The Fez

by L. T. Hewitt

  The Space Chicken blushed as much as a chicken or a Chicken can blush. “Yeah,” he retorted. “Well you seem alien to all the concepts of Glix.”

  That shut him up.

  Chapter 14

  Dave’s family members – who he didn’t miss quite so much as one might expect – had developed a rather disgusting habit during his time spent with them. Upon Dave’s taking a bite into any meal, he was immediately interrogated as to the food’s texture, flavour and level of sustenance, all the necessary questions being combined into the singular phrase ‘Is it good?’

  Dave became increasingly frustrated with these requests for knowledge meaningless to anyone besides himself. Nevertheless, out of the common courtesy of Glix he didn’t understand, Dave asked a very similar question to two people he hardly knew and knew little about.

  “So, did you two enjoy your frankfurters?” Dave asked Clint and Clein.

  “Yeah,” said Clint.

  “Mine was good, although it had an acorn in it,” Clein commented.

  “What?” This came from two sets of lips and one beak.

  “There was an acorn in the middle of my frankfurter,” Clein said simply.

  Dave thought about it logically. Then he thought about how odd this planet seemed. So he thought about it illogically, logically. “Do you think that’s what the other Dave was talking about when he described ‘the frankfurter that grows trees’?

  “Which other Dave?” asked Clint.

  “Dave the Cashier at the burger joint we just stopped at,” Dave said, his wick increasingly being gotten on.

  “Oh, him,” said Clint.

  “A burger joint?” deliberated Clein. “Oh, the fast-food place… I thought they sold frankfurters?”

  Dave fumed. That phrase was beginning to annoy him more every time he heard it. ‘We sell frankfurters, we sell frankfurters. Would you like a frankfurter?’ I’m going to kill that name-stealing, good-for-nothing—

  “Dave, are you all right?” asked the concerned Space Chicken.

  “I’m fine,” was the phrase that pierced through teeth so gritted it was apparent the only thing fine about him was the gap between his upper and lower jaws.

  There was another one of their awkward pauses.

  “Yeah, mine was all right,” said Clint, resurfacing the long-dead topic of frankfurter consumption.

  “I found my cheeseburger to be quite delectable,” Crazy Dave said. “There is just that something about a fine Italian Gouda in the form of a delightful, colourful square. What am I saying?” he scoffed. “No physical item with its own properties and dimensions can ever be said to be ‘square’. What I mean to say is that my palate salivates in the presence of an edible, dairy cuboid—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Dave interrupted unnecessarily and meaninglessly. “I didn’t know you could talk, let alone intellectually.”

  “Yeah, I say smart stuff sometimes,” Crazy Dave concluded.

  “Well, let’s face it, you’re never going to be a wise, old man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know how in films and novels, they always have a smart guy who’s usually old?”

  “Yeah,” said Clein. “And they always have long, grey beards.”

  “Like the ‘elderbeard’,” Dave chuckled.

  “Crazy, old, ‘elderbeard’ Dave.”

  Dave continued to laugh. “It’s the thought of him with a beard that gets to me the most. If he could even grow a moustache, I’d be shocked.”

  “Yeah, that Dave is such a freak.”

  This stuck a chord with Dave. “Which Dave did you mean?” he interrogated, suddenly turning very serious.

  “Eh… er… Crazy Dave?” ventured Clein, taken aback at the tone and presentation.

  “Good, good.”

  “Who do you think the elderbeard will be in this adventure?” asked Clint, suddenly appearing, and obviously having eavesdropped on the conversation and the invention of the new word ‘elderbeard’. Or possibly just knowing because of the fact that he and Clein have identical minds and will hear the exact same things at the exact same time. That may have contributed to his increased knowledge somewhat.

  “What, do you mean who will be the elderbeard of this trip?” asked Dave.

  “Yeah. I suppose we haven’t really met many people yet and don’t know anyone that well,” said Clint.

