Zed in Paradise 5

And now back to your previously scheduled prose.
*

For the waitresses, these were no longer games, but ways of life. They had long since become masters of board-games and sporting events and now facing the humans' mediocre skills was mere child's play. In a sense, the biggest difference being that children actually have fun when they're playing.
After a humiliating display of their best efforts, the grand majority of the humans that had entered the building left with empty stomachs. Those who remained to eat were met with troubles along the way. Whereas food and drink was assured, games were also required to be played to receive cutlery, napkins, toilet privileges and, of course, the bill. When it came to the latter, Zed had had enough.
“I demand to see the manager” he shouted as he stood atop a tabletop. Silence fell upon the crowd like sleet on a pleasantly cool winter morn. And after silence ruled came a blood-freezing roar of vengeful fury, followed by the doors to the manager's office exploding, revealing the manager himself.
Vengeance Johnson had a nickname, to those who knew him most intimately, obviously. This nickname was The Vindicator. Wait a minute, did I say most intimately before? I meant least intimately, as this was basically a stage name used by his many fans who didn't know him at all, past his buff, buff, oh-so-buff exterior. Anyway, the reason he had this nickname was because he once vindicated his way out of one hundred thousand paper bags, which was the standard measurement of vindication, in those days, at least. He wasn't too bright, but man could he vindicate. And he was presently going to vindicate all over Zed's face, if you know what I mean. I pray you know what I mean.
“Who just dared to challenge me?” Vengeance growled. Thanks to the wonders of medical advancement, Johnson had taken on wolf DNA, giving him the perfect growl and fangs that could almost stand to rival the great Warg King, whose teeth were so sharp that they could even cut through solid butter.
“It was I” said Zed, dismounting the table and calmly approaching The Vindicator “And I'd like to challenge you to something”
“Perfect” Johnson laughed a growling laugh “What for?”
“If I win, then my people eat for free”
“And if I win?” he wiped his own saliva off his face with a slightly furry forearm.
“Then I pay you” Zed paused for effect “the full amount” their audience gasped.
“Then it appears we have a game on our hands, I propose a good old-fashioned brawl!” he salivated more copiously.
“A good idea, but I propose a variation” he said “we shall brawl in our minds!” the people around them cheered a magnificent cheer of cheeriness.
“Let's do this” Johnson signalled for a member of the cleaning staff to sort out the large puddle of mouth juice he was standing in “to the stadium!”
Yes, they were off to the stadium. The Stadium of Psychological Endeavours to be more precise. This was a structure built by the great king Tamegame in the first era of games in order to satisfy his needs for a gaming environment that didn't 'suck mighty balls'.
Oh how picky a king he was, too. Instead of just bricks, he wanted it to be made from the bones of his people, which was damn hard because most of the population was needed just to build the damn thing. Compromising, he decided it would also be made of the bones of any animal they could capture, which led to Gameworld's extinction of the whale.
Zed, Johnson and a crowd of tens of thousands arrived and took their seats. Then Zed and Johnson remembered they were supposed to be fighting and entered the arena. In the middle of the 'stage', if you'd like, were two helmets attached by wires to a large metal cube of metal which was apparently the battle computer.
The two competitors took their seats in the old armchairs next to the computer, facing each other. Vengeance growled threateningly at Zed to no obvious effect. Zed was too busy wondering whether the iron in his breakfast cereal was enough to break a microwave. No, that's a stupid idea, he thought. I don't even have a microwave. Or cereal. Or iron. It all comes down to this.
“Gentlemen” said a referee, stepping onto the stage dressed in the traditional referee getup; a cocktail dress of purest white. Or what had once been white, anyway, now it was somehow brown. White wasn't a colour you saw much on Gameworld, since most white objects had already been won in games by the self titled Emperor Purity, the man with an obsession for the colour white that could obsess itself out of a billion paper bags if need be. There was only one person in the entirity of Gameworld who knew why he liked white so much and that was an old beggar by the name of Delor whom was on his deathbed and about to die. His knowledge would be the cause of his death and one day he would return to correct his death certificate.
“Are you both ready?” the referee continued.
“More ready than you'll ever be, you damn philistine!” The Vindicator shouted back.
“What was that about?”
“I'm even more ready than that!” shouted Zed.
“Seriously, what were you-”
“Let's begin!” Zed placed the helmet upon his head, rendering himself unconscious for the time being. Johnson did the same.

