by L. T. Hewitt
“How do you know I’m not?” replied Crazy Dave innocently and with a clear point.
“Because no human is!”
“Actually,” stated Clein, “there is Old Man Tales, who has lived since the dawn of Glix and more.”
“I have explored this planet long enough to believe in such a ridiculous idea as that, but even so, Crazy Dave is not Old Man Tales.”
“But what about—” Crazy Dave started but was interrupted when normal alien Dave quickly changed the topic.
“Are the Mint Cakes nice?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Dave said comfortingly into a calm and relaxed environment. He was happy everything was settled now. He wasn’t quite sure how this odd planet was in terms of demography. However, he was certain it was very different from his home and the life and death rates of Glix seemed very unusual indeed. An increasing number of people seemed to be being declared immortal. And he didn’t want to get caught up in an argument that was possibly between two immortal creatures.
They’re immortal. You know what that means?
They live forever?
Obviously, dimwit. What I meant was they can’t die. They can start a war and put you in the middle of it. They won’t get hurt but millions will die. You will be responsible for the deaths of all those people.
Isn’t that invincibility, not immortality?
Don’t try to get cocky with me, fool. The victims of the war will still be there. I mean, they won’t be there… but their deaths will be on your conscience.
Well, then, I hope it’s not a warrior planet.
Shut up! It is superfluous to try and get away from the guilt. I am your guilt! Forever on your conscience—
La-la-la, not listening!
He drowned the voice out with his thoughts of the Fez. He still wanted to ask it if there was any war on Glix but opted against such a stupid idea.
War is a stupid idea? Saying that might just cause a war. Or at least an excessive amount of violence. Either way it will be your fault.
La-la-la!
For now, though, things were calm. That was definitely good.
“Good.”
“How far have we come so far?” asked Dave, on the way to the Fez in BongVe Bong. It was well into the afternoon now and would soon be dark. Dave guessed that they would be having a late supper that evening, before retiring to bed.
“We have travelled 7km Nekken of Carpe Yolu, if your compass is accurate,” replied Clint.
“It should be. Does that compass measure distance?”
“No. I meant it tells us we’re travelling Nekken. I’ve been monitoring the distance.”
“Okay.”
“How come you don’t know what functions your own compass serves?”
“I haven’t really looked at it. I got it from a nurse.”
“So, you don’t know whether it works or not.”
“I have put my trust in the authorities.”
“We’re still in Jackshire, though,” Clein said.
“What?”
“We’ve travelled 7km, but we’re still in Jackshire.”
“It is 25km from Carpe Yolu to BongVe Bong, so we should be able to locate the Fez in a couple of days,” Clint added.
“How come we can’t locate it when we’re not searching for it and in the right country?” Dave was as confused as he was curious, like he usually seemed to be on this planet. At least, from what he had experienced so far, he was usually confused and curious. This wasn’t too much of a change from his usual state on his home planet, though. Dave often wondered whether his mental condition had actually changed from when he’d been on his home planet or not. But he tried not to think about it for too long. It made him confused and curious.
“You just don’t know what to search for,” the Space Chicken said. “The signal’s not really strong enough, I guess.”
“The Fez gives off a signal?” If what science-fiction has taught me is right, Dave thought, that signal may provide me with a way home. Also, if what fairy tales and folklore have taught me is right, I want to go home.
“It was a metaphor,” replied the Space Chicken, unwittingly dashing Dave’s low hopes of a place to belong. “What I meant was that there’s always a trace of the Fez within the biosphere and it can be detected. But only if you’re looking for it and you want it.”
“It may take about three more days to reach the Fez,” said Clein. “Of course, we could be going in the wrong direction if Dave’s compass is faulty.”
“It’s not!”
“I was just saying,” he eased off. “You seem like the kind of person who might buy a compass that didn’t work.”
“I didn’t buy it.”
“Oh, you cheapskate. Old people are always so insistent upon getting ‘a good bargain’.”
