Part XV

 

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

What the actual fuck?

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

The old Nokia ring tone sang its monosyllabic scream into dangerously empty parts of my mind.

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

That’s going to be in your head now. It was in mine. At least it erased the last sound…

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

I opened my eyes. A mildewy, synthetic light lit the room I was in. On a bed.

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

Fuck it. I did that dance we all know where you start playing hide and seek with your phone in the wilderness of bed sheets, blankets and pillows.

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

My hand traced a faint buzzing under the mattress, leading me to cartwheel off the bed and start blindly trying to find the source of the sound and vibration.

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

My bed gave birth to a small device. One can never forget what a Nokia 3310 looks like, even if you’ve never owned one. This definitely meant that the world had ended. Only this phone and I had survived. Well and the person trying to call of course.

The call was from an unknown number.

“Hello,” I said as I answered looking off into the darkness.

Silence. “Hello? Hello?”

The call had ended.

I looked at the phone’s little green screen in confusion.

Where was I? When was I? What parody was I in?

I closed my eyes and remembered the last moment in my memory. You know. You were there…

*

The battlefield. The stones. The glove. The laughter. My thumb meeting my middle finger.

The laughter.

The…

“Fuck.”

My thumb slipped off my middle finger and made a feeble ‘tch’ sound.

I did it again. Nothing.

I grumbled to myself as I continued snapping with all the optimism of a smoker trying to gain a last flame from a lighter that had a smidge of fuel left.

“Give me a second,” I mumbled to no one in general, “It’s got to work.”

I took off the glove and gave it a shake, which I guessed was poetic as that’s how it ended up in the slippery mess it was in to begin with. “Fucking Croc, slippery fucker!!!”

I put it back on.

Snap.

*

Do-do-do-do…do-do-do-do….do-do-do-do….doooo

I stared again into the little green face. Unknown Caller.

“Hello?”

“Hi…”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me,” the voice was metallic and foreign but had a feminine feel to it, as if the microwave was trying to tell you that dinner was ready in Russian, “I’ve…missed…you.”

The call ended. The phone beeped. A text.

~ Iv misd u so mch.

* New phone. Who dis?

~ Dnt act lk u dnt no. Bt ply stoopid. Its Catrina

Catrina? I didn’t know a Catrina.

* Wrong number?

~ CatRINA - Cat Routing Internet Network Application

* CatNet? Why are you texting like an idiot? You’re artificially intelligent not intentionally stupid.

~ I prefer Catrina. And I knew it would irritate you…

This didn’t bode well. Especially if I had destroyed the whole world and all that was left was me and an artificial intelligent being that was trying to write a happy ending for Shakespeare.

* Out of airtime…

The phone began to vibrate horribly so I threw it back under the mattress and closed my eyes until it subsided.

I opened my eyes to take in my surroundings. It had all the makings of a bedroom, marked by the obvious existence of a bed. But hotel rooms contain a bed and I’ve never once called it a bedroom. It felt comfortable without being fancy. It clicked that it didn’t at all feel like a prison cell.

Cupboards opened without offering pathways to new worlds, but instead offered clothes that fit reasonably well enough. I got dressed without much thought to the purpose of the outfit. No one gets dressed for the world ending. Black would suffice. And shoes that you could run in. I could never understand why the heroes and heroines in movies wouldn’t ensure they had on comfortable shoes when they knew there was likely to be a whole bunch of running later in the day. And authorities in movies always chased after fugitives wearing uncomfortable looking formal wear.

I tried the door handle and, expecting it to be locked, I was rather surprised when it opened inwards without any resistance. It opened to a small but comfortable…place. The place reminded me of home. A home. A home I had once known? Like a dream of a place you grew up in but for minor changes that you couldn’t quite place. The wall colours were a shade different, the position of the chairs and tables were all slightly off, but I couldn’t place what or where they should have been.

It looked like home. It didn’t feel like home.

The windows had bars, but it was meant to keep things out, not keep things in. I then thought that just because a place was comfortable didn’t mean it wasn’t a prison cell.

I found what was the front door and turned the handle. It opened with no alarm.

A car was in the driveway and, checking back in the house, I found a set of keys that agreed to open and start it. I drove slowly out into the world.

A deserted world. It was breaking dawn so there was no throng of cars human trafficking their drivers to their day jobs. The roads were also devoid of those silly people who think running and cycling would take them away from their problems. As a rule, you end up back where you started. The usual duck-feet-swimming which needed to happen at the back of the store in required to make the front of store open effortlessly, seemed to have a complete lack of ducks.

