly would have one day been given the chance under the correct circumstances that have not yet and may never yet occur to his being."
Jim Jub did a somersault and turned in to an Aztec jaguar warrior, and everyone happily clapped their hands, or claws.
THE END
The dark canopy of a beautiful summer night stretced before Fisherman as he lay on his back on the sands of Fishingtown beach, his arms stretched up and hands clasped behind his head for support. This far from the bulk of the light put forth by the city the cloudless night revealed the stars to their full extent, each occasionally blinking out for a nanosecond as some unknown distant object far in space and time occluded the journey of their rays into Fishermans eyes. A rogue light broke from the group and streaked earthward, splitting into two seperate lights as it neared the surface of the planet.
"What the hell ARE you?" briefly flashed through Fishermans mind, but was soon displaced by the tranquility of the scene.
Soon after tranquility was re-established, it was broken again by the sound of a disturbance in the sound over to Fishermans left. He rotated his head to take a glance in that direction but all he could see was the usual detritus found on most any sandy beach. Cuttlefish bones, clam shells, shark eggs, driftwod, discarded needles and the like. Thinking perhaps his perception of sound had somehow been inverted without his noticing, Fisherman rotated his head 180 degrees. Obviously rotating it clockwise, if viewed toward the top of his head. 180 degrees counterclockwise that way would be impossible for any humaoid creature with a spine such as his. However the view to the right was pretty much identical to that of the view on his left, save for the Vader standing knee deep in the water collecting a jug of salty sea-water.
Concluding that his intial belief that the sand disturbance was on his left was correct, Fisherman once again rotated his head to look to his left. It all once again seemed clear. Certain that he had not imagined the sand rustle he turned his head to look back up at the stars but slyly turned his eyes to keep a good peripheral view on his left. The sand-shuffle sound came again as the suspiciously large clam shell he had overlooked began to move. It opened slowly around its circumference as eight thin legs cautiously poked their way out and gently steadied themselves on the sand. They pushed and lifted the bulk of the shell up until it was standing legthways upright, tottering unevenly on it's spindly legs.
Fisherman snapped his head a full 90 degrees to his left once more and cried out in victory, "Caught ya', ye wee little BAHSTERD!"
He had never fully recovered from his bout of Irish and suffered from occasional relapses.
The eight legged creature leapt in surprise, or shock. It's hard to tell when all you have to go by is legs and a clamshell. A sound like a man blowing over the top of a half empty beer bottle came issued out which in turn made Fisherman let out a similar shocked sound through his pipe, which in turn made a second sound issue forth from the clamshell but this time it was a bit closer in tenor to the sound that Fishermans pipe had emitted.
The clamshell creature stood stock still, as did Fisherman. He wasn't sure what he was dealing with, and in such situations he found it best not to make any sudden moves. He'd learned this the hard way, on his first encounter with Sergeant Starfish. After a few tense moments Fisherman let another 'toot' from his pipe, this one dipped down low in the middle and came to a pleasent crescedo. The clam creature mimiced the sound.
"A chill wind be blowing me nipples...", Fisherman ground out between his clenched teeth, "...and I be needing me a good feed."
He eyed off the clam creature, and his stomach gurgled.
THE PUB
A good hearty fisheye stew in his belly, Fisherman sat across the table from the inedible Spiderclam. Fishman was seated on his left and the seat on the right was empty because Jim Jub was interstate at a conference and Ronald Chocaber was in water somewhere. Between the two of them, Fisherman and Fishman had managed to train Spiderclam to whistle out something resembling English and it was now using these words it had just recently learned to string together suspiciously fluent full sentences. Spiderclam was relating to them the his tale of how he came to be on the run from the Crabsharks and washed up on Fishingtown shore.
"So I came to wear this clamshell as a disguise", Spiderclam whistled out in his pitch-perfect tenor, "in order to have a convenient means of disguise and protection. The Crabsharks are mean dudes and they're out to get me man!"
"Makes sense, chap." piped up Fishman although in his head he was thinking with his brain that something seemed off. The Crabsharks he knew from his time in the sea could be brutal, yes, but always acted for a just cause. That previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...
(CRAIG!... I THOUGHT IT WAS FISHMAN, NOT FISHERMAN THAT USED TO BE A FULLTIME FISH....?????) (I have no idea what you're talking about, crazy woman.)
"Yarrr not a worry ye shell-lubber. Ye be alright by my keelhaul.", but Fisherman had his doubts too. Fisherman knew for a fact that he did not even resemble a Crabshark, not even in the dark. He knew this because he often looked at himself in the mirror in the dark and he resembled a kumquat. So why then had Spiderclam been avoiding him?
Both of these thought processes were interrupted by the sound of a boot kicking in the door to the pub. It was Reece. Reece had a shaved head and a goatee and becase of this he liked to fight. He backed up this statement by shouting at the top of his lungs.
"OI!" Reece tilted his head back and rolled his eyes forward, and swept his gaze across the pub. Once he had surveyed the whole pub he brought his gaze back the opposite way, this time meeting each and every persons gaze, "Any of youse BELLENDS want to FIGHT?"
Fully expecting no response from anyone, Reece had come prepared to start a fight the traditional way. He had brought his fighting fists, and his Scottish handshake.
Embarassingly he had only brought one of his fighting feet, or else he would have double kicked the door down. Placing a firm grasp on the nearest bellends shirt collar Reece introduced him to his Scottsh handshake. Everyone present knew the correct response to this.
Simultaneously, one person at each table stood bolt upright and flipped their table while anyone seated with them slid off their stool (or chair, the pub was very accomodating to all lifestyles) and brandished it above their heads menacingly as they charged at the table to their left. Everyone did a fight and it was heaps good. Once the good fight had subsided and all the splinters had been cleared from the floor so no one injured themselves on them because they'd really sting and they might need to see a doctor to get them removed from their bodies with tweezers (the local doctor was known for being very gentle, but that's for another story), Fisherman and Fishman took a look around and realised Spiderclam wasn't anywhere to be found.
Naturally they assumed someone had punched him so hard that he had disintergrated or been sent back in time, like Jesus.
So it came as a surprise to them whern they left the establishment to see a ring of menacing Crabsharks circling Spiderclam on the street, pinching their claws and darting in and out to attack. Spiderclam seemed a little worried. Or excited? Hard to tell, he is a Spiderclam. Fishman decided to go in to negotiate, since Fisherman would probably end up trying to fight or eat everyone present.
"I do say chaps. I do say. I say I say. Eye say! Chaps! Who on earth thinks wearing chaps is fashionable? Cowbys, I'm told, although I've never met one to prove or disprove the fact. I once met a Viking Farmer. He found it very hard to live with himself, always pillaging his own land. Last I saw he had signed up for the space navy an-" Fishmans tirade of entirely relevent prose was rudely interrupted when a Crabshark whirled round and snapped his claws a fins distance in front of Fishmans face.
