by Matt Medlock
Hopeless Harry
In the Land of Biiig
by Matt Medlock
Copyright © 2015 Matt Medlock
All rights reserved.
I: Bring Me the Head of Ricardo Montalban in an Oversized Pickling Jar
An interesting fact: the Gargavip race, advanced and cleanly as they are, do not manufacture or utilize toilets.
An interesting fact: a lot of people, including fiction writers, misconstrue what is actually “interesting.”
But despite Gargavips being quite intelligent and cultured and hygienic, it is true. They do not use toilets. It is not because they do not produce waste. They certainly do. Their solid waste is generally swirled, multicolored spheres, not terribly unlike toy marbles. Only instead of being made of glass, clay or agate, they are composed of packed, odiferous feces. And instead of being excreted through some sort of rectal or cloacal cavity, it simply comes back up the way it came. Through a Gargavipian ooglud, very similar to an Earthling esophagus. Some are reminded of the act of coughing up furballs when a Gargavip needs to go number two. However, for a Gargavip, it's actually number eight. Eight out of eleven. They are true connoisseurs of variable defecation methods. So your typical Gargavip, when he or she felt that need, would simply apologize in the middle of a conversation, pause, produce a portable receptacle, and turn it into a spittoon for a handful of poop marbles. In other words, not quite as disgusting as using a spittoon for its true purpose. As a result, the Gargavip race, advanced and cleanly as they are, do not manufacture or utilize toilets. Now, isn't that interesting?
No? Well, someone is awfully hard to please.
Anyway, this is how She'bok got Hopeless Harry into a hopeless heap of trouble.
Despite the name, She'bok is not a “she.” Nor is She'bok a “bok,” in large part because “bok” is not a word, no matter what the Swedish, Dutch, Polish, Serbian, Turkish, Afrikaans and Croatian people might claim (or, when paired with “choy,” the Chinese, for that matter). No, it's not a word. It's not. Give it up. Not in this universe, nor the infinite number of parallel universes that exist in tandem with this one.
Tangentially, it should be noted that this universe is not the “real universe,” but rather one of the off-shoots. In the original existence, eggs are green and everyone walks around with ten cats on their head. But, no, this doesn't mean that Theodor Geisel (aka Dr. Seuss) was a cross-planar traveler. He's just nutty. As proven by his diabolical treatise for children to stomp madly upon their fathers.
She'bok was known to talk in a very conspiratorial tone of voice, but with a greasy sheen some would call “charm” and others might call “five-alarm suspicious.” Harry tended to believe in the best of people, even people that were crusty, mauve, corpulent, and named “She'bok.” So when Harry was in the local cinematico superplex, trying to watch the latest intergalactic blockbuster (a Jerviskaan-language sequel to a reboot of a remake of a prequel to a ripoff of an homage to a plagiarism of Ingmar Bergman's The Virgin Spring called Noisy Stupidity II: The Revenging...in 5-D!), the crusty, mauve and corpulent She'bok slithered up to Harry to have a conversation. “Slithered” might not be the right word. What is it called when a pulsating Blecchtoad oozes across the floor, propelled only by sheer, spiteful will and mild propulsions in the form of oleaginous farting? Whatever that word is, put it in there. That's what She'bok was doing.
“Hey, missta, mista, hey, mista,” She'bok said to Harry.
Harry was enjoying the noisy stupidity in Noisy Stupidity, but he was not so rude as to ignore a rude ice breaker and not rudely reply, “Yes?”
“You look like a fella of real means, am I right, am I right? Fella of real means. Am I right?”
“I do all right,” shrugged Harry, disappointed that he missed a few seconds of noisy stupidity on the 5-D holosphere. Those few seconds were critical, with its fast cuts leaving only single frames to be comprehended on a subconscious level. It was very noisy and very stupid and cost a lot of money. There was even a bit of revenge in that scene. Which was surprising since the revenge typically came at the end of noisy, stupid movies like Noisy Stupidity II: The Revenging...in 5-D! But this was made with real affection and money and affection for money. And the revenge was sprinkled liberally into the celluloid bouillabaisse. Sure, it was noisy and stupid, but there was a lot of it.
“Well, listen up, sonny boy, sonny boy. Have I got a bee-yoot of an idea., Real swell, sonny boy. Bee-yoot, sonny boy, sonny boy.”