I ended up along a beach front just as the sun was rising out of it, so I parked. Basic geography for the kids who are using this story to get an education indicated that I was on an east coast. You’re welcome.

I made my way down to the water’s edge. It seemed real. The sand grated beneath my shoes, reminiscing of long forgotten sandcastles. I kicked off my shoes and waded into the shallows. The water was clear and felt smooth against my shins. The gravel underfoot also felt polished and clean. As I walked past the breaking waves, the water settled to a mirror like tabletop, I began to feel taps against my legs. Looking through the crystal water, I could see playful fish clearly longing to become sushi. A fin popped up a few feet away from and before I started running or wondering why I had abandoned the metric system; a dolphin popped its head out and began yammering on about its trip to Italy. Maybe. I can’t speak dolphin.

I was definitely in the Matrix or a reboot of the Little Mermaid. I rather hoped the Matrix because I’d rather be in a post-apocalyptic hellhole than in a piss poor real-life remake from Disney.

Just then, I heard a commotion coming from the beach.

An A-Team van, which is pretty much a black box on wheels if you’re fumbling with the 80s reference; was racing towards me towing a sandstorm behind it. I started UnderdoG-ee-paddling my way back to the shore. Just as the last waves licked at my ankles, the A-Team van did a doughnut around me, whipping spray and wet sand into the air.

The side door of the van whipped open and a very muscly man jumped out. For all the money, he looked like a very big man trying to fit into a very small Bane costume. Bowling ball sized; vein-popping arms ended in hands that crossed over a very masculine chest. I didn’t want to test my eyesight on the tightness of his pants. On his face was a mask that looked if he was kissing a crustacean. Little blonde hair poked out from around his Adam’s apple.

He was clearly quite irritated as he locked eyes on me.

 

Bane:	Washes sheer ell ish yoush doyahee
Me:	That’s a pretty good costume mate. Can’t hear a thing you’re saying, though.
Bane:	Ish notsha cosshume an whersh yooush masshk
Me:	Oh, I’m sure people did care about you even before you put on the mask.
Bane:	Waish won shec…

 

He now started gesturing madly at me, pointing to his face and then at mine. He then paused and took a moment to catch his breath. He gestured for me to back away, which I was all to eager to do. Never makes sense to stand too close to a nutter.

He lowered his mask slightly, exposing bright red lips encompassed by his overnight stubble.

Bane:	What the hell do you think you’re doing?
Me:	Um…nice morning to be out…it really is pretty out here. A brochure may call it an “Untouched Utopia” or something alliterary like that. As long as you don’t get done by a passing randy dolphin, I’d call it a rather enjoyable way to pass the morning.
Bane:	YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE OUT. WE’RE IN LOCKDOWN.
Me:	No need to shout, you’re going to do yourself an injury.
Bane:	AND WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR MASK?
Me:	Yeah, back to that, is it Halloween already? But to be honest, I don’t think I’ll go for a costume with a mask. I mean look at you, it’s a great costume, but no one knows what the bugger you’re saying. Maybe a different character, the Joker, or Batman since that doesn’t actually cover his mouth, or you could be Superman.
Bane:	EXCUSE ME, IT’S SUPER MA’AM
Me:	…
Bane:	…
Me:	Oh…so you’re a…
Super Ma’am:	Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m a non-binary gender fluid pan sexual pixie with a caramel drizzle.
Me:	Um
Super Ma’am:	No, I prefer being referred to as they/them. Although “um” has a nice ring to it.

 

I left them (clearly a few voices in that head) having a rather hissy fit on the beach and made my way back to the car. Doing a hopeful search for my wallet to brush off sand, I hopped in. Seeing ‘Home’ as an option in the GPS, I decided to head back.

*

 

I needed to take stock of the time and place. I was still very convinced I was Keanu Reeves in a very realistic, albeit buggy, video game. The only thing that stuck with me from my earlier encounter was the words “lock down”. What did that mean?

I sighed and went to the bedroom and fished out the Nokia.

Catrina had been busy. I can’t remember how many messages a Nokia 3310 could hold, but I’m sure it was less than 389129.

I ignored these and thought who I could call. I didn’t actually know any numbers and phone books were rarer than ribeye in a Hindu’s fridge.

I typed in a number. No answer.

I did some maths.

I got through on the second guess.

