In the Beginning Again
Ralf William Barker, wine aficionado and mean spirited jerk,
just now fell down an elevator shaft after drinking far too much wine, thus
eliminating the possibility that this story will be about him. Well, it could be about him, but it
won’t. However, I reserve the right to
write about him later on.
We need a protagonist, someone we will love and take great
interest in, someone unique, with great talent and intelligence. Well, maybe not. Why does the protagonist always (generally)
have to be some larger than life character?
Meet Ralf (not the Ralf from above.) Ralf is a thirty-five year old, unemployed
bachelor who lives in a small apartment in a small town in a small state where
nothing important ever happens. He has
done nothing in his life that anyone with any modicum of intelligence would
find interesting or relevant. Let’s have
him do something, something typical for him.
Ralf stared off into space.
Ralf isn’t terribly bright, as you might have guessed. He is socially awkward, and often quite
forgetful, as well as dull and listless, spending most of his time watching
taped episodes of The Happy Clown Hour
with Sparkles the Clown, a show targeted to individuals with Ralf’s limited
intellectual capacity and dull listlessness.
There should be some other characters that interact with
Ralf.
Sheila Southern is a thirty-year-old dispatch operator who
takes great pride in making life as difficult as possible for the poor souls
who call in to report emergencies. She
is thoroughly evil and is in love with Brian Porter, a hyper-attractive
mega-star who has absolutely no clue she exists. She lives next door to Ralf, and generally
ignores him, given that he is an unemployed and quite unintelligent individual
who will never further her goals.
Terry Pritchard is a thirty-eight-year-old former child
star, who lives with his mother (she is also his agent.) He has done nothing in his life that anyone
with any modicum of intelligence would find interesting or relevant. Further, he is dumb as a stump. He and Ralf often watch taped episodes of The Happy Clown Hour with Sparkles the Clown,
a show that Terry had been on until the show was canceled due to Sparkles’
severe drinking problem and proclivity for telling the child actors on the show
rather dirty jokes.
Sparkles the Clown, also known as Bert Wellingford, a fifty-seven-year-old,
unemployed alcoholic who lives in an alley behind a bar in Ralf and Terry’s town,
spends most of his time with Ralf and Terry, telling dirty jokes and
reminiscing. He has a bum leg and says
“wicked” quite a bit, often following that word with “awesome.” Bert is a nihilist and a North American
Canadian. He secretly wants to destroy
all creation.
Terry and Bert both have terrible crushes on Sheila, a quite
attractive woman who often wears skimpy clothes. Sheila thinks they are a bunch of leering
perverts, and she is right for the most part.
Ralf is not a pervert. He just
likes Sheila’s sense of style.
I think we have enough characters for now. Let’s get moving.
Terry, sitting between Ralf and Bert on Ralf’s battered
sofa, heard Sheila leave her apartment and got up to look out the blinds and
leer at her. Bert also got up and did
much the same, while Ralf looked at his two friends, wondering what they were
doing.
“What are you guys looking at?” said Ralf.
“I think you should ask her out on a date, Terry,” said
Bert.
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“Who are you guys talking about?” said Ralf.
“Sheila, you moron,” said Bert.
“Oh,” said Ralf. “I
want pancakes.” Ralf wondered if Sheila
ate pancakes and then wondered what she was wearing and if she had matching
earrings and shoes. He then wondered
about her purse and her lipstick, wondering if those matched her outfit, hoping
they did.
“Well, if you’re not going to ask her out, I am,” said Bert.
“She doesn’t like you either, Bert. Don’t you remember when she kicked you and
called you a pervert?”
“A simple misunderstanding, my boy. I’m sure she has forgotten that. Let’s go out and talk to her,” said Bert.
“What are we going to say to her?” said Terry.
“Who are you guys talking about?” said Ralf, wondering how
Sheila organized her closet and wondering if she had a pair of black pumps that
would fit him.
“Sheila, Ralf. She’s
outside,” said Terry.