An angry Paglaar in front of Harry turned its fifth cranial hexagonal prism, bristling. It growled, “Do you mind? I can't hear all the noise!”
“Who cares, pally?” She'bok snapped back. “It's all reee-al stupid, get me, get me?”
“I'll get you,” grumbled the Paglaar, “after the movie...in the parking lot!”
“You'll get me? Why I oughta, oughta... But I won't, pally, pally. You're a swell fell. A real swell fell. And I can spot 'em, trust me, trust me. Like my buddy here, yeah?” She'bok looked at Harry. “Say, buddy, buddy, old buddy of mine. What's your name, anyway?”
Hopeless Harry told She'bok, though he omitted the “hopeless” part.
“Top drawer moniker for a top shelf mug, yessirree, yessirree. I like the name Harry. It's a good name, a name you can trust. Maybe 'cause it rhymes with 'dairy.' And who doesn't like dairy? We all do, sure thing, sure thing. So, Dairy Harry, Harry Dairy, name so very cherry and quite contrary...before this mook ahead of us gets the beee-right idea to give us the bus-i-ness, what say you and me get outta here?”
Harry was conflicted. For one, he had paid forty-eight klibuggees ($1,895 American dollars) to watch the movie in all five spine-tingling dimensions, and since he'd only been sitting for about 45 minutes, he still had almost five more hours of noisy stupidity left to ingest and endure. And for another, the last time he agreed to follow a stranger out of a cinematico superplex, a rhinestone-studded Slek'no ushered him into the nearest restroom and tried to make splorp-splorp with him. Harry had no idea that stretching one's arms like that during a yawn was a Slek'nese signal that hinted that “my greasy phlaab glands are covering me in shmivt” and that “anything goes below the thirteenth row of nipples.”
After Harry hesitated, and was temporarily distracted by something amazingly noisy and colossally stupid on the holosphere, She'bok leaned close and purred, “C'mon, old buddy, buddy.”
Harry had never been called an “old buddy, buddy” by anyone before. He kinda liked it. So up he went into the lobby, wondering what this old buddy, buddy of his that he had known for all of three minutes wanted.
What followed was the most spectacular thirteen minutes of Harry's life. And keep in mind, Hopeless Harry had been across the galaxy and back on disastrous misadventures that one may recall from Hopeless Harry: Cadet Second Class, so that's really saying something. But She'bok was, above all other things, a showman. Actually, above all other things, he was a multicellular organism, because one's own ephemeral existence is above any personality trait or quirk, no matter how overpowering. And it's possible to even break that down a little further and say that She'bok was, above all other things, composed of molecules and atoms and free-wheeling electrons, but now we're splitting hairs (into sub-atomic components of hairs). Okay, and She'bok was also a proud wearer of vests. Just loved 'em. Bold colors, muted colors, pocketed, pinstriped, frilly, long, short, smelling of fish, it didn't matter. Put She'bok in a vest, and She'bok is a happy She'bok. So it's possible that She'bok was more “dangerously obsessed sleeveless garment fanatic” than “showman.” She'bok also hated marzipan an inordinate amount. Fine, let's just say that She'bok was, above a good number of other things, a showman.
>
And for thirteen magnificent minutes, She'bok dazzled Harry with a flurry of flow charts, pie graphs, sales figures, testimonials, complicated dance moves, rhythmic gyrations, looping tassels, skyward-belted torch songs, puppetry, eye-popping contortions, feats of strength, magic tricks, old-timey shtick, ventriloquism banter, knock knock jokes, ribald puns, trapeze acts, floor show routines, DIY foundation repair walkthroughs, face-melting guitar solos, mimecraft, abdominal workout routines, intricate cocktail mixings, Flurgesian War reenactments, high-wire balancing acts, lion taming tricks, celebrity impressions, rotoscopings, Shakespearean soliloquies, Space Shakespearean orations, Shal'oi scripture readings, instructions on how to clean, gut, and filet a Marvassik Phoonfish, lasersword juggling, legalese explaining why they needed to be called “laserswords” and not something that is doubtlessly copyrighted, notarizations, slam dunk contests, pet housebreakings, open heart surgeries, baby deliverings, bellydances, jazzercises, alphabet belchings, deep-sleep hypnotizings, free-style raps, wine tastings, space pope canonizations, dental cleanings (including fluoride treatments), loom weavings, Waldo spottings, and excessively tasteless minstrelsy.