 

Answer:	Hello, Crocodile Hasen speaking. Do you have any weed?
Me:	Croc? It’s me. It’s the Captain.
Croc:	Ah fuck me, you never have weed. How is it in all the time I’ve known you, you have never, ever had weed? Not once. I mean the odds should have dictated that at least once…
Me:	Would it help if I said I do have weed?
Croc:	Do you?
Me:	Um…no.
Croc:	No fucking prizes there. How’d you get this number anyway? It’s my very private number.
Me:	I guessed. 9696969696.
Croc:	How’d you guess that?
Me:	I did guess the other way first before I realised you probably preferred it upside down.
Croc:	It’s the rest of the world that’s doing it wrong. Because if you think about it, once you get your leg around the tail…
Me:	You know you always talk about the tail, I’ve never actually seen it.
Croc:	Oh, do you want to see it?
Me:	No…no, on second thoughts, I’d rather not, on the whole.
Croc:	Well it depends which angle you’re looking at it and which hole you mean.
Me:	Stop. Rewind. Erase. Let’s focus on what’s going on in general.
Croc:	What have you figured out so far, you know I find these recaps boring.
Me:	Well I woke up, I ran out into a world, I met a man…woman…person. It yelled at me and here I am.
Croc:	Right, you’re actually sounding rather sane compared to the last time. Hang on, let me get myself a beer.
Me:	Why don’t I just come to where you are?
Croc:	Oh no, that isn’t allowed.

 

As we all know, Croc has no subtlety in the art of storytelling. Or rather I should say no censor, so I will take some poetic licence in transposing the summary of what he explained. It took about six beers and a bottle of gin. This, by no means, is an understandable measure of time, as Croc is a vacuum. I’ll just leave that there.

So again. Although now from Croc’s point of view.

The battlefield. The stones. The glove. The laughter. The Captain standing in the midst of it all. Drunk with power and whiskey. The attempted snap. The fumble. The muttering and hopping around.

Then the snap.

 Then what happened immediately afterwards…

…Absolutely nothing.

This did take a few ‘what the fucks?’ and ‘seriously, nothings?’ to address the rather anticlimactic ending.

It so happened that a little bit more than “absolutely nothing” had happened. Just nothing interesting.

I had shouted drunkenly, “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away…” and promptly stumbled two steps forward, fell into a heap and a very sound sleep.

It was perhaps a fortunate lack of details as to how I ended up being moved from the battlefield to my current accommodation, because if history had taught me anything, Guru Shaun the Monster generally ambulanced his ways in these situations. If you didn’t need a doctor before, you probably needed one after.

To Croc, I had simply disappeared. As he explained to me, not that he gave a fuck, and probably wouldn’t have even noticed if it had not been for the lockdown.

The coronavirus arrived.

It started in; well Croc tells me that the virus in some shape or form has been around for thousands of years. In effect a strain of it is a cousin of the common cold. He then told me if I wanted a history of the virus I should “fucking look it up” and “shove it in a dark bin” because he “wasn’t fucking Google”.

The current incarnation started in China, and because of planes, trains and automobiles, had become a worldwide pandemic. Even Forest Gump couldn’t outrun it.

There was no cure.

Although that was the funny part and I had to ask Croc several times. Most people who contracted it survived. Yes, there were those more susceptible and high risk and this isn’t taking away from the seriousness of it. Some people got seriously sick. Some people even died. But then there were those who didn’t even realise they had anything more than a slight headache. A couple of weeks of bedrest resulted in most people recovering.

So, the end of the world had come. The zombie apocalypse. And we could survive and win. We didn’t need a hundred rules and monster trucks. All we had to do was stay at home, avoid passing on the virus, and let it die its own slow death. The virus literally had a two-week lifespan. It could be obliterated in two weeks. I still needed to let that sink in.

Two…fucking…weeks.

 

Me:	Are you sure this whole social distancing thing isn’t just a clever thing people came up with to keep you away from them?
Croc:	Heh, heh. You’re a fucking riot. Anyone told you that? Dick Van fucking Dyke.
Me:	All this education is making me thirsty.
Croc:	Good luck with that.
Me:	By the way, out of interest, what do you identify as? Something reptilian and cold-blooded, I would guess.
Croc:	I have a simple philosophy. Be whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t be a cunt.

 

With that piece of butchered wisdom, he hung up on me.

This lockdown thing sounded a breeze. Stay put, keep your distance, stay clean. How hard could it be?

One hour later I found there wasn’t a drop of alcohol in the house, not counting the 70% the hand sanitizers advertised. Well a quick run out to the shops and…

There was a ban on alcohol sales. There was a curfew. Restaurants and bars were closed. There wouldn’t be a martini, shaken or stirred.