  “Don’t you know the Space Chicken?” asked Dave.

  “No.”

  “Well, obviously you know Clint, don’t you?”

  “I am Clint.”

  “I’m Clein,” said Clein.

  “Okay,” Dave said. “Didn’t you know each other before you went to FezFans?” Dave thought it seemed obvious that they would know each other, since they were twins, but this planet was strange enough that it wouldn’t surprise him if they had had no idea of the other twin’s existence before the beginning of the week.

  “Yeah,” Clint said.

  “We’re brothers,” said Clein in a very matter-of-fact (almost patronising) way. Dave thought it seemed like they were telling him a fact of general knowledge.

  Duh, you moron. Of course they’re brothers. Can’t you get it into your thick, little skull that they look exactly the same?

  I didn’t know you could be bold.

  “You’re identical twins, aren’t you?” asked Dave, although he knew the answer and was just trying to show them that he had a small amount of intelligence in him, somewhere.

  “No,” said Clint, shocking and confusing Dave.

  “It’s pronounced ‘intelligent’,” said Clein.

  “No, identical,” said Dave.

  “You’re thinking of ‘intelligent’, aren’t you?”

  Dave started to say, “No, identical,” again, but was cut off by Clein saying, “When two siblings are identical in every way and share the same thoughts, emotions and intelligence they’re known as ‘intelligent twins’.”

  Dave had never heard of this but he also thought he had given off enough of a bad impression already. “Oh… Oh. Oh, oh that, of course. I was thinking of something else.” The twins raised their four eyebrows together. “Something off some TV programme or something I watched once.”

  “Right.”

  “Best carry on walking,” said Clein, even though they were walking. “It’s starting to get dark.”

  Looking up, Dave saw the great star setting in the distance and then he turned around to see the moon rising on the horizon… and the moon in the soft, pink sky. There are two moons, thought Dave. That’s amazing. I wish they had thought of something like that back at home. We’re just stuck with one. I guess I’m actually starting to like this place. It’s a beautiful world where they decide they love a natural feature so much they install two of them.

  “Bill the Great’s been doing that promotional thing where he says he wants everybody to start calling us ‘infro-twins’.” Dave realised Clint was talking to him. “Although personally I think that makes us sound like a form of radiation.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Dave, his mind elsewhere, thinking about the two moons.

  “Where’s the Space Chicken?” asked Clein.

  Dave looked around everywhere and caught the Space Chicken running up the hill behind them.

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t we stop off at that hotel over there?”

  “Where did you go?” asked Clein.

  “I… I just needed a little time to think by myself,” he responded, before changing the topic. “So how about it, it would be a great place to stop off overnight. My treat,” he added.

  Chapter 15

  Clint and Clein sat on the central double bed in the group’s shared hotel room and read two books. Of course, as they had corresponding minds, Clint read the book in his hands whilst also understanding the book Clein was reading, and vice versa. It was as though they were each reading two books. There was another double bed to their right, and to their left a single bed stood against the pr
otruding wall. The wall was oddly-shaped, of course, as they always are to account for a bathroom in a hotel room.

  “So,” said Dave. “Who’s going to sleep where? Dave, do you want to sleep in the double bed and I’ll sleep in the single or vice versa? The twins look as through they’ve already claimed that middle one, so there’s just the two of us to think about the sleeping arrangements for.”

  The Space Chicken coughed. “Ahem, aren’t you forgetting about somebody?”

  Dave turned around. “Oh. I didn’t think you’d need anywhere to sleep.”

  “What‽ Did you think I was just going to stand up all night? Walk around, maybe make myself a cup of tea and have a complementary, sugar-free digestive?”

  “You’re a chicken. I thought you could fly around outside,” Dave said earnestly.

  The Space Chicken stood up close to Dave’s face. Dave began to feel ever so slightly intimidated, but was constantly distracted by the thought ‘I’m shorter than a chicken.’

  “That’s racist!” the Space Chicken politely informed him, through the medium of shouting.