Was it mentioned that She'bok also employed fog machines and laser-light events? Clearly, Harry was quite impressed (and a little winded) by the demonstration.
But after the final bow, Harry felt a little hopeless (moreso than usual, that is). Because even after thirteen breathless minutes of wonder and amazement, he still didn't know exactly what She'bok wanted with him. So She'bok explained in simple terms. She'bok told him about manufacturing a line of Gargavipian toilets.
It was a promised monopoly. A windfall of hosannas and riches. A market ripe for capitalizing (and sanitizing). There were more than 2 billion Gargavipians on their homeworld of Huh? Even with the average family household size of 3.6 Gargavipians, that meant more than 500 million toilets would be needed for Gargavipian homes. And that didn't include public facilities scattered all around as well. It shouldn't miss. It wouldn't miss. It couldn't miss.
It missed.
Considered the biggest mass production blunder since the line of Tickle-Me-Poison Arrow Frogs in WTF (years in the future are designated by random, popular text message abbreviations rather than boring numbers), the Gargavipian toilet (called the Gargalet) was roundly derided and booed when it was first released. No Gargavip wanted to lean over some porcelain monstrosity to spew shit. They were perfectly comfortable spewing shit around other Gargavips. They even spewed shit for millions of Gargavips to see, in formats such as the nightly news, beauty pageants, telethons, political debates, and religious programming. No one was going to buy some bulky, costly inconvenience like the Gargalet. What a stupid idea.
Harry was inconsolable. He had spent 19,361 hours (approximately 2.2 Earth years) of his life working for the malevolent conglomerate known as SCROTUM (Shlemiel Conglomerate for Reductive Orbital Terraforming and Ultrascope Mining), but he had finally earned enough money to afford a little freedom. Cast off those immoral shackles and find his true purpose in life (after the purpose of being a Cadet Second Class proved to be waaaay beyond his capabilities). But instead, he had been convinced by an almost complete stranger to simply hand over his entire bankroll in an effort to make billions with the creation and manufacture of the Gargalet. And rather than make billions, he made nothing. He'd lost it all. Back to square one.
Actually, that wasn't true. And here's why:
Despondent (and angry), Hopeless Harry called up She'bok to find out just what the hell had happened to that “once in a lifetime opportunity” and “surefire slamrun homedown touchdunk.” It all seemed like the perfect plan. She'bok dazzled Harry with a spectacle, but the plan was all flash, no substance. He wondered as the line on the other end of the phone rang what She'bok could possibly say to explain what had happened.
It went to voicemail.
“Howdy, mista, mista, or missa, missa...sorry, but I must be too pree-occ-q-pee-eyed to pick up, get me, get me? You can probably find yours truly halfway across the galaxy by now. Such is the neonunomadic life of a flimflam flipflap, savvy, savvy? Apologies to the victims of my latest flywheel scheme, but a mug is a mug, am I right, am I right? And mugs with handles get a good twisting. So...I bid you all a hee-arr-tay farewell, and sorry again for ruining your lives. Especially my best buddy, good ol' pal, a fitter friend to the bitter end, Harry. As a courtesy, old buddy, buddy, before you snap your cap, I should warn you that in order to max-ee-mize all them pennies from heaven, I took out a fourten quattuordecillion UAIF credit loan—that's a one and a four and then forty-five zeroes, if you didn't know, pally, pally—from the Neptunian Yakuza...in your name. And if the balance isn't repaid with 4,149% interest within three hours of me taking the loan, then there will be trouble. So...Harry, rice-a-crony, rice-a-crony, if I was you, and I sure is glad I isn't, I'd get to running and never turn back before their pluggers get you, get you, get me, get me? Don't worry...one day, you're gonna have a big ol' laugh about all this, but for now, save that laughing breath for running breath. She'bok out, bee-yotches!”
Beep.
Harry muttered to himself, “Well, that's not good.”
He leaned over to replace the space phone onto its stand. Suddenly, the lamp beside him exploded after being struck by a bullet. A bullet fired from a platform on the satellite array across the street from Harry's termek loft. The Neptunian Yakuza were as quick as they were stealthy. The space vultures were circling already. Except, instead of being the illogical silicon-based Xa'kriss, known colloquially as “space vultures,” these were organized crimeworld assassins from the planet Neptune II (Neptune II being the result of mass replacement following an intergalactic lawsuit when the competitive-eating Gorgi race came around and devoured the original planet Neptune).