"Back off son, lessin' I go full pinecone on your tail. We be dolin' out some seven seas JUSTICE to this franger head."
"But may I enquire as to why, good sirs? This clam seems most unusual to be sure but he hardly seems to be threatening. Timid, perhaps cowardly yes. But not thre-" and once again Fishman was cut short.
"MAAAAAN. DUDE. This clambake 'aint no to be doing with friends, and iffin' you see what he be chaffing in behind his grill opened WIDE you'd not even know to wanting to make to want the KISS." and with that, the Crabshark threw up the a gang sign as best he could with a claw.
"He isn't a Spideclam? Pray tell, what is he then my friend! In something a bit closer to English if you can manage, please."
With the most ominous expression that can be mustered when you have the face of a shark, the Crabshark spokesmen spoke only one word. In fact, not one word. One name. He spoke one name, "Plume Beard."
With a huge puff and splutter Fisherman sprang to life, "Plume Beard! You wee BAHSTERD, that be why ye' be sneakin' away when ye' recognise me! Didn't recognise ya though, hidden as ye' be in a clamshell and speaking only in Beerbottle Blues!"
Spiderclams shell began to open wider to reveal Plume Beard hidden within. He was a man wizened beyond his years by sun and surf, a full beard of feathery plumes sprouting from his chin hiding his disproportionately small body. A beer bottle poked out of his beard and sat near his mouth. Presumably he had some mechanism to operate the spider legs hidden in there, or he had them surgically attached.
"Fisherman...", ground out Plume Beard in a voice that sounded like boulders tumbling down a waterwheel. In the dark. "...long time, soft lamb."
As rage overtook Fisherman Reece exited the pub, "OI!" he screamed across the street. He'd sensed another bald, bearded man nearby. Spotting Plume Beard he launched himsef across the street with a roar of "Would you like some POUND CAKE?"
The street erupted in to chaos. Half of the Crabsharks pivoted to engage prevent Reece from reaching Plume Beard while the other half tried to close ranks around him to stop him from fleeing again. Fisherman lost his cool and began a charge at Plume Beard as well, and so the Crabsharks split in half once again in order to contain the threats. Seeing his only chance to escape from this unmolested by claws, Plume Beard burst his clamshell open to reveal each half was attached to one of his stubby arms. Bracing his right arm and holding it in front of him like a shield he charged directly toward one of the Crabsharks surrounding him. It braced to take his assault, rightfully confident that he could stop the puny man. He would have too, if Plume Beard had not darted around the bulk of the Crabshark, deflecting it's huge claw with his clamshield.
Restrained by a handful of Crabsharks, Fisherman watched on and howled in fury as his long time nemesis broke free from the ring of Crabsharks. Sensing the rage building in their captives body the Crabsharks turned to see what had upset him so much. Realising their quarry had escaped, they released Fisherman and the lot of them set off down the street after Plume Beard.
Eight spindly legs furiously peddling away beneath him, Plume Beard cackled with glee as he began to break frmo the pack and pump his arms.wildly. Pipe puffing wildly Fisherman steamed ahead through the lagging Crabsharks and began to close the distance to Plume Beard. He was running on pure rage alone, now. Glancing back to find Fisherman inching closer to him Plume Beard bunched his leg muscles and leapt skyward, arms now pumping so hard that the clamshells were just a blur. Knowing his sturdy sea legs wouldn't be able to launch him high enough to catch Plume Beard, Fisherman slowed himself down and came to a stop. Falling to his knees in exhaustion he sucked in a massive breath of air and screamed at the top of hos lungs "PLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUME!"
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Jim Jub pushed open the door to the Pub and took a look around. Piles of rubble had been swept to the corners of the room and what remained of the furniture had been set out as best as the management could handle. The usual assortment of Fishingtown citizenry had gathered here for the evening, although more than usual were left standing. Among those seated, however, were a large group of Crabsharks accompanied by Fisherman and Fishman. They all bore somber looks apon their brows.
Adjusting his heavy duffle bag to sit more comfortably on his shoulder, Jim Jub approached his friends. Seeing him come nearer, the Crabsharks tensed but were quickly reassured by Fisherman and Fishman.
Using his extensive deductive and conclusionary skills, Jim Jub had come to the conclusive deduction that something was wrong, so he went ahead and asked them, "What's got these Crasharks so spooked?"
"Plume Beard was in town. He escaped.", explained Fisherman.
"Who is Plume Beard?" enquired Jim Jub.
"He is..." Fisherman furrowed his bushy brows and breathed deeply, "...definately not a thing that he isn't not being, or having ever been, but possibly would have one day been given the chance under the correct circumstances that have not yet and may never yet occur to his being."
Jim Jub did a somersault and turned in to an Aztec jaguar warrior, and everyone happily clapped their hands, or claws.
THE END
Episode 2
Episode 2: A Run-in With The Freejasons
Fishman is in a ham locker. How did he get here? What IS a ham locker? WHEN is ham LOCKED? These question and more go through his mind. Another question - is time a property of an object? If so, could you locate it and somehow lock it in place? Maybe with your mind. Then he could maybe reverse it, and use it to reverse the time on the walls of the ham locker in order degrade them back to their base forms and free himself.
Turns out you can't, so he just opened the door.
Stepping out in to the sunlight, he saw Fisherman. He walked over to greet Fisherman.
"Greetings!" greeted Fishman.
"Mornin' to ya'!" replied Fisherman. He was busy in the middle of slapping two fish together. Fishman had never seen this behaviour from any fishermen before, let alone his friend Fisherman, so he enquired about it. Fisherman told him it was band practice for the Fishingtown Grand Orchestra. He was part of the accoustic section, but he was having a bit of trouble tuning his fish properly.
Fishman asked if there was anything he could do to help, to which Fisherman replied, "Sure there is. Sift through that pile of fish over there and find me one that appears to match this one in volume. You get the best fish on fish sound if the internal accoustics in both are roughly equivalent, see."
Fishman agrees, but really it's only because he likes to see if anyone he knows has been caught. Anyone from his previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...
Just at that moment, a Jason came crashing in to the fish pile, scattering salmon and mackeral and carp and guppy and garfish and salmon everywhere, even in the pants of some onlookers. Everyone stopped to marvel at this feat, fish mysteriously delivered directly into a mans pants with no immdeiately visible entrance. Someone would probably have to take this to Mythbusters to figre out precisely how this had happened. While all the confusion was in place the Jason casually slunk into an alley. Fishman noticed this and pointed it out to Fisherman, who was as caught up as everyone else in the teleporting salmon.
Upon being informed of the location of the rapscallion that had upset his pile of apparently mystical fish, Fisherman flew into a rage and set off down the alley after the Jason. Puffs of smoke shot out of his pipe at regular intervals as he exhaled while running, making him look much like a hairy steam train constructed out of a persons flesh and bones and weathered for a few dozen years on the open sea. 22:59 19/11/2011. Why did todays date and time just print itself there?