“Oh,” said Ralf, wondering if Sheila was wearing perfume.
“Come on,” said Bert, dragging Terry out of Ralf’s apartment
to go talk to Sheila, who was right then getting into her car.
Ralf wondered where his friends had gone and then forgot
they had ever been there and turned his attention to the TV, wondering if
Sheila liked maple syrup on her bacon.
Outside, Bert and Terry approached Sheila, Bert presenting
himself with a warm smile.
“What do you idiots want?” said Sheila. Sheila had on her favorite leather miniskirt
and a low-cut orange blouse. Her high
heels, also orange, were a close enough match for her blouse, although anyone
with any sense of style could tell that Sheila did not truly have a well-developed
sense of style herself, or for that matter, much in the way of grace.
At that moment, an invisible alien (the alien is a pretty
pale blue when visible, stands five feet tall, has a lipless mouth, and two
beautiful, orange eyes) killed, ate, and then disintegrated the remains of
Bert, Terry and Sheila (so much for them.)
It then entered Ralf’s apartment, hoping to find another tasty human to
feast upon.
The alien, Chot, upon entering Ralf’s apartment, took one
look at Ralf and decided not to eat him, thinking Ralf looked familiar, perhaps
an old friend, although Chot could not be sure about that, his memories
somewhat vague (Chot has been struggling with amnesia for some time.)
Chot turned off his invisibility field and said, “Hey, do I
know you?”
Ralf, seeing a pretty, pale blue alien standing in his
apartment, and wondering what the alien would look like wearing purple, said,
“Uh.”
“You look familiar.
Have we met before?” said Chot.
“I don’t think so,” said Ralf. “What are you?”
“I’m a Canadian, and not a North American Canadian,” said
Chot.
“What is a North American Canadian?”
Chot knew he had seen Ralf before, although in what
circumstances he did not know (Chot had seen Ralf before, although they had not
spoken, given that they were in a meeting with God, God laying out the rules
for the game they would soon play, and that one did not have conversations with
others when God was talking.) “What’s
your name?” said Chot.
“Ralf. Are you an
alien?”
“Yeah. So, have you
been to Gamma War recently? Did we meet
there?”
“Where is Gamma War?”
“Maybe it was on Fork Teet.
Were you there recently?”
“Is that in Asia?”
“No, dummy. It’s
about two thousand light-years from here.
Do you remember me?”
“No. Who are you?”
“I’m Chot.
Whatever. Do you want to go get a
bite to eat?”
“Where are Bert and Terry?” said Ralf, now remembering his
friends.
“I think I just ate them.”
“Oh. Hey, are you an
alien?”
“Yeah, I’m an alien.
Look, do you want to get a bite to eat or not?”
Ralf wondered what would happen if he and an alien went out
and got a bite to eat. What would people
think? Would the government swoop in and
abduct the alien? In that moment, Ralf
remembered something. He remembered
seeing God. He also remembered hearing
God say a few things about some rules, although he couldn’t remember the rules
and hoped that God wouldn’t be mad at him for forgetting.
Chot wondered if Ralf had been taking drugs, thinking it
quite possible, given that Ralf appeared quite dull and listless. “Come on,” said Chot.
“Where are we going?” said Ralf.
“Just follow me.”
Chot turned on his invisibility shield, changing the
settings so only Ralf could see him.
This nifty device came from Dota Resperon, a far away world inhabited by
a rather shy species of thieves (well, most of them are thieves. The ones that aren’t thieves are retired
thieves.) He then led Ralf out of the
apartment and down the street, heading toward the center of town, a perfect
place to find another meal.
Chot has an insatiable appetite, his favorite meal a nice,
tasty human. On any given day, Chot will
kill, eat and then disintegrate over a dozen humans, usually choosing victims
who have done nothing anyone with any modicum of intelligence would find
interesting or relevant. He usually
leaves more productive and interesting people alone, thinking it best to give
humanity, a species with some small amount of potential, a fighting chance, if
ever they enter into the mainstream of the universe.