A poet is me!

Today you shall have some poetry to show that I'm no one-trick unicorn. This is called The Jar of Squiggles and was inspired by drawing a box around a scribble one time. I also entered it for this competition called Poetry Rivals and we'll know if I get anywhere in it sometime in July, I think. Anyway enjoy or something.


Keep away from the jar,
that jar of squiggles
Never, ever open it,
not even for shits and giggles.

Beware, young boy
the things inside.
That stuff in there
you'll want to hide.

There's pain and death and black in there,
things to chew and burn your hair.
And soon this world will surely die
in the depths of Satan's eye.

You can hide and you can run,
you won't escape the squiggles, son.
Fly like a bird, run like a fox
you'll be seen inside a box.

For what it's worth
you should fight.
So punch and kick
into the night.

Through black and death
you won't be far.
So keep away boy,
from that jar.

Zed in Paradise 4

“Welcome, intrepid explorers” said the man who had snapped his fingers with open arms “You have arrived in Gameworld, the land of games!”
“Video games?” a boy asked with genuine curiosity.
“No!” said the man cheerfully, overseeing the boy's especially bloody demise. By this point, the majority of remaining Earth humans had seen the man who had welcomed them. This instilled in most a deep disgust. And in others a strange but fantastic pleasure. The man was wearing a black cape. He wore nothing else apart from fists resting on his hips “which of you is the leader?”
“That depends” said a person who had just decreased his life expectancy to around ten seconds “Who wants to know?” after eight more seconds of the greeter's deep contemplation had passed the man was shot in his armpits.
“I am Greeter Howard, I will oversee both your induction to the planet and your deaths, should you break any of the rules”
“What are the rules?” asked someone who had a large amount of guts, but not for much longer.
“I will address the rules” he said once he had finished with the person's innards “after I have met with your leader”
“Is our president still alive?” asked a person to the rest of humanity.
“No” said Jeremy Kyle “he acted more like a Gruffalo than an elephant”
“What's a-” someone started.
“Don't ask”
“Then it appears that I am your leader” Zed stepped out of the crowd and stood in front of the caped one, mimicking his pose and staring a powerful stare.
“Finally” said he, extending a hand for a shake with Zed, whom obliged to his silent request “So, do you live in a house?”
“I did before it was destroyed”
“I see” he said, continuing the shake “Did you have a toilet?”
“Except on Wednesdays, yes”
“Did you use toilet paper?”
“Only when necessary”
“I don't”
“Oh?” said Zed, his attention redirected from the elongation of the handshake to the strange concept that had been put before him “Then what do you use?”
“My hands” he said with a grin. Zed stopped shaking his hand, the other laughed a terrible, bad-tasting laugh “Come now, let me show you around”
“Interesting, Mr. Greeter, but how can you expect to show us around when you are unable to point?” Howard's gaze dropped to his own hands, which were no longer there. His eyes widened with shock and he fell to his knees, still staring.
“They're just in your sleeves, you stupid cock-nugget!” shouted a voice.
“Oh” said Howard, revealing his hands once more “Strange, really, because I was under the impression that I wasn't wearing anything with sleeves” an explanation to this was about to be uttered but this was interrupted by the remembrance that he was supposed to be explaining something else entirely “ah yes, the rules” these were so important that he had to begin speaking in another paragraph.
“Here in Gameworld, we wish to be fully prepared to meet with Satan and/or Death, so we have based our society's principles around game-playing”
“So you can win back your soul?” asked someone, whom was shot to the death after confirmation of this. You would have thought that they would learn not to speak by this point, but they didn't and subsequently did. Yes.
“But what's with all the killing you do?” asked Zed.
“Oh, to put a point across here you have to first challenge someone to a game first and then win. Otherwise you are killed”
“That sounds very impractical. Also, why haven't you killed me yet?”
“You know the answer to that, obviously it's because-” it was Howard's turn to be interrupted by a bullet blowing apart his skull. Taking his place was the emperor of Gameworld.
“I am the Emperor of Gameworld” he boomed. See, I was right.
“Just one more explanation, please” a woman had dropped to her knees.
“That rule only applies if you are in the presence of someone of a higher rank than yourself” explained the emperor, his majestic, high collared purple robes fluttering in the gentle breeze “Therefore, I hereby grant all humans honourary nobleman status, speak as you will”
“You smell!” said someone, experimentally, only to be eradicated from existence. Now they knew the boundaries. A lot of boring exposition later, all the remaining humans came to terms with the concept of Gameworld: to do anything, you must first win a game.
And that was that. Their new society was one based around game-winning, and for most of humanity and their new Gameworld counterparts, life was good. Except for the first time they all went out for a meal. As the rule went, to accomplish anything, a game must be won. Sitting in their seats which was somehow possible for several million people at once.
“Hello, welcome to Gamefood” said many waitresses at once “May we accept your game challenge in order for you to be in with the chance of ordering your food?”
“Yes” they all said after a deliberating process of discussion with one another.
“Well then, what'll it be?” their grins glued to their faces as if stuck down with hair gel, intimidating their opponents with the face of a leaner-than-average shark.
“Scrabble!” said some.
“Monopoly” said others.
“Fencing” offered someone.
“First one to punch you in the face wins” said a very clever person, winning their table food and their waitress a broken nose in the most efficient manner possible. For the rest there followed a tedious and drawn-out task of attempting to win games, made worse by the echo of hunger throughout the establishment