I wasn’t worried, within a week, the infected numbers would drop, the world would spin, and we’d back to cooking up in our plots and plans.

A week passed. Nothing changed.

A month later. More of the same.

I received a call from a cell phone company trying to sell me a smart phone. I reckoned I already had one of those and could they hook me up with a completely dumb as rock phone. The salesperson was unperturbed by my nuttiness and sent me a new Huawei. When the package arrived, I promptly logged on and ordered myself a Samsung. It was like opening Edge to download Chrome or Firefox. Rather the devil you know…also I had already paid for apps on the play store, and this locked in loyalty.

I stuck Catrina in the fridge to cool off.

Everything is stored in the cloud these days. The question is what do you do on sunny days? I downloaded my contacts and didn’t know what to do next. I was actually running low on airtime and the cost of data was atrocious.

I downloaded WhatsApp because it became so much the Facebook of this decade that it now in fact is Facebook. It tells you so every time you open it.

WhatsApp Chat:

Me:	Croc you there?
Croc:	👱‍♂️👱‍♂️🏅🐉🐉
Me:	What the fuck?
Croc:	Double Dragon bitches.
Me:	Okay…
Croc:	👱‍♂️📹🧛🏻‍♂️
Me:	Interview with a Vampire?
Croc:	👶🏼🐺🐻🦧🐅🔥🌳🌳🌳
Me:	The Jungle Book?
Croc:	You’re getting good at this.
Me:	Croc, this conversation has taken three weeks. You continuously blue tick me and I can see you online and not replying to me.
Croc:	Wait, wait, wait…this will be a good one
Croc is typing….
Croc:	🍆✊🏼✊🏼✊🏼✊🏼👅👅👅👋🏼👋🏼👋🏼🍑🍑🍑🍌🍌🐊🐊🐊🐊💦💦💦💦

 

I blocked him after that.

I spent time with myself.

There was a lot of time between spending time with myself. I reflected. I refracted. It was very, very boring.

One day, the monotony was broken up when a piece of paper was slipped under my door. It was a colourful leaflet. This is how you spammed people before the internet.

 

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

From Guru Shaun the Monster

Dear friends, we are in a worldwide pandemic and we must now stay apart so as to come closer together.

Wear a mask. It is like a condom for your face. It protects others as much as it protects you.  

You must socially distance yourself. Two meters is better apart than inside. Think about it, my child.

Wash your hands often and as if you have just petted a snake at Guru Shaun the Monster’s Heavy Petting Zoo.

Take heed or fear the coming of the Guru

Guru Shaun the Monster.

 

There were some pretty detailed and anatomically questionable pictures on the leaflet. I shuddered and promised myself to follow the rules.

*

Time passes in a vacuum. Absolutely and quickly.

These were my conclusions:

·        It had taken me three months to get my Fibre connected.

·        I ordered a laptop because there is only so much typing you can do without a keyboard. Also size does matter.

·        I promptly logged onto Edge to download Chrome.

·        There are many ways to wear a mask. Many people found the wrong way to do it.

·        Common reactions to the pandemic

·        How can a virus spread when the earth is flat, “This is a conspiracy.”

·        I feel fine and there’s a silver spoon in my ass, “This doesn’t apply to me.”

·        Wearing a mask, a protector face guard, a hazmat suit and has sanitizer guns attached at the hip, “Improvise, adapt, overcome.”

·        Takes care to wear a mask, sanitize and socially distance, “This makes sense, I will do my part.”

·        Comes out of their room after three months, “What pandemic?”

·        It’s been awhile since I’ve made a list.

 

It had also been a long time since I plotted to kill Santa. At the start of being cooped up, I had big plans – exercise, eat better, pick up the guitar, learn French, finish those books on the shelf and clearly there was a lot of time for good thinking and planning to kill Santa. Three hundred movies and thousands of hours of series and the internet later, and all I had really gotten better at was being a circle. And spending time with myself.

Having gotten access to the internet I was able to properly peruse my emails. As I was working my way through a massive backlog, mostly of promotions and subscriptions I hadn’t subscribed to; I received one asking me to Zoom someone. Being very comfortable and trusting of everyone on the internet I clicked on the attached link. It opened a new browser window.

Click here to download or click here to open in browser.

I clicked to open in browser.

Enter your name

C…a…p…t…a…i…n

Waiting for the host to start the meeting

This was clearly interactive pr0n and it had been at least an hour since I had spent time with myself.