Fisherman yelled after the Jason "Hey! Hey you, stop!"
The Jason stopped running, turned around and said "Hello?"
Fisherman was at first baffled by this. Normally to catch anything he has to bait it and then put a hook through it's mouth. He already had a hook out in preparation for this! Then he was even more baffled, because he didn't understand how 'hello' could possibly be phrased as a question. Despite his intense bafflement, Fisherman was able to form a cohesive sentence and deliver it via his mouth straight to the Jasons ears.
"Where did you buy those shoes from? I really like them!" is what came out of Fishermans mouth. The Jason looked at his bare feet.
"I have bare feet...", he replied
"No, despite the fact both bears and Jasons are mammals, you do not share identical feet. Those are not bear feet. Now tell me, where did you buy those shoes!" interjected a furious Fisherman.
"No you don't understand, my feet are bare. I am not wearing shoes. In order to obtain the same look on your feet that I have you would need to remove my feet and skin them, cure them, visit a cobbler..." the Jasons sentence trailed off as he realised that Fisherman had pulled out a long fishing knife, the kind used to gut a fish, and was slowly approaching the Jason like a fisherman would when sneaking up on a prize winning Marlin.
Fortunately Fishman happened apon this scene and quickly interjected as any formerly aquatic gentleman worth his salt would do. With nothing but a few tut tuts and I say!s he soon had things sorted and before anyone knew it they were at...
THE PUB
Blinking in surprise at the suddeness of change in location and the pewter mug of ale in his hand, Fisherman looked across the table to find Fishman and the Jason sitting across from him. This had happened to him before, and he quickly settled down because he had become used to blacking out and coming to in the pub. The best thing to do in a situation like this, he had found, was to just roll with it. Covertly taking a sip from his beer, he peered from under bushy eyebrows that more closely resembled a hedge made out of steel wool than anything else and nodded. That's usually enough to convince anyone you're listening and you're serious.
"Indeed!" remarked Fishman, in response to whatever the Jason had just said, "A secret society of free Jasons? How clandestine!"
Fishman chortled. Have you ever seen a fish chortle? It's weird.
"Yes. And you see, I was late. Late! I had a very important date." and with the the Freejason held forth in his hand a date. A date of great import, in point of fact, "and it has only just occured to me that I am still late. Also that I said I had a date, then held the date forth. I should have said that I have a date."
Everyone nodded together because this was all very true, and none of them could really think of a good reply to this. So they went with the Freejason to help him deliver his date to the other Freejasons.
OUTSIDE THE FREEJASONS BUILDING
None of them, bar the Freejason, had ever been inside of a Freejasons building. They had all been outside of one, and around one, and Jim Jub had looked inside the window of one before. The curtains were closed though. So now they all stood outside of the front door of the Fishingtown Grand Freejasons Hall and Center Hub for Grand Freeing and Freeminding Freely For All Sentient Beings(Whom Wish to BE Free, Because For Some There Is Happiness In Slavery).
It must have been difficult to fit all of that onto the sign.
The Freejason took a deep breath, and glanced both left and right at his new companions, because they were on both his left and his right. He was in between them, which placed him directly in the center of the space created between Fisherman and Fishman when they stood that exact distance apart. Jim Jub stood behind the Freejason.
"We only rarely let those who are not of the Freejasons inside of the Fishingtown Grand Freejasons Hall and Center Hub for Grand Freeing and Freeminding Freely For All Sentient Beings(Whom Wish to BE Free, Because For Some There Is Happiness In Slavery) inside of the building, and even more rarey do we let in more than one at a time. But this date is of grape...I mean grate. I mean great import and as such I believe it will not only be allowed but that you deserve to escort this item and ensure it reaches it's destination safely. It is your right", the Freejason has large lungs, "and none shall deny you it!"
"Aye, after gutting me way through yards of Crabsharks to escort your booty here, I will brook no dissent toward our entry into ye' wee little HALL." spat Fisherman, who had somehow contracted Irish Pirate on his way to the wee little Hall. Maybe one of the Crabsharks that had wounded him had a touch of Irish bacteria on it's claw.
"Too right!" quipped Fishman, "I had to enact many a peaceful resolution with violent ruffians on the journy to deliver this date. My treatise signing hand is becoming quite sore."
Jim Jub stayed silent. He is still a little new to the slow motion thing, and hasn't quite figured out how to work it so he can occasionaly get the baddass slow-mo cranking but kill it in time to actually hit things and not be totally lame. The other guys are really supportive of him though, he shows alot of promise.
The Freejason knocked on the front door with his hand. A panel just above eye height slid open, and visible through the gap were a pair of eyes. They each appeared to belong to someone different, as two ears could be seen between them. It was a little hard to tell since the head was pressed up so close to the gap that it blocked out whatever light source there may be behind it.
The eyes raked up and down the Freejason, and then a voice issued forth, "A glass filled with a liquid is on a table. The liquid sits at the half way mark. Is this glass half empty or half full?"
"The glass is full pinecone." the Freejason solemly replied.
With a solid thud the panel slid closed, and a series of muffled clanks, clunks, clucks and chuck wipes could be heard from behind the door. It swung open to reveal tbat the person behind who had opened the door window was in fact only one person. He simply had two ears in between his eyes, and one nostril sat on either side of his head where his ears should be. Chickens scattered around in all directions, clucking enthusiastically and spraying feathers wildly into the air as they ran. Cold, grey slabs of stone worn smooth with the passage of time paved the floor of the entryway, and it was all lit from overhead by a grand chandelier that somewhat resembled a daffodil.
Eyes turned upwrad toward the chandelier, Fisherman spoke.
"Reminds me of me ol' pa'."
Casting a doubtful glance Fishermans way, the Freejason greeted the doorman with the official Freejason handshake and ushered his new comrades down a corridor off to the side of the main entry hall.
"We must deliver this date to the Grand Nutbar directly," the Freejason went on to explain, "as it is needed for the Feast tonight!"
They entered the office of the Grand Nutbar, who was naturally quite relieved to have his date handed to him, and Fisherman, Fishman, and Jim Jub were invited to attend the Feast. They accepted because they all like eating. This is why they are friends, they share interests. When they got in to the eating room, they saw a lavish table set with delicious foods of all kinds, and at the center was a huge tiered cake. Streams of cream ran in rivulets down it's sides, and gathered in a dish at the base where they were smoothly sucked back up to fountain back out of the top of the cake. Strawberries adorned the circumference of each platform of cake, and sliced cherries ran their way inward in a spiral pattern until they reached the center of the tier. Placed in the center of each round section of cake was a small date and there, at the top, was the Important Date.
Seeing it put to use like that made killing all of those Crabsharks seem like a bit of a waste of life.