  The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack stormed past the small coffee table in the corner of the room and beyond the curtains.

  There was silence in the room.

  “I didn’t know we had a balcony,” stated Clein.

  There was another soundless yet thoughtful pause.

  “Maybe he’s gone out flying.”

  Chapter 16

  The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack walked out onto the balcony, shutting the French door behind him. He wanted to make the rest of the group feel they had offended him so it looked like he was going for some more ‘me’ time. He really wanted quite the opposite. He had already forgiven Dave for what he had said and wondered if Dave would apologise. But that wasn’t at all the bigger matter at hand.

  The aforementioned Pullet pulled a purple mobile phone out of his pocket, pressed a button and held it up to his ear.

  “Hello,” it said.

  “Hello Quack, it’s the Space Chicken here.”

  “Did you get to the hotel?”

  “Yeah, we’re here right now.”

  “And have you found him?”

  “No.”

  “Space Chicken, you need to find him and stop him before he opens the Fez.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Have you asked anyone?”

  “I can’t just go out and ask someone if they’re David Gratton.”

  “Have you met anyone called David?”

  “There are loads of people called Dave. It’s probably the most common name on Glix at the moment.”

  “And how do you know none of the ones you’ve met are Gratton?”

  “If somebody’s really plotting to unleash evil upon the world, do You really think they’re going to use their real name? Should I just go up and ask, ‘Are you David Gratton?’ and they’ll reply, ‘Yes, would you like to lock me up now? I was going to destroy all of civilisation and bring about a new nation, but now you’ve found me, I guess you win’? I think not.”

  “You need to be on the look-out for any suspicious activity. No-one can ever truly hide their guilt.”

  “I’m working on it. I’m on my way to the Fez now,” the Space Chicken said.

  “Have you found a group of people to join with on your journey to the Fez.”

  “You could check all this by yourself, You know.”

  “I want to know what you think.”

  “Yes, I have. They’re an odd bunch. None of them will open the Fez, of course.”

  “Of course not,” Quack said.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” said the Space Chicken. “That Dave’s a right oddball. He didn’t know what the Fez was. He wouldn’t, though. He’s obviously an alien.”

  “Don’t show them in such a negative light. It’s good to be nice to foreigners.”

  “I am nice to foreigners. He’s just utterly oblivious to the workings of the world. Completely zoned out. Like I said, I’m fine with him; I’m going to forgive him for that discriminative comment he made to me.”

  “Ooh, what was it?” asked Quack, impiously intrigued by any gossip.

  “Quack, You’re a god! Surely You can find out these things in an instant by Yourself?”

  “Yes, but gossip always sounds better when somebody else tells it.”

  He sighed. “He said that, as I’m a chicken…” The Space Chicken could almost feel the Quack craning in to listen. “…Well, he said…” The Space Chicken sighed. “I find it really annoying and distracting when You do that.”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Quack said.

  “You’re tapping into my brain again.”

  Quack mumbled in a way that said ‘Of course I am and you know it and I know you know it, so let’s pretend it never happened.’

  The Space Chicken returned to the original subject matter. “He said I was a chicken so I could fly away.”

  “Ooh. That’s bad.”

  “And You know what the worst part is?” the Space Chicken said. Quack held his breath. “He said ‘Chicken’ with a lower-case ‘c’.”

  “The speciesist bigot!” He exclaimed.

  “It’s okay, though. I’m fine with it. I mean, he seems to come from a very primitive planet. It’s probably not even in the Ache.”

  “Aw, bless. Anyhoo, how’s the rest of your journey been?”

  “Well, I’ve been kind of annoyed because people keep calling me the Paternal instead of the Eternal Space Chicken. And some people call You ‘the Scared Quack’.”