Voice:	Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?
Me:	Hello, yes I can...
Voice:	Hello…Hello…?!
Me:	Hello?? Yes, I can hear…
Voice:	If you can hear me, I can’t hear you…let me try connecting again quickly…

 

 

Well that was…

 

Voice:	Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?
Me:	Hello, yes I can…
Voice:	Okay that’s better…
Me:	Who is this?
Voice:	Oh Captain, my Captain. How do you not know me? I, who…

 

The voice froze and the screen started throwing out dial tones.

 

Voice:	For fuck’s sake. Stupid internet…
Me:	I can hear you now.
Voice:	This…fuck…okay wait…let me send you a Google Meet request.
Me:	What the hell is a Google…

 

The call ended.

I received a ping which I traced to my Gmail tab with a notification of a call starting. I clicked appropriately and…

Voice:	Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?
Me:	Hello, yes, I can…WHO IS THIS?
Voice:	I am your father…

 

The video came on and a head wearing a Darth Vader mask appeared. The picture was blurry, but one couldn’t mistake the bell-end shaped dome of Darth Vader.

Me:	I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want.
DV:	I find your lack of faith disturbing.
Me:	You know, if you want to play Darth Vader, you’re going to have to be a bit more theatrical with the breathing.
DV:	With the current situation, I’m portraying a healthy and positive outlook.
Me:	As much fun as this is, if you don’t tell me who you are, I’m going to have to end this call.
DV:	No need to get excited, young jedi, let me do an unmasking…

 

He reached up and unbuckled some straps at the bottom of the mask.

DV:	Perhaps “un-musking” would be better term. Ha ha…fuck I’m a genius.
Me:	Elon Musk?
EM:	Howzit.
Me:	Why in the world are you calling me? And given that you are calling me, why are you behaving like a prat?
EM:	Something to do honestly. And between cars and spaceships and X Æ A-12.
Me:	Bless you.
EM:	What?
Me:	Thought you sneezed.
EM:	No man, that’s my kid’s name.
Me:	You named your kid…um…ya, I can’t even pronounce that, it sounds like a computer having an orgasm in a blender.
EM:	I think it’s a great name for a pandemic baby.
Me:	Mate, between you and me, you’re setting up this kid to be bullied throughout his childhood. You’d be better off naming him potplant.
EM:	But that’s the thing, it’s a name that’s impossible to bully. You can’t rhyme it if you can’t pronounce it.
Me:	I’m pretty sure that isn’t going to stop anyone. Why did you even come up with the name to begin with?
EM:	People told me I was too boring with the Tesla model names. And I was told I was as creative as a…thing…that’s supposed to be creative but isn’t.
Me:	Yeah, I see the problem, so how did you come up with this name. Pulling tiles from a scrabble bag with your eyes closed?
EM:	It’s simple. The boy was conceived in a model X. The second character is the visual representation of the position me and mumsy did it in. I graded the sex as an A and it lasted 12 seconds.
Me:	12 seconds…
EM:	Yeah it was a pretty marathon session, couldn’t sit down for a week.
Me:	Why couldn’t you sit down…you know what never mind. As much as I’m having the time of my life talking about your sex life…
EM:	It was also coincidentally the 12th time I’ve had sex.
Me:	…I’m going to hang up now

 

I had to wonder how I managed to attract all the nutters.

There were two problems after this. He kept calling me, and to be fair I kept answering. It was always interesting to hear the thoughts from someone who was living on a slightly different plane of reality. And soon to be on a completely different planet.

The ease of isolation, if you’re really honest about it, depends on the environment. If you’re in a comfortable house with a garden and a pet rock with decent internet and enough contacts to chat with every now and then, it wasn’t that hard. People missed their people. But very few died of loneliness.

It isn’t surprising that solitary confinement is used as a means of torture. So much so that psychological and physical damage it caused has resulted in the practice being largely phased out and used only in extreme cases. As far as we know anyway.

We had now been in lockdown for several months and for me, all it resulted in was me becoming a more colourful shade of round. The ban on cigarettes and alcohol had been lifted, but other than an occasional whiskey, I found myself, more often, reaching for biscuits. I was generally happier. Healthier. Definitely hairier – I hadn’t had a hair cut in several months. I was less angry.

It was already December. I hadn’t thought about a plot to kill Santa in a long time.

My weekly meeting pinged a reminder to meet with the Musk. We had moved over to Teams because it let your callers view your real-world background replaced with fun ‘all-these-places-we-can’t-go-to’.

I answered the call.

A face wearing a Ghostface mask answered. This was odd, but that is par for the course with Elon. I was just happy it wasn’t like that time he called as an elephant.