Dave turned to the Space Chicken. “I don’t like that Clein. Clint’s okay, but I don’t like Clein.”
The Space Chicken looked Dave in the eyes (which was hard when the Space Chicken’s eyes were on the side of his head). “Get it into your brain: they are exactly the same person in every single way. It must be hard for you, being an alien, but there is not a single difference between them. Their thoughts and actions are identical. They would both say the exact same things, but it just depends on whose turn it is to speak.”
Dave still looked sour.
“They are just teenagers enjoying themselves,” the Space Chicken said. “Surely you must remember doing some stupid things and annoying older people when you were young.”
“I was never young,” Dave grumbled. “At least not like they are.”
“They’ll grow up soon and realise that everything they thought was important as a teenager is actually trivial.”
“I never understood this world or these young kids,” moaned Dave, echoing the grumpy anti-elderbeards of his home planet. They may moan that they hope they never get old, Dave thought. Well, I hope I never get young. And I never will. I win. They’re such losers and they don’t even know it. I bet they still live with their parents. They are so childish.
Chapter 19
The group continued to travel for many Haca (one) until they grew tired, hungry and irksome. They arrived at a fast food pizza chain in Borg for some tea-time refreshments.
Dave looked down at the La Pizzeria de Borgue menu. There was quite a variety of dishes, provided you liked pizza. Luckily for Dave, he did. Unluckily for Dave, being an alien stranded on a foreign planet, he wasn’t sure what to have that wouldn’t offend the others in his group.
There’s a nice looking chicken pizza in here, he thought. But there’s also a Chicken prophet here with the power of the Almighty Quack at his han— at his wings. A Chicken prophet with a Duck god ready to smite me at any second. Would a Chicken get offended if I ate a mere chicken? he wondered. Yes. I could have ham, or what we called back home a ‘Hawaiian’. I don’t suppose they have a Hawaii here on Glix. But what if someone else gets offended? Are Clint and Clein descended from pigs?
If they get offended they can kill you.
Shut up. And wouldn’t that kill you as well? he thought. I’ll just get an ordinary pizza and not harm anyone. Or maybe I should just order a piece of bread…
Clein looked around and saw all the false Italian sights. “I love restaurants. What better way to cool down after a busy day of travelling?”
“Getting drunk out of your skull?” Dave suggested. “That usually seems to be a better way for me.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you there,” Clein said. “Although it wouldn’t be the first difference of opinion we’ve had today.”
Dave was about to get worked up again, before the Space Chicken cautioned him, “Settle down again, you two.”
Then, having realised what he had just publicly announced, Dave turned to the Space Chicken and quietly asked, “Is the consumption of alcohol accepted here?”
“Yes. You’re fine.”
“Will people think less o
f me if they find out I like drinking a lot of alcohol?”
“If you do it in moderation, it’s fine. Even gods and prophets like a drink every now and then.”
“Every now and then?”
“Well, most nows and thens.”
“Do you like a nice place to eat to help you relax, Space Chicken?”
“I love restaurants as much as the next sentient being,” said the Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack, “but I really hate it how they make us wait around for such a long time before they bring our food,” he complained.
It seemed all the tiredness and aching and walking pains were lagging down on those in the group over thirty and making them grumpy and irritable. The youngsters didn’t seem to be too annoyed and appeared as though they had had a perfect night’s sleep every day for their entire lives.
“It’s because their minds dissolve away with the pathetic dumb media they get given these days,” the Space Chicken ranted to Dave. “That’s why they don’t get tired like the rest of us. They haven’t got enough brainpower to feel the effects of what’s happening to their bodies. It just happens to them and they don’t notice it or do anything about it.”
“I’m with you there.”
They watched Clint and Clein as if making observations on the behaviour of a bizarre rare animal species just discovered in the wilds of a new safari range. A safari where the rangers were angry at the creatures for not being tired.