Harry hopelessly looked at the broken lamp mess and cursed under his breath. Then he squatted down to pick up the pieces, as two lasersword-wielding assassins swung out from the shadows on either side of the room. So excited were they, that they inevitably sliced through each other's chests as they collided above Harry. Harry thought he heard something unusual, but when he went to stand, he banged the back of his head on the underside of a table. Cursing again, not so much under his breath this time, he crawled under to the other side and staggered up, smarting. Head throbbing, he went to his Ici-Gud freezer to fetch some ice. The cubes were frozen into their slots, so, lacking a proper icepick, he used a paring knife to chop off a few pieces. Without turning, Harry reached back to blindly replace the blade into the knife block. Doing so, he inadvertently plunged it into the chest of the unsuspecting Neptunian sneak that was stealthily approaching with a garrote.
With the soothing ice now pressed against his head, Harry sighed in relief. He wandered obliviously around one corpse, passed by the separated halves of two more corpses partly-obscured by a recliner, and then paused when he heard his phone ringing. Thinking (hoping foolishly, really) that it might be She'bok, Harry hurried to answer. He picked up the receiver, but there was no response when he said, “Hello?” three times. Frustrated, he tossed it away, ignoring the bullet that had lodged into the cradle several seconds ago after he lifted it to his ear. Which is not to mention the two small, circular fissures in the window caused by those two bullets.
While the Neptunian Yakuza marksman in the satellite array went about loading another round, Harry resolved to play it safe. Thinking over She'bok's hinted danger from the Neptunian Yakuza, he grabbed his jacket and left his termek loft. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs to the lot right outside, he heard a terribly loud sound. Looking up, Harry noticed that his apartment had exploded. Atomized, really, and likely the result of a defrickubulator being left in his room by some mysterious assailant that coincidentally liked to carry around weapons favored by the Neptunian Yakuza. It was all very mystifying. No connection could possibly be made for poor, hopeless Harry.
Harry whistled in alarm by what he saw. And after the shock passed, realizing hi
s fortune in being outside when it happened, he said to himself, “Maybe I'm not so hopeless after all.”
He then turned, tripped over a parking block, and landed face first in a mud puddle. It only got worse when he was served papers by a SCROTUM summons officer, who had been waiting outside the building waiting for Harry to emerge. And before leaving, the summons officer decided to mug Harry, too.
It was around this point that Harry, feeling hopeless as ever, decided it was best to get as far from this place as possible. He'd just lost his home, he'd been mugged, he was wanted in some (unpleasant) fashion by SCROTUM, and there were probably thugs from Neptune II looking for him (if only he had some evidence of the latter...). The sort of thugs that probably looked a lot like the strange man across the street who was hurrying along the satellite platform rail carrying an izzithian supra-coil sniper rifle. Harry found it odd to notice that man at that moment. Just as odd was when the person stopped and looked right at him. Harry hadn't noticed him before because the view was blocked by a Galaknoid Rayzer hover-billboard. But the man had just come from a perfect vantage to his window; the window that no longer existed now, thanks to the bad luck of being obliterated by atomization.
“Uh-oh,” Harry suddenly said aloud to no one but the ghost of Aaxik Gruut, who Harry had no idea was lurking in the area, and really has no impact on this story, so probably shouldn't have even been mentioned in the first place. In fact, it is really weird that the ghost thing was brought up at all. That really should have been edited out, or never considered at all. “Looks like he's pointing that weapon this way. I'd better scram in case I accidentally get shot by an errant bullet, which surely is not meant to strike my flesh, but it's best to play it safe.” Harry felt bad for whoever the real target was. Probably the nearby Phontoos tree, which was struck by a projectile as he slid around it. Harry never understood those New Age-y but militant Salad is Murder groups, which condemn plant life as being sinful and want to see it all destroyed. But their members thought the same thing about animal life, so they only subsisted on the raw nutrients of sedimentary rocks. Needless to say, there was a lot of delusional hypocrisy and self-hatred in their philosophy. Spectacularly bad teeth, too, from that diet of theirs.