“Where are we going?” said Ralf, noticing that it was nighttime
and thinking it was probably past his bedtime.
Chot scanned the area, ignoring Ralf’s question. Not far ahead, he noticed two teenagers
trying to break into a car.
“Wait here,” said Chot.
“I thought we were going to go get something to eat,” said Ralf.
“Don’t worry, I’ll share with you, but I don’t want them to
see you or they might run away.”
“Who might run away?”
“Do you see those two kids breaking into that car?”
“Yeah.”
“Just stay here and let me kill them, and then you can come
eat with me.”
“Where are we going to eat?”
Chot faced Ralf and paused a moment before saying, “What
exactly are you on, Ralf?”
“I don’t know.”
“Right. Okay, wait
here.”
Chot rushed over to the two boys, killed them and then
dragged them to a dark spot off the street.
He then called out to Ralf.
Ralf, having seen Chot murder the two boys, ran screaming
back to his apartment, where he locked the door behind him and turned off all
of the lights. Chot sighed, ate his
victims, and then disintegrated their remains with his nifty disintegrator (a
device implanted in the tip of one of Chot’s pretty, pale blue fingers, a
device he had implanted while on Beta Canadia, his home world.) He then teleported into Ralf’s now dark
apartment and turned on the lights, seeing Ralf quivering on the couch, his
eyes wide with fear.
“You killed them,” cried Ralf.
“Look, a guy’s got to eat.
Anyway, they were going to set off the alarm on that car and the owner
was going to come out and shoot them. I
made their deaths a lot less painful.”
“What car?”
“The car they were breaking into.”
“Who was breaking into a car?”
“The two kids I just ate.”
“You ate two kids?” said Ralf, having completely forgotten
about Chot murdering two kids who were breaking into a car.
Chot stared at Ralf, wondering if he should kill him and eat
him, thus eliminating a complete moron from the human gene pool. He quickly dismissed that idea, concluding he
should befriend Ralf, thinking Ralf could use an intelligent friend, someone
who could help him wise up and maybe become less dull and listless. Chot sat on the couch next to Ralf, noticed a
lottery ticket on the coffee table, and picked it up. “Looks like you have a winner, Ralf.”
“What?”
“You won the lottery.
Didn’t you check the numbers on this ticket?”
“What do you mean?”
“You check the numbers to see if you’ve won, you imbecile.”
“Oh, I thought they called you if you won.”
Chot noticed another ticket on the table and examined it,
surprised to find that it was another winner (Chot follows the lottery quite
closely, memorizing all of the winning numbers.
He knows that Ralf has won over two hundred million dollars, and also
realizes that if he had not entered into Ralf’s life, Ralf would have likely
discarded the tickets, thinking he didn’t win because nobody called him.) “Ralf, you’re worth over two hundred million
dollars now.”
“No. I only have
thirty-seven dollars in my savings account,” said Ralf, wondering why Chot
thought he was worth over two hundred million dollars and also wondering if
Sheila liked ponies.
“You know, I’m going to have to take you to Surth Beta and
get that head of yours fixed.”
“Something is wrong with my head?” said Ralf.
“Yeah. Look, you have
to claim your prize. Do you know how to
do that?”
“What prize?”
“Wow. I mean,
wow. You know, you’re lucky I like
you. I’m pretty hungry right now.”
“Do you want some pancakes?” said Ralf.
Anyway, Ralf wins over two hundred million dollars and
contemplates buying a ranch in a remote area of Montana, so he can have ponies,
ponies only living in Montana in Ralf’s mind.
However, Chot doesn’t like this idea so much, and there is a bit of a
struggle. Ultimately, Chot wins and Ralf
ends up buying a beautiful, furnished, modern house on Mulholland Drive in Los
Angeles. The house’s previous owner,
Ralf William Barker, now deceased, had put considerable effort into decorating
and maintaining this property.