Crazy Dave picked up a scent. “Did someone just talk about the waits in restaurants?”
“My Quack’s Sock, you’re slow,” the Space Chicken said.
“I like the waits in restaurants,” he stated.
“You like the waits in restaurants?” The Space Chicken reflected this statement back upon Crazy Dave in a way that made it seem as if the Space Chicken were testing his own ear tufts.
“Yeah, I enjoy them.”
The Space Chicken had been hoping for an answer more like: ‘What? No! No way! I said, “I like the way you test fonts.”’
The Space Chicken’s mind hung on this thought, and on the way he had managed to mentally finish a sentence with a triple quotation mark.
With a blank face, the Space Chicken slowly and sadly processed Crazy Dave’s response. When he snapped back into reality, his immediate reaction was, “What‽ How can you like waits? They are the time-wasting part of eating out, when you are still waiting for the meal to present itself, despite having ordered an interminable amount of time ago, but definitely long enough to have had your dinner cooked. And even before you order your food, they make you wait then. They make you wait when there’s nothing to do but read through two pages of food options. What is the point of waiting?”
“I believe it is so that our appetites can be built.”
How odd, thought Dave. Tiredness can really affect everyone, particularly here. Tiredness can fully reverse the roles of people. In this instance, Crazy Dave has become an intelligent man, politely teaching those around him. Yet the Space Chicken is overlooking obvious things that would be simple to understand, if only he used a small amount of brain power. But here I watch them quarrel over something trivial I no longer care about. We really need to make sure we get some rest tonight, so we can be back to our almost-normal selves tomorrow.
“There is no reason for them to make us wait this long,” said the Space Chicken.
“Excuse me.”
“What is it now?” he asked rudely.
“May I take your orders?”
The Space Chicken looked sheepish. “Oh. Um, yes. I’ll have a four-cheese pizza, please.”
“Yes, of course,” said the waiter, in a way that meant ‘Yeah, sure. Because the politer I am to you, the bigger my pay check. Would you also like me to shine your shoes?’
Dave came out of this brief daydream and realised he too was being asked about his option of dish. “Er, could I have a Margherita, please?”
“A what, sorry?”
“A mar-gar-ee-tar,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard of one of those. Could you repeat it again, please?”
“A Margherita.” He was beginning to get annoyed. Mostly at himself.
“Nope. I haven’t heard of it. Would you like to order something else off the menu?”
He looked in confusion at the rest of the table. A pizzeria that hasn’t heard of a Margherita? How odd, thought Dave. He saw the frantic wing flaps of the Space Chicken, who was anxiously mouthing, “It’s just called a cheese pizza!”
“Oh, er, a cheese pizza. Please. If you wouldn’t mind. Could I have?” He was adamant to insert all the words at the end of the sentence that he had forgotten to put in the main brunt of the speech. “Please.”
“Yeah… sure,” the waiter said, unknowingly slowing down his speech as he wrote down the order. Again, he was just about polite enough not to reduce the size of his tip.
“Yes?” he asked Clein.
“Can we have two chicken pizzas?”
“Sure thing.”
The Space Chicken scowled at Clint and Clein with a look that could melt steel and, in fact, gave Clint (and therefore also Clein) a slight cut on the side of his face. But he gave Crazy Dave an identical look (and an identical injury) when the boy ordered a ham pizza.
“And you, sir?” the waiter asked of the Egg.
“He won’t be eating today,” the Space Chicken said. “Sorry.”
The man took their order away just as a crack of anger appeared in the Egg’s shell.
Before he could unintentionally annoy the Egg any further, the Space Chicken turned upon the twins, his heart aching. “Sure.” The Eternal Space Chicken of the Sacred Quack sounded devastated. “Order one of my relatives dead on a plate, why don’t you‽”
“Let’s not argue now,” suggested Dave.
“Shut up. How could you know how I feel?”
“I know something similar.”