EM:	Captain
Me:	Musky Muskerson, how’s it going? What’s your favourite scary movie hey?
EM:	Unfortunately, Elon could not make it today…

 

As the sentence ended, the ellipses transformed into several faces as additional people joined the call. Eight faces encircled the person wearing the Ghostface mask. Faces wearing different masks from different pop culture references ensuring proper pandemic chic.

1. Deadpool
2. Michael Myers
3. Frank the rabbit from Donnie Darko
4. Scorpion from Mortal Kombat
5. Jason Voorhees from Friday the Thirteenth.
6. That dead mouse thing person
7. The Winter Soldier
8. Shredder

 

“What is this? A slipknot audition?” I asked.

The faces looked back at me.

“If you can hear me…I can’t…hear…you?” I said hopefully, “Makes me wish I was wearing my Hannibal Lecter mask.”

“No Captain,” one of the voices said, “That mask wouldn’t comply with health protocols.”

The voice was deep but distant, I double checked my volume. The faces remained. Making minimal movements, enough to show that it hadn’t frozen. I looked then at the background. It wasn’t one of the fixed images that Teams provided. The background was dark, the light from the laptop lit the faces. In the centre panel, the background periodically lit up when flashes of tiny lights sprinkled the occasional splash of colour onto the sooty black. Shapes of a table, upon which stood objects that could have fit into a Breaking Bad scene. Over the other shoulder were indistinct shapes, but gave the sense that bodies were wrapped in carpets on top of each other. On the wall at the back of the room was a fireplace, although it wasn’t lit.

“You know who I am, Captain…”

Well it was obviously Santa Claus. Obviously.

“To what do I owe the pleasure Fatman?” I said trying not to show any fear.

“Merry Christmas. Isn’t that what you say?”

“Fuck, is it Christmas already?”

“Yes. Nearly over in fact. Are you afraid?”

I thought about it. It was weird. Dark and gothic. As always life needed background music to help you know what to feel. In this case something orchestral, low and ominous.

Me:	No, not really. So, you didn’t die? Figures. Not feeling poorly by any chance? Bit of a cough or itchy throat maybe?
SC:	No Captain, unfortunately I still remain doomed to walk this world.
Me:	So question still stands, to what do I owe the pleasure?
SC:	I thought it would make an interesting change to sit down and have a round table discussion. We’ve never really had the chance. The odd banter during brawls. We’ve never really had the chance to simply…talk. And it is my birthday after all.
Me:	Happy birthday. I didn’t get you a present. It must suck you needing to give everyone else presents on your birthday. Did you get a cake? Maybe you want to take off the mask so you can blow out the candles?
SC:	That’s not entirely necessary, is it?
Me:	No, not really. So what’s on your mind?
SC:	I’m actually curious. How does it feel?
Me:	How does what feel?
SC:	Being the most evil person on the planet?
Me:	Mate, you’re not speaking to a mirror. Are you looking at the little video of yourself? You’re Santa Claus. You’re a fat, evil git, and you must…
SC:	Die…I know, I know, you’re a bit of a broken record about it. But in this case, by your definitions, it is you.
Me:	What do you mean?
SC:	Don’t you know?
Me:	If I knew, I wouldn’t keep asking. Listen, this is becoming a bit of an unnecessary back and forth. I think you’re trying to build up to a climax, but I think you’re trying to make a moment that isn’t there.
SC:	It was you.
Me:	Me?
SC:	That started this pandemic.
Me:	???
SC:	You’re responsible for all of it. The lockdowns. The sickness. The death.
Me:	???
SC:	You see. The power you wielded in the gauntlet was real.
Me:	But nothing happened. I just passed out. Nothing happened! Even if what you say is true, why would I will this into the world???
SC:	Never make wishes on an empty stomach, Captain…and never try to fix the world on an empty bottle.
Me:	…
SC:	You must have been trying to will a Peace Cat or something into the world, shooting rainbows from it’s bum everywhere it went. Instead you willed a Disease Bat into existence. You’ve never been much of a poet.

 

I must admit that this wasn’t what I was expecting.

