Saturday, August 06, 2005

Final Adventures of Ian The Incredible

The day is nearly a complete memory, highlighted by the burial of a dead clown hooker and the discovery of Hitler’s re-emergence. Ian had not contacted me yet but it was still early, the sunset a lingering feeling. I lay on my bed, wearing clothes browned by dirt and hands red from the old shovel, arms weak and eyelids heavy. I wasn’t prepared, not at all, for the rock that careered through my bedroom window, thrown so hard that it bounced off the toilet in another room, cracking the enamel. The rock was followed quickly by the head of a rake tied to a long rope, which hung back out the broken window. The rake hit the carpet and immediately flew back outside, pulled by whoever threw it. Again it shot into the room, but this time it latched to a table, catching steady, and the rope slacked.
“Hey Rob. Nice to see me.”
Ian’s head poked through the jagged hole in the window.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in motherfucker?”
I’m still in sleepy shock. My mind is a broken tapestry, shattered like my window. I can’t bring myself to talk, but when Ian’s head appeared, I managed to shed a tear.
“Fine, fuck. I’ll let myself in.” and he leapt into the room, curled into a ball, rolling on the floor and jumping straight to attention.
“Boy, do I have a story to tell you…”
I hop from the bed and march over to Ian and clasping him by both arms I say:
“Ian, it’s great that you’re back.”
He shakes my arms loose.
“Get a grip of yourself man, I have so much to tell you and so little time, so sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”
I do as told and sit on the bed. Ian backs up to a wall, a big white canvas, and he waves his arm in front of his face, an arching swish.
“My story begins in the pitch of black…”

Ian moves down a dark corridor, feeling the walls for support and guidance. He has been moving like this for hours, struggling against the crooked brickwork and the roots of trees that broke through the walls. But, he continued, a little shoulder demon reminding him of the evil bastard that awaits him at the end.
“That punk Hitler is laughing at you. He is feeling himself up, thinking of you stumbling like a baby. You have to kill that stinky shit.” Snarls the shoulder demon.
“Yea, I know, motherfucker.” Replies Ian, mentally evaporating the shoulder demon who wretches dramatically and disappears in a poof of brain smoke.
A light, small and weak, almost unnoticeable, catches Ian’s sharp eye.
“Oh, what’s this?”
And he glides forward, eliminating all noise. There, at the crumbling end of the corridor, was a swollen wooden door, light escaping through the keyhole. And through the door, Ian could hear laughing. Stinky German laughter.
The door explodes from the force of a full body slam.
“Vat is dis?” Hitler stood, his pants around his ankles, his hand in his drawers, his face red from laughing.
“Ian, so ve meet. Finally. Do, please, take a seat.”
Ian took a step forward, displaying his prominent jaw line fiercely.
“Never, you rotten dickhead. Prepare to smoke it.”
And Ian blasts off high into the ceiling of the chamber, disappearing in the bat-ridden shadows of the support beams.
“Where am I, Hitler?”
Ian’s voice echoes and Hitler twists and turns to where it bounces off walls and stolen Jewish treasures.
“Am I behind you?”
Hitler spins around, but there was no one there.
“In front of you.”
Hitler stumbles back, his trousers tight around his ankles.
“Enough” pants Hitler. “Enough games, Mister Ian. You are doomed.”

“Wow, and you just jumped around the roof?”
I couldn’t help myself. I was embroiled in the story Ian spun like a word magician. But Ian wasn’t so impressed and he threw his shoe at me, which bounced off my skull.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Queer.”

Hitler was pissed. “Enough games, Mister Ian. You are doomed.” From the rafters, Ian could see Hitler’s naked legs turn green and their skin split and crack, translucent slime pouring from the wounds. His thin, tout mouth stretches out with a scream, the greasy moustache dripping with sweat. And with that, his clothes and human skin peel off like badly applied wallpaper to reveal a new green body, which elongates into its full, horrifying length. Ian gasps and almost looses grip of the ceiling beam. Below him Hitler’s head scans the room, attached to the body of a giant locust.
“Holy fucking shit” swore Ian, “This is unusual.”
But undeterred, he lands down upon Locust Hitler, both hands held together in a mighty fist, and he strikes Hitler’s face, with emphasis on deep, throbbing pain. But Locust Hitler is unfazed by Ian’s incredible attack, and he swipes him off with a simple flick of an antennae. Ian cracks against a wall.
“Aw fuck.”
And Locust Hitler laughs snidely, his wings spreading wide.
“Mister Ian. I have a surprise for you.”
His wings flutter, lifting the huge beast off the ground and into the air. Dust shoots out from underneath him, eroding everything it hits like a sand blaster. Ian ducks behind a pillar, shards of cement fly past him.
“Come out to play.” Taunts the fiend.
Hitler’s mouth widens, swirling light building within the darkness of his gullet. Orange and yellow, his face glows behind the skin like a paper mache light, and fire flickers from his nostrils.
“This is crazy ass”, screams a shocked Ian above the flap of Locust Hitler’s mighty wings.
“Crazy ass.”
BOOM. Fire blasts from Hitler’s mouth, a long stream blackening everything around Ian, the heat singeing his shoulders and burning some arm hair. As soon as it had begun, it was over and all around Ian, the ground smoked.
“There is more vere dat came from, Herr Ian. Hur hur hur.”
The monster lands back down to the black earth lightly, making little noise.
“I’ve had enough of this shit”, says Ian, asserting himsel,f and he scrutinizes the room quickly, spotting a spear to his right. Not just any spear, but one that was used to cut the side of a crucified God. And with the speed of a large watermelon rolling down a steep incline, Ian somersaults to the priceless artefact.
“Hey, fire breathe...”
Locust Hitler double takes.
“… Fuck you.”
Ian launches the spear directly at Locust Hitler’s exposed chest. It cracks through the skin with ease and explodes the evil cunts heart where it beat. He twists and screams, writhing in pain, before collapsing on the ground with a great thud. The monster was dead, long live the monster.

Ian poses before me, his hands making a beast jaw motion in front of his face, and he growls, mimicking the death cries of the ogre.
“That’s incredible”, I say, “We should drink a mug of tea to that.”
Ian looks scornful.
“You stupid bitch, I told you we didn’t have much time.”
And I notice for the first time a bag he had brought in with him. It had something round in it.
“What’s in the bag, Ian?”
A crazy smile adorns his face as he picks it up.
“In this bag is what I went to the Island for. A treasure that no one could describe, but they all said was there. I thought it was gold of some sort, or diamonds, gems, Microsoft shares. But it’s much greater than that.”
Ian slides his hand into the bag and under something, lifting it carefully. The head of Hitler.
“… What the crap?”
“Not the head doofus, but the brain. Hitlers’ brain is the treasure. Can’t you see? Slip this baby into a shark and we’d be unstoppable. A crazy ass shark to rule the oceans.”
“Ian, you stupid bastard. You don’t put Hitlers brain into a shark, you put it in a dolphin.”
Ian throws his other shoe at me.
“Meehan, you are such a fairy.”


  1. I might go over it tomorrow for clarification sake.. some of it reads a but muddled, possibly because of tenses. Those fuckers always fuck me.

    But yeah. Enjoy.

  2. Great finale. Ian was true to himself.
    Put the brain into a unicorn. If you're a fairy, just go all the way.

  3. Rob, I have read all these stories a number of times and I am truly impressed. Really quite impressed. I am quite amazed at how you captured my inner-self so well. You are talented.

  4. It was fun exploring your inner self. Ian.