Then, all the Freejasons ushered into the room wearing plastic aprons with little flowers embroidered all the way around the hem. It looked super queer and so Fisherman, Fishman, Jim Jub and the Freejason left.
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Jim Jub, Fisherman, Fishman and Jason have all hit the pub. Wild Card Witch is behind the bar serving. She got a job there after they were all impressed with her cocktails.
"These are great cocktails!" Jason remarked.
"Ye be tastin' the talents of a Space Witch, boy!" replied Fisherman.
"Oh. Has she black magiced them into tasting good then?" a tense Jason enquired.
"Heavens no!" a shocked Fishman responded, mouth open in that surprised O that fish are so great at, "How ghastly. How uncouth! That would not stand at all, not at all!"
Jason relaxed apon hearing this response.
Fishman chortled "It's all meth-amphetamines!"
THE END
Fishman is in a ham locker. How did he get here? What IS a ham locker? WHEN is ham LOCKED? These question and more go through his mind. Another question - is time a property of an object? If so, could you locate it and somehow lock it in place? Maybe with your mind. Then he could maybe reverse it, and use it to reverse the time on the walls of the ham locker in order degrade them back to their base forms and free himself.
Turns out you can't, so he just opened the door.
Stepping out in to the sunlight, he saw Fisherman. He walked over to greet Fisherman.
"Greetings!" greeted Fishman.
"Mornin' to ya'!" replied Fisherman. He was busy in the middle of slapping two fish together. Fishman had never seen this behaviour from any fishermen before, let alone his friend Fisherman, so he enquired about it. Fisherman told him it was band practice for the Fishingtown Grand Orchestra. He was part of the accoustic section, but he was having a bit of trouble tuning his fish properly.
Fishman asked if there was anything he could do to help, to which Fisherman replied, "Sure there is. Sift through that pile of fish over there and find me one that appears to match this one in volume. You get the best fish on fish sound if the internal accoustics in both are roughly equivalent, see."
Fishman agrees, but really it's only because he likes to see if anyone he knows has been caught. Anyone from his previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...
Just at that moment, a Jason came crashing in to the fish pile, scattering salmon and mackeral and carp and guppy and garfish and salmon everywhere, even in the pants of some onlookers. Everyone stopped to marvel at this feat, fish mysteriously delivered directly into a mans pants with no immdeiately visible entrance. Someone would probably have to take this to Mythbusters to figre out precisely how this had happened. While all the confusion was in place the Jason casually slunk into an alley. Fishman noticed this and pointed it out to Fisherman, who was as caught up as everyone else in the teleporting salmon.
Upon being informed of the location of the rapscallion that had upset his pile of apparently mystical fish, Fisherman flew into a rage and set off down the alley after the Jason. Puffs of smoke shot out of his pipe at regular intervals as he exhaled while running, making him look much like a hairy steam train constructed out of a persons flesh and bones and weathered for a few dozen years on the open sea. 22:59 19/11/2011. Why did todays date and time just print itself there?
Fisherman yelled after the Jason "Hey! Hey you, stop!"
The Jason stopped running, turned around and said "Hello?"
Fisherman was at first baffled by this. Normally to catch anything he has to bait it and then put a hook through it's mouth. He already had a hook out in preparation for this! Then he was even more baffled, because he didn't understand how 'hello' could possibly be phrased as a question. Despite his intense bafflement, Fisherman was able to form a cohesive sentence and deliver it via his mouth straight to the Jasons ears.
"Where did you buy those shoes from? I really like them!" is what came out of Fishermans mouth. The Jason looked at his bare feet.
"I have bare feet...", he replied
"No, despite the fact both bears and Jasons are mammals, you do not share identical feet. Those are not bear feet. Now tell me, where did you buy those shoes!" interjected a furious Fisherman.
"No you don't understand, my feet are bare. I am not wearing shoes. In order to obtain the same look on your feet that I have you would need to remove my feet and skin them, cure them, visit a cobbler..." the Jasons sentence trailed off as he realised that Fisherman had pulled out a long fishing knife, the kind used to gut a fish, and was slowly approaching the Jason like a fisherman would when sneaking up on a prize winning Marlin.
Fortunately Fishman happened apon this scene and quickly interjected as any formerly aquatic gentleman worth his salt would do. With nothing but a few tut tuts and I say!s he soon had things sorted and before anyone knew it they were at...
THE PUB
Blinking in surprise at the suddeness of change in location and the pewter mug of ale in his hand, Fisherman looked across the table to find Fishman and the Jason sitting across from him. This had happened to him before, and he quickly settled down because he had become used to blacking out and coming to in the pub. The best thing to do in a situation like this, he had found, was to just roll with it. Covertly taking a sip from his beer, he peered from under bushy eyebrows that more closely resembled a hedge made out of steel wool than anything else and nodded. That's usually enough to convince anyone you're listening and you're serious.
"Indeed!" remarked Fishman, in response to whatever the Jason had just said, "A secret society of free Jasons? How clandestine!"
Fishman chortled. Have you ever seen a fish chortle? It's weird.
"Yes. And you see, I was late. Late! I had a very important date." and with the the Freejason held forth in his hand a date. A date of great import, in point of fact, "and it has only just occured to me that I am still late. Also that I said I had a date, then held the date forth. I should have said that I have a date."
Everyone nodded together because this was all very true, and none of them could really think of a good reply to this. So they went with the Freejason to help him deliver his date to the other Freejasons.
OUTSIDE THE FREEJASONS BUILDING
None of them, bar the Freejason, had ever been inside of a Freejasons building. They had all been outside of one, and around one, and Jim Jub had looked inside the window of one before. The curtains were closed though. So now they all stood outside of the front door of the Fishingtown Grand Freejasons Hall and Center Hub for Grand Freeing and Freeminding Freely For All Sentient Beings(Whom Wish to BE Free, Because For Some There Is Happiness In Slavery).
It must have been difficult to fit all of that onto the sign.
The Freejason took a deep breath, and glanced both left and right at his new companions, because they were on both his left and his right. He was in between them, which placed him directly in the center of the space created between Fisherman and Fishman when they stood that exact distance apart. Jim Jub stood behind the Freejason.
"We only rarely let those who are not of the Freejasons inside of the Fishingtown Grand Freejasons Hall and Center Hub for Grand Freeing and Freeminding Freely For All Sentient Beings(Whom Wish to BE Free, Because For Some There Is Happiness In Slavery) inside of the building, and even more rarey do we let in more than one at a time. But this date is of grape...I mean grate. I mean great import and as such I believe it will not only be allowed but that you deserve to escort this item and ensure it reaches it's destination safely. It is your right", the Freejason has large lungs, "and none shall deny you it!"
"Aye, after gutting me way through yards of Crabsharks to escort your booty here, I will brook no dissent toward our entry into ye' wee little HALL." spat Fisherman, who had somehow contracted Irish Pirate on his way to the wee little Hall. Maybe one of the Crabsharks that had wounded him had a touch of Irish bacteria on it's claw.