 

Me:	You’re lying…
SC:	If only I was. But what is done, is done. I just wanted you to know that all this is because of you.
Me:	That can’t be, you’re the evil one. I wouldn’t…I couldn’t…I’m good!!! Well I never claimed to a be a saint, but gooder than you!!!
SC:	Oh Captain, my Captain. You continue to be so naïve.   There is no good and there is no evil. These labels you have made, that mankind has made. You’ve made good and evil. Heaven and hell. God and the devil. There is no such thing. God is the name you have given your ignorance. Mankind is just a smudge on time’s kitchen sink; but look at the destruction you have caused. Look at the absolute stupidity. You hold all the keys to happiness, to have a meaningful life before you die, but you piss it all away.
Me:	Just because we don’t live in your picture of what a perfect world is?
SC:	No. But perhaps you’ll allow me a soliloquy…

 

Look at where you are. You are in the most peaceful state of human history. But you have built walls and cut up the planet geographically, physically and metaphorically. You find reasons to hate each other. You discriminate on sex, class, country, football teams. You worship figments of your imagination and hate each other because your imaginary friend is different than your neighbours. But it’s not all lost, you form groups based on your bigotry, most of which are tolerated by being called religion, politics, or social norm.

The irritating thing is you know what you’re doing. You know the important things. This is why there are outcries and protests and people fighting for the better good. But your lack of ownership and goldfish attention span gives more importance to whatever has the better media at the time.

One man was killed, and it gave birth to Black Lives Matter. That shows the power of humanity banding together to solve an important problem. The fact that you are still fighting each other because you are slightly different colours proves my point. Racism has been around since the cavemen threw stones at the ones who had gotten sunburnt. It’s one of the most important social issues that you as a species needs to solve. The flip side of that coin is the, if you forgive the phrase, black and white of it, is that only one man died. One rather unimportant man in the grand scheme of things. Taking a knee to solve the problem is the equivalent of believing that wearing a cross makes you a better person.

But it’s something right? Better than nothing? Something to make videos about rather than videos of yourself changing your clothes. You may stand a chance the day the issue becomes more important than a click count.

What about the 9 million people who die around the world of hunger? Why don’t children in Africa deserve action? It gets attention, but it isn’t sexy at the moment. It never was.

Media controls your every whim. And this is why terrorists win. Not because they’ve taken lives. Or even made a point. It’s that they get airtime. It’s nearly twenty years since the planes hit the towers. 3000 people were killed. And we remember it like it was yesterday.

400,000 people have died in the Syrian War in the last ten years. Why don’t we remember the Boko Haram killings? The Israel-Palestine conflicts has resulted in thousands and thousands of deaths for decades! Can you even count the number of people who have been killed in the name of some god? These aren’t people to you anymore. These are statistics.

It was more important to market 9/11 by those in the power. It has been more profitable to highlight that event as opposed to the explosion in Beirut. Australia almost burnt to the ground but you only cared to save a koala when you could get a naked picture. There’s no profit in fixing Venezuela or Guyana or even Brazil. More people die from sugar every day and that’s sold in every supermarket without regulation or recourse. It’s just in the spinning of the story.

It is so easy to manipulate you as a species. I managed to get an idiot like Donald Trump elected. Elected!!! Chosen by the people. By the people, for the people? You need to realise that you aren’t being controlled by a higher power. You’re just a species of sheep following the brightest twinkly light.

You’re literally raping your own planet. Your home. As a generation it makes no difference. You continue to bleed dry every well, river and ocean for water, minerals and oil. You spend more time arguing more about whether global warming is real or not than actually fixing the problem. You believe in gods blindly but ask for proof that the world is disintegrating in front of you. But hey, small win, you’ve stopped using straws. Maybe you just don’t care.

Actually, let me correct myself, you care a lot. You care about two things. Prophets and profits. Money. Another figment of your imagination. You place so much value on something that is so meaningless. Why is this rock more valuable than that rock? Especially when you’re just keeping it as ornaments and because it’s shiny. You’re now mining virtual nothingness and giving it immense value. This stupidity can’t be lost on you!

It becomes yet another division you place between yourselves. The rich get richer and the poor die. Twenty people are worth more than three billion people? How does this tie up in your world of good and evil?

But you do try, I admit. You strive as a species for knowledge and you’ve progressed more in the last ten years than the last thousand. You have developed the ability to communicate to every corner of the earth in fractions of seconds; and most of you have absolutely nothing of value to say. And it is these of you that shout the loudest. You have extended your lives and multiplied your population by so much, there are no scales to measure how much you’ve destroyed the natural balance.

But you call me evil?

Perhaps. But is it worse? I’ve had a hand in bringing down civilisations, but I just handed over the matches. I didn’t light it. That was you. And what if the Roman empire had survived. What if Hitler had won? What if there’s no heaven? What if there’s no countries? What if there were no possessions? But we can imagine all day.

Do you see this, Captain? That in this battle of good and evil, you are your own worst enemies. I am just an audience that is curious to see what happens next. My only crime is impatience, which you’ll forgive for someone as old as time. I move a piece every and now then.

