‘Aiming for Antarctica-ss‘
reading time: 3 minutes
Slogging on a pair of Wilson tennis rackets given to me at Wimbledon after defusing a hostile situation pertaining a wig, a V.I.P. and a bold nest of bald faced hornets, I was making my way through the snowy plains of Antarctica seeking the passageway into the realm of Middle Earth.
The sun was about to set when out of nowhere I happened upon a majestic old tree with leafs the size of elephant ears, bulky branches and roots so deep it annoyed the Devil himself.
Awe struck I vigorously piddled against the massive trunk of this wondrous display of nature’s grandeur when suddenly, above my head, obscure noises made a presence be known. I tilted my gaze and there, on one of those giant branches, a rainbow colored chicken was staring at me, slightly poker-fazed.
‘P-p-please don’t p-p-piss against my t-t-tree.’ it stuttered, ruffling its multicolored feathers.
Oh my. I thought, and zipping up my pants I instantly apologized while simultaneously trying to churn out an explanation for this somewhat awkward situation.
So I told the chicken how I yesterday, like every other day, got drunk, hard, fast and totally alone, how it had made me nearly miss the boat of a sharply dressed skipper named Wank Wigeloo, willing to take me through the treacherous and ice ridden waters of Antarctica as to put me on my way to the fabled land of Middle Earth where I had dealings with a dastardly dwarf-like creature who had promised me substances and stories beyond my wildest imagination. How all of this drinking and haste had made me forget to bring my flask full of water. How hungover, with a mouth so dry my tongue felt like a finger made out of cork, I had willfully ignored the warnings and had eaten, no feasted, on the odd colored snow.
And how now in passing this glorious tree, that gluttonous past behavior was taking it’s toll and I no longer had been able to hold it, as if the presence of this mighty trunk sucked the wee straight out of my peeho…
‘Ha-ha-ha halt.’ the chicken responded in a calm adult, almost master-like manner. ‘It’s o-ok, but p-please wash your hands.’
Without further questions, I cleaned myself up and…
Wait a minute.
And then it hit me.
‘You? Is it you? The magnificent rainbow colored Hen of the North, Keeper of the Universe’s most profound Wisdom, Scribent of the Secrets of the Origins of Life, Master Studier of Stars and Holder of Orion’s Belt’s Highest rank?’
‘N-n-n-not anymore.’ the chicken replied. ‘Bu-bu-but I k-know where your wa-wa-watch is.’
My eyes instantly veered towards my wrist where its words were validated. The watch, which was a precious family heirloom passed down from my great-great-great-grandmother who, in the late Middle Ages received it from a renowned Swiss violin maker as a token of gratitude for hiding him from a pitiless group of Holy Inquisitors accusing him of fiddling with men, was gone.
Emotionally stricken something inside of me cracked.
I was certain I still had it last week when I used it to time the vapor to liquid ratio of an alchemical concoction I brewed to teleport my golem into the vaults of the Central British Bank, and I was certain I still had it on Thursday as I had used it to countdown the onset of the antidote that saved me from accidentally ingesting a cone snail while one a diving expedition trying to locate the lost wreck of a famed fifteenth century pirate ship supposably holding in its cargo the legendary formulas of an ancient Chinese kind of gunpowder I would use to fuel my rocket on my next mission into space hunting down the Black Night Satellite after finally decoding its coordinates, but now…
Now it was gone, and by all the demons and saints, that little intricate time teller meant something to me.
My dealings in Middle Earth had to be postponed, this piece of the Peeves’ patrimonium needed to be found.
I looked at the chicken and with the sleeve of my bright green Millet puffer jack I rubbed and cleaned off the mess I had sprayed so ferociously against the bark of its tree, after which I folded my hands and started my plea:
‘Oh Rainbow Colored Hen of the North. Could you please, please enlighten me with your wisdom and tell me where I can find my watch?’
‘S-s-s-sure bro, your keeper o-of time is down in the Ba-Ba-Basilica cistern next to the o-o-old Anatolian border. Right a-a-at the bottom of Medusa’s head.’
‘Oh my. Thank you. Thank you great Hen of the North, here…’ and I gave her my card.
‘If there is anything at anytime I can do to return this most wonderful favor, please let me know.’
The Hen took the card, examined it and: ‘I-I-Isn’t there an “s” too mu-mu-much at pr…’
I winked before she could finish her sentence.
‘o-o-o-ooh I see’ the bird stammered with a blush on her cheek.
‘Toodelooo.’ I bade the Hen a quick farewell and set in motion my journey towards the arid lands of the Middle East.
The sun had set, but started to rise again.
Probing the motions of the elements it was crystal clear I was plowing through the snow for a very long time, my lips were numb, my knees were swollen and sweat fell in little salty pearls on the vast carpet of snow, still I slogged on.
The silence was deafening on the great Polar Plateau, the one thing unsettling it was the squeaking of the snow, a sound reminding me of chewing on hard rubber, like those rings they feed you when you’re teething or those bouncy balls you eat by mistake.
The hours marched on at an harrowingly slow pace, when all of a sudden I heard alarming chirps, grunts and squawks.
Kwa! Kwa! Kwaaa!
Something was amiss.
Swiftly I mounted a hilltop, threw my gaze over the area and saw the source of the fracas. Tiny penguins, totally upset, were being violently attacked by a mad polar bear.
A disturbing display of nature’s brutality was running its course.
To interact or not to interact was not the question cause a long time ago, I, Skeleton Peeves, had pledged allegiance to the Knights Code, a sacred pledge I did not take for granted and had protecting the weak standing at its core.
So I knew what was expected of me…
Composed and collected I assessed the situation, crouched and combed my fingers through the snow until they were loaded. I focussed myself and pressed the sparkling powder with all my might as to form the most dense ice ball I could muster.
I kneaded only one.
With squinted eyes I stared at the sun and calculated the speed of the passing wind. I used the heel of my foot to kick up one of the Wilson rackets, took a deep breath in and served a serve so accurate it had impressed the wigged V.I.P. at Wimbledon when I had shown it to him just a week ago.
The ice ball went off like a canon, whistling with incredible speed, flying full force towards the polar bear and going straight into its asshole.
Instantly it cooled down the tense situation, leaving the penguins alive, yet slightly shocked.
Sliding down from the hilltop I checked if the little bird-like creatures were allright.
As I put the racket back on my foot, out of the group, a small delegation came waddling towards me, opening their miniature wings in gratitude, while uttering words of praise in an Upper East Side New York accent.
Surprised I learned they, not too long ago, had made a daring escape from the Central Park Zoo where they were being held against their will and that during their time spent in captivity they had picked up the Big Apple’s lingo.
After exchanging niceties, I asked them if they maybe knew of a ship or a scientific research-station where I could find assistance in getting me off the continent as I was trying to reach the borders of Anatolia.
For a brief moment they discussed the matter after which they told me how they had burned down their ship after their successful run from the zoo, that they were not aware of any research stations close by, but that there were whispers going around of an abandoned nuclear submarine, not too far away.
END of PART 1