"Too right!" quipped Fishman, "I had to enact many a peaceful resolution with violent ruffians on the journy to deliver this date. My treatise signing hand is becoming quite sore."
Jim Jub stayed silent. He is still a little new to the slow motion thing, and hasn't quite figured out how to work it so he can occasionaly get the baddass slow-mo cranking but kill it in time to actually hit things and not be totally lame. The other guys are really supportive of him though, he shows alot of promise.
The Freejason knocked on the front door with his hand. A panel just above eye height slid open, and visible through the gap were a pair of eyes. They each appeared to belong to someone different, as two ears could be seen between them. It was a little hard to tell since the head was pressed up so close to the gap that it blocked out whatever light source there may be behind it.
The eyes raked up and down the Freejason, and then a voice issued forth, "A glass filled with a liquid is on a table. The liquid sits at the half way mark. Is this glass half empty or half full?"
"The glass is full pinecone." the Freejason solemly replied.
With a solid thud the panel slid closed, and a series of muffled clanks, clunks, clucks and chuck wipes could be heard from behind the door. It swung open to reveal tbat the person behind who had opened the door window was in fact only one person. He simply had two ears in between his eyes, and one nostril sat on either side of his head where his ears should be. Chickens scattered around in all directions, clucking enthusiastically and spraying feathers wildly into the air as they ran. Cold, grey slabs of stone worn smooth with the passage of time paved the floor of the entryway, and it was all lit from overhead by a grand chandelier that somewhat resembled a daffodil.
Eyes turned upwrad toward the chandelier, Fisherman spoke.
"Reminds me of me ol' pa'."
Casting a doubtful glance Fishermans way, the Freejason greeted the doorman with the official Freejason handshake and ushered his new comrades down a corridor off to the side of the main entry hall.
"We must deliver this date to the Grand Nutbar directly," the Freejason went on to explain, "as it is needed for the Feast tonight!"
They entered the office of the Grand Nutbar, who was naturally quite relieved to have his date handed to him, and Fisherman, Fishman, and Jim Jub were invited to attend the Feast. They accepted because they all like eating. This is why they are friends, they share interests. When they got in to the eating room, they saw a lavish table set with delicious foods of all kinds, and at the center was a huge tiered cake. Streams of cream ran in rivulets down it's sides, and gathered in a dish at the base where they were smoothly sucked back up to fountain back out of the top of the cake. Strawberries adorned the circumference of each platform of cake, and sliced cherries ran their way inward in a spiral pattern until they reached the center of the tier. Placed in the center of each round section of cake was a small date and there, at the top, was the Important Date.
Seeing it put to use like that made killing all of those Crabsharks seem like a bit of a waste of life.
Then, all the Freejasons ushered into the room wearing plastic aprons with little flowers embroidered all the way around the hem. It looked super queer and so Fisherman, Fishman, Jim Jub and the Freejason left.
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Jim Jub, Fisherman, Fishman and Jason have all hit the pub. Wild Card Witch is behind the bar serving. She got a job there after they were all impressed with her cocktails.
"These are great cocktails!" Jason remarked.
"Ye be tastin' the talents of a Space Witch, boy!" replied Fisherman.
"Oh. Has she black magiced them into tasting good then?" a tense Jason enquired.
"Heavens no!" a shocked Fishman responded, mouth open in that surprised O that fish are so great at, "How ghastly. How uncouth! That would not stand at all, not at all!"
Jason relaxed apon hearing this response.
Fishman chortled "It's all meth-amphetamines!"
THE END
Episode 1
Episode 1: The Hard Case of the Cased Out Case Factory is HARD
Fishman is eating lunch. He has pastrami. Fisherman approaches and asks if Fishman would like to eat lunch with him. Fisherman has caught fish to eat. Fishman agrees, but really it's only because he likes to see if anyone he knows has been caught. Anyone from his previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...
A fish then leapt out of a nearby creek screaming "I hunger for chocolate!"
Naturally, Fisherman was startled by this for multiple reasons. First of all, he is used to fish avoiding his company at all costs, as he is genetically compelled to both catch and eat them. Secondly, fish cannot speak. He is confounded by this!
However, Fishman knows all too well that not only can fish speak, but that this fish hungering for chocolate is none other than Sir Ronald Chocaber, and he can speak because he is no fish! He is a man that has had extensive surgery to survive in marine conditions. His reasons for doing so are enigmatic at best. Unfortunately a side effect of the surgery is a severe hunger for chocolate, the primary fuel for his artifical gills.
But Fisherman knows none of this. So he just totally flips out. He drops the spoon he was planning on eating his fish with and it gets really dirty. Fisherman doesn't notice because he is still flipping out. He's like picking up handfuls of dirt and leaves and throwing them in the air and making sounds like a bird does when it's really happy but it has a throat cold.
So yeah, after things have calmed down a bit the Fisherman gets himself together and asks Ronald what kind of chocolate he'd like. Ronald wants a certain kind of chocolate, see, and he knows there is a shipment of it being kept in the old Case factory, owned by the late Mr. H. Case Doherty Simon Sr. Esq. Jr. Donaldface.
(Fishermans motive is believing that if he can befriend a talking fish he may be able to coax the location of the fabled UNDERWATER FISH TRUCK STOP out of him and go there to fish for infinity fish, of course not realising that Ronald doesn't know the location of it.)
A committee was formed to discuss a plan on how to case out the Case factory, and on the committee was Fisherman, Fishman, Ronald and Jim Jub. Jim Jub somehow made it on to all committees, he was just one of those people. Once everyone had woken up and showered they met at Jim Jubs house because Jim Jub had enough chairs to seat everyone, and a bath big enough to place Ronald in. So the meeting was held in the bathroom. This meant the couches were very close together and everyone had to be careful that their knees and feet didn't touch because then they'd feel a little bit uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Ronald brought an Arnotts Assorted Creams pack. He'd bought it from Woolworths. They do home deliveries now if you order over the internet so he has them dropped off by the pier. When he opens them though, he's in the bathtub and they all get wet from the water because the water is a bit moist. He probably should have used drier water. Maybe he should have brought some sort of soup. He could have dissolved that into the bathwater and just sipped on it while they chatted. It'd all be good as long as he didn't empty the entire tub, but then if he did he'd be a very fat fish and Rennaisance men would lust after him for his wealthy plumpness.
Meanwhile, Ronald missed the actual goings-on at the committee discussion. Not wanting to look the fool, he just rolled with it and hoped he could just fool everyone in to thinking he was listening. He bluffed his way through most of life this way anyway, particulary when it came to being a fish. As everyone was leaving, Fisherman made sure they all knew to meet back up at the case factory at midnight that night. Jim Jub didn't understand what a meat back was. Fishman had to explain it was M-E-E-T not M-E-A-T. Confusion all round!