  Quack laughed godly. “I’ve thought of a way around that: next time someone calls you the Paternal Space Chicken of the—”

  The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack suddenly started squawking and screeching and running around in circles. When this trifling sketch had concluded, the Cockerel sat down and gave a final shriek whilst laying an Egg. The Egg then popped out arms through its shell and a jet pack. It flew up, propelled by fire, and hovered next to the Space Chicken’s face. The Space Chicken was less than impressed.

  “WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?” he screamed. Quack, Margery and the Space Chicken – and indeed all his siblings – knew of all the non-standard punctuation, but only Margery cared.

  “Yeah, see… I don’t think My plan worked out…”

  “And what was Your plan, exactly?”

  “I wanted to make sure that no-one was mistakenly calling you the Pater—”

  “Don’t you dare!” the Space chicken screamed, alarming his peers inside the hotel room and alerting them to the fact that he hadn’t gone out flying.

  “Uh, I mean, I corrected the error that anyone should call you by that name.”

  “And how, pray tell, did You achieve this?” The Space Chicken realised his own mistake and corrected himself. “Sorry, how did You poorly attempt to achieve this?”

  “Well, I simply flicked a switch that prevented anyone from wrongly calling you by that name,” Quack announced triumphantly.

  “And why did it go wrong?” the Space chicken asked, unimpressed. “Why did I just lay an Egg?”

  “You see, that’s the thing,” Quack admitted sheepishly. “Technically it worked.”

  The Space Chicken raised an eyebrow plume. “It didn’t feel like it to me.”

  “No, it did work,” Quack insisted. “Technically I didn’t wrongly call you anything.”

  Chapter 17

  The Space Chicken sulked for most of the evening. The next time he spoke was to reconcile with Dave, who appreciated the gesture and apologised for his own flaws. Dave learnt from this and began to appreciate the Glix’n ways more and vowed to understand the planet’s communal emotions and what may be considered offensive. The Space Chicken decided that the only way to lighten the mood and help everyone (including himself) to be more appreciative of others was to publicly resume his conversation with Quack.

  The Space Chicken put a small, flat, purple device on the c
offee table and loaded the screen with a picture of Quack, along with His name written in digital type. In many parts of the Ache, this electronic gadget was known as a ‘phone’ or a ‘mobile’ or, occasionally, a ‘phone-mobile’. The phone emitted occasional mumbles in the most Duck-sounding voice Dave had ever listened to. The voice kept saying the Space Chicken’s name, but the Cockerel showed little interest. Dave wondered whether the voice was talking to someone else or if its words were just failing to impress the Space Chicken. As nobody else in the room seemed to understand the device, Dave guessed the case was the latter.

  Dave had heard of people speaking in tongues before. He had even attempted it on a few occasions, though usually only after a large intake of alcohol. The process consisted of a person jabbering on in a weird grumble of gibberish, in an attempt to communicate with God. The dialogue apparently didn’t have any flow to it at all. There was (from what Dave could tell with his minimal knowledge of God-dialects) no structure and no connection nor distinction between the sentences. Because of this, Dave guessed that when a god spoke back to an earthly being, the concept was much the same. Instead, the Space Chicken explained to Dave that gods and prophets could communicate quite simply, without having to translate in any way, shape or form.

  “So you mean that it’s actually quite easy for people to talk to gods?” asked Dave.

  “It is if you’re a prophet.”

  “And what do you have to do to become one of those?”

  “A prophet? You’re born into it. And generally this means you were born in another universe.”

  Dave’s mind was willing to accept anything now, and he didn’t hold back on asking anything, no matter how absurd it seemed. “So… are you a prophet?” he said to the Space Chicken.

  “Me? Yes. My prophet title is the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack.”

  Dave tried to remember this as best he could. “The Pater—”

  “No!” the Space Chicken shouted.

  “Sorry. Is this one of those things only you can say? It’s not racist, is it?”

  “No. But it’s the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack’.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “A lot of pain,” the Space Chicken responded.

  Dave assumed this was owing to some troublesome past memory. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” He kept quiet about it and didn’t mention it again.