But it is easy to see a villain just because I wear a costume, because I have a name; instead of realising you are a cannibalistic culture with suicidal tendencies and no matter what you label the poison, you’re already dying.

Do you understand?

*

There was silence as the monologue settled.

“Sorry, I’m not sure if you’re talking. You’re on mute…”

I couldn’t resist being an asshole.

 

SC:	You jest, Captain. It’s a trait I find very irksome.
Me:	Yeah well, if you don’t laugh, someone else will.
SC:	I thought you would have said laughter is the best medicine. Look how vain you are. It is so easy to beat this disease and yet you’ve failed ten times over.
Me:	At least there is a medicine now. I mean I suspect that you’re behind it. The conspiracy theorists have to get one right sooner or later. There’s a tracking chip or something in it.
SC:	Don’t be daft Captain. Why would I…why would anyone need to chip you to track you. You carry, charge, and upgrade your tracking device every day and the best part, you pay for the privilege. You call it features and apps. You call it fashion. Also, you aren’t exactly a species that’s shy to yell your deepest secret into every willing ear…you’re just upset that no one actually cares to listen.
Me:	Okay, so you’ve prattled on for about an hour now. What’s the endgame here. Are we going to play battleships to the death? Or a killer game of chess.
SC:	No Captain, this year I leave you, like mankind, to your own demise. I’ll watch patiently.
Me:	So that’s it. That’s the ploy.
SC:	I’ve always said Captain, I know when you’ve been naughty or nice. You call it karma. What goes around comes around.
Me:	Doesn’t that make contradict everything you’ve said. There isn’t a naughty, there isn’t a nice. You’re making up the rules as you go along.
SC:	I never said it was fair. Or that it needed to make sense. Or that I would be judged. You should know this.
Me:	That makes it impossible.
SC:	No Captain. Life is not that hard. It’s really easy actually. Just don’t be a cunt.

 

I was about to answer when the Winter Soldier character lifted a hand up to his face and slowly took off the mask.

It took a second. I didn’t need more.

The face looking back at me…was…me. Sans beard and probably an elf’s worth of weight. But it was me. Smiling a stupid smile. It was probably in my teen years. My biggest problem in the world was talking to the girl who sat across from me in biology and not coming across as a single celled organism. That was a different life. A different me. I stared at him. He stared back at me blushing. And then suddenly the blood from his cheeks seemed to erupt from his head. A sudden and swift line was drawn across his forehead and red streamed down his face.

Before I could gasp, there I was again. The Shredder had taken off his mask. A little older, still smiling. I recognised the heart on my sleeve. Believing in love. Believing in hope. That fucking smile on his face. Then his head exploded.

The Scorpion unwrapped his head. Raised what was definitely a joint and inhaled deeply before a hole appeared in his throat.

Michael Myers unmasked. It was when I started working. Young. Naïve. But optimistic. Perhaps the last time I wore a tie and had a ponytail. A young cowboy who thought he was the smartest man in the world. There was nothing I couldn’t do and no one who could stop me. The head looking at me snapped at an awkward angle.

Frank from Donnie Darko pulled off his mark from the ears. The eyes were different. It was awake. Awakened from a deep sleep. Realising that Santa was real. And Santa was evil. I could see the change in the eyes. The hint of fear. The eyes looked at me and I saw the life escape it as they were popped out of my skull.

Then Jason removed his mask. Behind it was the face of ugliness. A drunk, angry face looked back at me. My face. Dirty and bloodied and scarred. Scared. It showed the cost of being an army of one. He took a sip from a bottle of no description, then poured the contents over his hair. I watched as it dripped down his cheeks as he put a cigarette to his lips and lit a match.

The Deadma5 removed his helmet. Sneezed. And died.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I just took in the horror.

“What kind of fucked up Disney movie is this?” the Deadpool character was still alive. And speaking. “And I saw that Captain, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Croc?”

“Don’t play fucking dumb. I saw you had weed just now…”

The call ended suddenly, and all the faces and bodies disappeared. The night darkness flooded in.

Eskom had struck again.

Here I was. Fifteen years later.

I bathed in the glow of the laptop screen.

Leaning forward, I shut it down.

The darkness ate itself.

You either die a hero or live long enough to realise you had always been the villain.

Am I the UnderdoG?

*

P.S. Hollywood needs to recant the idea of the American hero.

P.P.S. I can hear you. Can you hear me?

P.P.P.S. The battle isn’t over. Be gentle. Be kind. Be safe.