FADE TO BLACK
FADE UP TO EXT. CASE FACTORY, MIDNIGHT
The moon is at three-quarters, and it cast it's dim silvery glow down over the factory and the four conspirators gathered at it's perimeter. The soft red glow emnating from the warm embers stuffed into Fishermans pipe cast a menacing glow against his weathered face, and it's cast shadows created a detailed relief map of his grizzled features. Gripping the stem of his pipe firmly between the molars on the left side of his jaw and let the right side of his mouth growl out a series of consonants and vowels. These consonants and vowels coincidentally fomed words which one could have mistaken for a sentence, although given the fact they formed the words "Portly hands on my sweet potatos." you'd have to stretch the imagination pretty thin in all directions to actually believe that was a sentence he legitimately intended to come out of his mouth. You're an idiot for even considering that he meant to say that.
Maybe he just has tourettes.
At any rate, Ronald wasn't sure if this was related to something they'd discussed at the meeting or not, since he hadn't listened to what was being said. Thinking fast, he worked on the assmption that this was some sort of signal to assault the case factory. Gulping up as much water as he could contain within him, he released it all at the ground to launch himself at the window of the case factory. He stiffened himself up as he hit the window, to ensure that he broke it rather than just slap against it like a fish theoretically should.
Jim Jub, Fisherman and Fishman watched on in moderate surprise. They were all still a litte bemused at Fishermans outburst earlier so they really didn't have it in them to be as surprised at the sudden fish siege as they probably should be. The sound of shattered glass rang out clear in the night, and through the now ragged curtains that once covered the window flashes of light could be made out. Surprised cackles echoed out from within the case factory.
"Cackling case factory workers..." pondered Fishman. He knew that this was not standard practice for those who dabbled in the design or construction of cases. In fact, cackling was the trademark call of...
"Witches." Fisherman let the two syllables escape between the half of his mouth not caught up in the act of clenching, "My bet is an illegal biscuit factory."
Fisherman and Fishman exchanged sideways glances at each other.They'd seen this kind of thing before. They knew what to expect. They began their slow motion walk toward the large wooden double doors of the case factory. Jim Jub, on the other hand, was new to this, and he set off at a normal walking pace toward the door. After he'd gained a couple of meters on his cohorts he realised his error and backed up a bit and together they proceeded to execute the Triple Slow-Mo Entrance.
Somewhere off to their right or left, depending which direction you are looking at them from, the sound of some badass drums kicks in, accompanied by a slow buildup of guitar that culminates in a mad bit of electric guitar wailing. It's all really, really badass. Everyone is super impressed or they would be if there was anyone else there. Which there in't. Although the witches may be a little bit impressed, but they wouldn't show it. They're too cool to let it show.
INT. CASE/BISCUIT FACTORY, FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS EARLIER
The case factory is a large, old styled warehouse. Tall, thick wooden support beams stretch up to a ceiling that exists somewhere in the gloom that the feeble light provided by the gas lamps and witches cauldrons cannot pierce. Gathered around the cauldrons are small covens of witches of various varieties, stirring away at their illegal biscuit mixes. Plumes of steam stretch up from each cauldron to presumably gather somewhere in the cavernous gloom above before escaping through narrow cracks and gaps in the poorly constructed ceiling.
Almost complete silence is broken only occasionaly by a quiet cackle and constantly underlined with the gentle bubbling of the cauldrons. It's pretty much like being in a library. That would have been a much easier and more succinct way to describe it all, really.
Glass shattering breaks the serene scene, as Ronald smashes through one of the high-set windows leavnig a trail of expelled water behind him. He lands with a noisy splash in a cauldron, upsettnig all but one of the six witches surrounding it, who all let out surprised cackles. The sixth witch is a bit of a wild card though, and the first thought to cross her mind is what wonderous effects on the taste and texture of their illegal biscuit mix this self-propelled fish will have. As Ronald surfaces and reveals that he has a human face, she becomes even more intrigued about whta implications this will have on the biscuit industry in general. This could be monumental!
So it turns out Ronald has a bit of a vendetta against witches. Apon realising what he has just cast himself in to, he feels overcome with rage. Face contorting into a rictus of rage, he begins spitting out the M&M's he has stored in a special gland he had added in during his man-to-fish surgery. With deadly accuracy and a complete disregard for hygeine, he lands M&M after M&M right down the throats of the five cackling witches, causing them each to choke on the tasty confectionary. Gathering in for another launch, he propels himself out of the cauldron at the wild card witch, who fortunately ducks just in time. Ronald has put a bit of a spin on this launch, you see, and would have totally gouged his way right through the witch had she been a fraction slower.
Unfortunately for the witch standing by the cauldron he'd propelled himself at, she was not fast enough to move from his path. Punching a hole clear through the back of her head, he lands with a savage plop in the delicious biscuit mix cauldron.
All of this has transpired in less than a minute, and it is in to this scene that the remaining crew bust through the wooden double doors in slow motion. The wood splinters under the heel of Fishermans clompy fish-proof boots and showers nearby witches in a deadly hail of really irritating splinters. It's gonna take them ages to pick them all out with a tweezer, especially the ones that kind of get right under the skin and have to be coaxed out without breaking the splinter into smaller pieces. Unless one of them knows some sort of splinter disintegration spell, that'd be handy right now, but how often would you use that?
Fishman twirls his moustache and winks.
Jim Jub is totally milking the slow motion for all it's worth now, and he's still rockin' it all the way up to a coven of witches. They're all a little perplexed as to why he isn't just approaching at normal speed, and now everyone secretly thinks he's being just a little bit lame because he starts throwing a punch in slow motion through the smoke of the cauldron. It looks cool and all that, but it's really easy for the witches to dodge.
Fishman saunters on over to the sole survivor of the intial attack, the Wild Card Witch, and greets her with a gentlemanly "Good evening!" and he tips his hat. Imagine that.
Ronald is furiously burrowing his way out of a witches skull, and right into the terrified mouth of a nearby witch. Swimming down her throat and into her lungs, he bursts out through her back, howling like a Wookie and slamming headfirst into his next victim.
Fishman is deep in conversation with Wild Card Witch, they are both gesturing enthusiastically and are getting along like two fish in a pond, which is apt as one of them is a fish, albeit not one in a pond.
Fisherman is still standing in the shattered doorway, firing really intense glares around the place and puffing away on his pipe, just kind of being a general badass.
"Oh my!" exclaims Fishman, "So sorry!"
In his chat with Wild Card Witch he's discovered these are in fact SPACE witches! That changes everything! He quickly lets Jim Jub and Fiserman know, since neither of them are currently under a berserker rage. Fisherman is left to deal with calming Ronald down, since he has the most experience working with fish and is a bit of a scary mo-fo in his own right. He shuffles on over to where Ronald is swimming around in the cavity of what once was a witches chest, shoulders hunched in the way only a man raised on the open sea in the teeth of the storm instinctively does.