“No you don’t! You can’t. Don’t kid yourself,” he recommended.
“Let’s just… Let’s just have a relaxed sleep tonight. Not do too much travelling tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a good plan… Why?”
“I think we’re all a bit too grumpy today.”
“I’m not, for one,” said the Space Chicken grumpily. Dave looked him in the eyes. The Space Chicken gave in. “Okay, maybe I am. Just a touch.” He indicated by holding his wings a short distance apart just how much he was grumpy. It wasn’t a lot. Not nearly enough.
Another waiter came over, a different one from before.
“Hello.”
“Er, hi,” said the Space Chicken.
There was a traditional Glix’n pause.
“Is our food ready yet?” the Space Chicken broke in.
“Oh, yes, that. That thing. That was it.”
“Well?”
“Well what? Oh, that,” he said. “No.”
“Why are you here, then?”
He was briefly silent. He seemed to be silent for short spurts between being asked a question and answering, as if he had offended people last time he had spoken to them. “Just for a chat. That’s all really.” He said this as if he had constantly interrupted the last people he had spoken to.
“Oh,” said the Space Chicken, more confused than grumpy now and definitely more confused and grumpy than he had shown on his wings a moment before.
“Do we know you from somewhere?” asked Dave, with the squint of familiarity confusion.
Another pause. “Yes, actually. I believe we met back in Carpe Yolu at your previous eating place.”
“Hey.” Crazy Dave began to realise. “You’re Cashier Dave.”
“Yep. Well now I’m not; I’m Waiter Dave.”
“Waiter Dave!” He liked that name. It was much better than Crazy Dave.
“Did you actually have anything to say?” Dave grumped rudely (not that you can grump politely, but Dave made sure to grump in such a way that any spectator wou
ld be obliged to observe the double discourtesy of his speech). “Or did you just come over here to be silent?”
“I actually came over here to see Dave,” he retorted.
“I am Dave.” It was almost prophetic. It wasn’t; it was pathetic instead.
“The other Dave.” This Dave was steadily getting more annoyed with that Dave’s mid-life grumps.
“You’re the other Dave.”
“Forget it.” Waiter Dave walked over to Crazy Dave.
“Oh, that Dave—“
“Forget it.” They definitely need to catch up on their sleep, thought Waiter Dave. “Dave. You have an interesting life. I know exactly how you feel right now,” Waiter Dave said emotively. “The next few months…” He shook his head. “They don’t count. You don’t need to bother with anything. The rest of the world can wait – it will just sort itself out. I know you just want to run away and forget about everything and that’s fine. It’s exactly what you’re doing now. I know you’re still struggling in this confusing world, but you don’t need to worry any more; everything will go your way. We live in a world where everybody worries and complains about how dull and meaningless the world is, but if you look around and pay attention you will see how great it can be. Spend the next few years in ecstasy if you can, Dave. Then you will lead a great life. I’ll see you soon. I’m certain of it.”
Waiter Dave walked hurriedly back into the kitchen.
There was another long pause.
‘Did we order garlic bread?’ asked the Egg. ‘I am sure we forgot to.’
“Did everyone – or anyone – else just see what I saw?” asked Dave.
“I don’t know any more,” said the Space Chicken. “This whole day has been so weird.”
“Tell me about it.”
Crazy Dave was staring into space. “I think I know who that person was,” he uttered quietly and slowly.
“Yes, we know,” Dave grumped. “It’s Cashier Dave.”
Crazy Dave glared at him. “I’m not as stupid as you think.”
Dave snorted. “Stupid? Stupid? I never called you stupid,” he said hysterically. “Oh no. It’s just that you’re so flipping crazy!”
“Hello,” said a brand-new waiter, whilst walking over and delivering their order. “Is there anything else I can get you?” she said in her placid voice.
“Can we have five refillable colas please?” requested Dave.
“Yeah, sure,” she accepted comfortably. “Anything else?”