"Ronald." the two syllables split the air around the berserk manfish, the low pitch resonating somewhere within his fracture psyche and making contact with the man buried deep below the layers of berserk fish rage. His mind swimming up through the red blood haze, Ronalds eyes clear and he gurgles out a response through a moutfull of witch blood, M&M's and confetti.
"Fisherman, sup?"
"These are Space Witches man, not normal Witches. Just chill bro."
"Oh, oh. Ohhhh..." Ronald turns toward the witch whose chest he currently resides in, "Hey, sorry yeah? I thought you were a witch. I gots MAD BEEF with witches."
The Space Witch lifts her head and says, "No prob!"
Space Witches are notoriously mild tempered.
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Jim Jub, Ronald, Fisherman, Fishman and Wild Card Witch have all hit the pub. Wild Card Witch knows some pretty good cocktails, and she's imparting her beverage smarts apon the staff at the pub. Being a fishing town, they have only a limited selection of products to work with, and no fruit, so they've had to make do with the local ingredients on hand. Potato, mushrooms, fish scales and the like.
They turn out surprisingly well. Wild Card Witch is just like that, you know. Always surprising people.
The rest of the Space Witches are recovering from the nights frivolties, having procured a case of high quality Colin to help them recover.
"Well, fellahs, it seems we've learned a few lessons today. I've learned that Space Witches are good sports." Fishman chuckles around mouthfulls of Yam Delight cocktail.
"I've learned that Ronald can fire M&M's with pinpoint accuracy!" chimed in Jim Jub.
"I've learned that Space Witches contain a surprising volume of blood!" remarked Ronald.
"I've learned that I never learn anything. Although I suppose that means I did learn something." Wild Card Witch pondered.
Fisherman said "FUCK."
THE END
Fishman is eating lunch. He has pastrami. Fisherman approaches and asks if Fishman would like to eat lunch with him. Fisherman has caught fish to eat. Fishman agrees, but really it's only because he likes to see if anyone he knows has been caught. Anyone from his previous life in the ocean as a full time fish. Those days are long behind him now. Or so he thought...
A fish then leapt out of a nearby creek screaming "I hunger for chocolate!"
Naturally, Fisherman was startled by this for multiple reasons. First of all, he is used to fish avoiding his company at all costs, as he is genetically compelled to both catch and eat them. Secondly, fish cannot speak. He is confounded by this!
However, Fishman knows all too well that not only can fish speak, but that this fish hungering for chocolate is none other than Sir Ronald Chocaber, and he can speak because he is no fish! He is a man that has had extensive surgery to survive in marine conditions. His reasons for doing so are enigmatic at best. Unfortunately a side effect of the surgery is a severe hunger for chocolate, the primary fuel for his artifical gills.
But Fisherman knows none of this. So he just totally flips out. He drops the spoon he was planning on eating his fish with and it gets really dirty. Fisherman doesn't notice because he is still flipping out. He's like picking up handfuls of dirt and leaves and throwing them in the air and making sounds like a bird does when it's really happy but it has a throat cold.
So yeah, after things have calmed down a bit the Fisherman gets himself together and asks Ronald what kind of chocolate he'd like. Ronald wants a certain kind of chocolate, see, and he knows there is a shipment of it being kept in the old Case factory, owned by the late Mr. H. Case Doherty Simon Sr. Esq. Jr. Donaldface.
(Fishermans motive is believing that if he can befriend a talking fish he may be able to coax the location of the fabled UNDERWATER FISH TRUCK STOP out of him and go there to fish for infinity fish, of course not realising that Ronald doesn't know the location of it.)
A committee was formed to discuss a plan on how to case out the Case factory, and on the committee was Fisherman, Fishman, Ronald and Jim Jub. Jim Jub somehow made it on to all committees, he was just one of those people. Once everyone had woken up and showered they met at Jim Jubs house because Jim Jub had enough chairs to seat everyone, and a bath big enough to place Ronald in. So the meeting was held in the bathroom. This meant the couches were very close together and everyone had to be careful that their knees and feet didn't touch because then they'd feel a little bit uncomfortable with the whole situation.
Ronald brought an Arnotts Assorted Creams pack. He'd bought it from Woolworths. They do home deliveries now if you order over the internet so he has them dropped off by the pier. When he opens them though, he's in the bathtub and they all get wet from the water because the water is a bit moist. He probably should have used drier water. Maybe he should have brought some sort of soup. He could have dissolved that into the bathwater and just sipped on it while they chatted. It'd all be good as long as he didn't empty the entire tub, but then if he did he'd be a very fat fish and Rennaisance men would lust after him for his wealthy plumpness.
Meanwhile, Ronald missed the actual goings-on at the committee discussion. Not wanting to look the fool, he just rolled with it and hoped he could just fool everyone in to thinking he was listening. He bluffed his way through most of life this way anyway, particulary when it came to being a fish. As everyone was leaving, Fisherman made sure they all knew to meet back up at the case factory at midnight that night. Jim Jub didn't understand what a meat back was. Fishman had to explain it was M-E-E-T not M-E-A-T. Confusion all round!
FADE TO BLACK
FADE UP TO EXT. CASE FACTORY, MIDNIGHT
The moon is at three-quarters, and it cast it's dim silvery glow down over the factory and the four conspirators gathered at it's perimeter. The soft red glow emnating from the warm embers stuffed into Fishermans pipe cast a menacing glow against his weathered face, and it's cast shadows created a detailed relief map of his grizzled features. Gripping the stem of his pipe firmly between the molars on the left side of his jaw and let the right side of his mouth growl out a series of consonants and vowels. These consonants and vowels coincidentally fomed words which one could have mistaken for a sentence, although given the fact they formed the words "Portly hands on my sweet potatos." you'd have to stretch the imagination pretty thin in all directions to actually believe that was a sentence he legitimately intended to come out of his mouth. You're an idiot for even considering that he meant to say that.
Maybe he just has tourettes.
At any rate, Ronald wasn't sure if this was related to something they'd discussed at the meeting or not, since he hadn't listened to what was being said. Thinking fast, he worked on the assmption that this was some sort of signal to assault the case factory. Gulping up as much water as he could contain within him, he released it all at the ground to launch himself at the window of the case factory. He stiffened himself up as he hit the window, to ensure that he broke it rather than just slap against it like a fish theoretically should.
Jim Jub, Fisherman and Fishman watched on in moderate surprise. They were all still a litte bemused at Fishermans outburst earlier so they really didn't have it in them to be as surprised at the sudden fish siege as they probably should be. The sound of shattered glass rang out clear in the night, and through the now ragged curtains that once covered the window flashes of light could be made out. Surprised cackles echoed out from within the case factory.
"Cackling case factory workers..." pondered Fishman. He knew that this was not standard practice for those who dabbled in the design or construction of cases. In fact, cackling was the trademark call of...
"Witches." Fisherman let the two syllables escape between the half of his mouth not caught up in the act of clenching, "My bet is an illegal biscuit factory."
Fisherman and Fishman exchanged sideways glances at each other.They'd seen this kind of thing before. They knew what to expect. They began their slow motion walk toward the large wooden double doors of the case factory. Jim Jub, on the other hand, was new to this, and he set off at a normal walking pace toward the door. After he'd gained a couple of meters on his cohorts he realised his error and backed up a bit and together they proceeded to execute the Triple Slow-Mo Entrance.
Somewhere off to their right or left, depending which direction you are looking at them from, the sound of some badass drums kicks in, accompanied by a slow buildup of guitar that culminates in a mad bit of electric guitar wailing. It's all really, really badass. Everyone is super impressed or they would be if there was anyone else there. Which there in't. Although the witches may be a little bit impressed, but they wouldn't show it. They're too cool to let it show.
INT. CASE/BISCUIT FACTORY, FIFTY-SEVEN SECONDS EARLIER
The case factory is a large, old styled warehouse. Tall, thick wooden support beams stretch up to a ceiling that exists somewhere in the gloom that the feeble light provided by the gas lamps and witches cauldrons cannot pierce. Gathered around the cauldrons are small covens of witches of various varieties, stirring away at their illegal biscuit mixes. Plumes of steam stretch up from each cauldron to presumably gather somewhere in the cavernous gloom above before escaping through narrow cracks and gaps in the poorly constructed ceiling.
Almost complete silence is broken only occasionaly by a quiet cackle and constantly underlined with the gentle bubbling of the cauldrons. It's pretty much like being in a library. That would have been a much easier and more succinct way to describe it all, really.
Glass shattering breaks the serene scene, as Ronald smashes through one of the high-set windows leavnig a trail of expelled water behind him. He lands with a noisy splash in a cauldron, upsettnig all but one of the six witches surrounding it, who all let out surprised cackles. The sixth witch is a bit of a wild card though, and the first thought to cross her mind is what wonderous effects on the taste and texture of their illegal biscuit mix this self-propelled fish will have. As Ronald surfaces and reveals that he has a human face, she becomes even more intrigued about whta implications this will have on the biscuit industry in general. This could be monumental!
So it turns out Ronald has a bit of a vendetta against witches. Apon realising what he has just cast himself in to, he feels overcome with rage. Face contorting into a rictus of rage, he begins spitting out the M&M's he has stored in a special gland he had added in during his man-to-fish surgery. With deadly accuracy and a complete disregard for hygeine, he lands M&M after M&M right down the throats of the five cackling witches, causing them each to choke on the tasty confectionary. Gathering in for another launch, he propels himself out of the cauldron at the wild card witch, who fortunately ducks just in time. Ronald has put a bit of a spin on this launch, you see, and would have totally gouged his way right through the witch had she been a fraction slower.
Unfortunately for the witch standing by the cauldron he'd propelled himself at, she was not fast enough to move from his path. Punching a hole clear through the back of her head, he lands with a savage plop in the delicious biscuit mix cauldron.
All of this has transpired in less than a minute, and it is in to this scene that the remaining crew bust through the wooden double doors in slow motion. The wood splinters under the heel of Fishermans clompy fish-proof boots and showers nearby witches in a deadly hail of really irritating splinters. It's gonna take them ages to pick them all out with a tweezer, especially the ones that kind of get right under the skin and have to be coaxed out without breaking the splinter into smaller pieces. Unless one of them knows some sort of splinter disintegration spell, that'd be handy right now, but how often would you use that?
Fishman twirls his moustache and winks.
Jim Jub is totally milking the slow motion for all it's worth now, and he's still rockin' it all the way up to a coven of witches. They're all a little perplexed as to why he isn't just approaching at normal speed, and now everyone secretly thinks he's being just a little bit lame because he starts throwing a punch in slow motion through the smoke of the cauldron. It looks cool and all that, but it's really easy for the witches to dodge.
Fishman saunters on over to the sole survivor of the intial attack, the Wild Card Witch, and greets her with a gentlemanly "Good evening!" and he tips his hat. Imagine that.
Ronald is furiously burrowing his way out of a witches skull, and right into the terrified mouth of a nearby witch. Swimming down her throat and into her lungs, he bursts out through her back, howling like a Wookie and slamming headfirst into his next victim.
Fishman is deep in conversation with Wild Card Witch, they are both gesturing enthusiastically and are getting along like two fish in a pond, which is apt as one of them is a fish, albeit not one in a pond.
Fisherman is still standing in the shattered doorway, firing really intense glares around the place and puffing away on his pipe, just kind of being a general badass.
"Oh my!" exclaims Fishman, "So sorry!"
In his chat with Wild Card Witch he's discovered these are in fact SPACE witches! That changes everything! He quickly lets Jim Jub and Fiserman know, since neither of them are currently under a berserker rage. Fisherman is left to deal with calming Ronald down, since he has the most experience working with fish and is a bit of a scary mo-fo in his own right. He shuffles on over to where Ronald is swimming around in the cavity of what once was a witches chest, shoulders hunched in the way only a man raised on the open sea in the teeth of the storm instinctively does.
"Ronald." the two syllables split the air around the berserk manfish, the low pitch resonating somewhere within his fracture psyche and making contact with the man buried deep below the layers of berserk fish rage. His mind swimming up through the red blood haze, Ronalds eyes clear and he gurgles out a response through a moutfull of witch blood, M&M's and confetti.
"Fisherman, sup?"
"These are Space Witches man, not normal Witches. Just chill bro."
"Oh, oh. Ohhhh..." Ronald turns toward the witch whose chest he currently resides in, "Hey, sorry yeah? I thought you were a witch. I gots MAD BEEF with witches."
The Space Witch lifts her head and says, "No prob!"
Space Witches are notoriously mild tempered.
----------------------EPILOGUE----------------------
Jim Jub, Ronald, Fisherman, Fishman and Wild Card Witch have all hit the pub. Wild Card Witch knows some pretty good cocktails, and she's imparting her beverage smarts apon the staff at the pub. Being a fishing town, they have only a limited selection of products to work with, and no fruit, so they've had to make do with the local ingredients on hand. Potato, mushrooms, fish scales and the like.
They turn out surprisingly well. Wild Card Witch is just like that, you know. Always surprising people.
The rest of the Space Witches are recovering from the nights frivolties, having procured a case of high quality Colin to help them recover.
"Well, fellahs, it seems we've learned a few lessons today. I've learned that Space Witches are good sports." Fishman chuckles around mouthfulls of Yam Delight cocktail.
"I've learned that Ronald can fire M&M's with pinpoint accuracy!" chimed in Jim Jub.
"I've learned that Space Witches contain a surprising volume of blood!" remarked Ronald.
"I've learned that I never learn anything. Although I suppose that means I did learn something." Wild Card Witch pondered.
Fisherman said "FUCK."
THE END
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