Zed in Paradise 3

Within his left hand rested the Earth in all it's meek and terribly flawed glory, in his other raged a supermassive black hole. With a voice that transcended sound he called upon humanity with divine glory.

“Humans” he bellowed “Your bland monotony is as such that it demands applause, however, unless you wish for me to clap my hands, I suggest that you do something interesting” he laughed the laugh of a god, causing the heads of priests all over the globe to explode.

“Quick!” shouted the current president who had no face so you could glue the face of anyone you'd like onto it. “Do something!” and the rest of humanity awkwardly shuffled about, too pressured to actually think of something. Their blank minds were clouded with so much fog that not even a thousand lighthouses could light the way.

But then another was lit, and with one thousand and one lighthouses people could see a lot clearer. This lighthouse came in the form of a cat, whom summoned all its energy and shouted a loud grunt.

“Grunt?” said a man in an unspecified and not so important part of the world “That's it!” and with that he pretended to be a monkey.

“No!” shouted a woman, vapourising the man with a copious amount of electric tenacity. She got down on all fours and pretended to be an elephant.

“Of course!” said a third man to her immediate right, whose words had slipped out more than they had been said, his fear towards this insanely powerful woman was so staggering that giraffes half the planet away were falling over “Let's all be elephants!” he stuttered, causing the majority of humans to do the same. By which I mean pretend to be an elephant, not exclaim that they should all do so.

“I'll provide the elephant noises!” said someone, taking out a harmonica and obliging in a bout of passionate and oh-so musical fury. All humans refusing to take example were terminated in the most painful way possible. Well, second most painful if you are counting the dreadful Soul-Rack, but as usual we are not doing so because of the whole grey area that a soul lies in between existence and fruit-flavoured. If you know what I mean. And if you don't then shut up.

Zed ceased laughing and instead watched intently as humanity grouped together and protected each other from damnation by pretending to become elephants. Worldwide unity had been achieved, and it was a glorious sight. A tear ran down the god's cheek and Zed returned to his human form, never to return to godhood, or at least, that's what he thought.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, when Zed had returned to his original human self, the black hole he had been holding as a god had not disappeared and sucked up their lovely planet.

“Whoops” said Zed, for that was all that needed to be said.

Now, occasionally (I speak from experience) when one enters a black hole, one is transported to another place in or out of the universe so that one can indulge in antics of a science-fiction nature. This was not the case in this particular event. The Earth fell victim to the most common result of entering a black hole; that of being destroyed.

*

When the humans who had not pretended to become elephants had been annihilated, the overall weight upon the Earth had decreased significantly (many had been sceptical of the effectiveness of the elephant impression and there was no room for such a concept in the world of Zed's), which turned out to be a great advantage as the planet was forced over the cliff of life.

The cliff of life is arguably the best system in place for dealing with the dead. Basically the idea behind it is that every living thing must jump off a cliff after they die. Wait, I'm not finished. At the bottom of the cliff is a portal leading to whatever comes next, which randomly switches between millions of possible worlds and afterlives. Had the Earth been a few million people heavier, then it would have landed in The World of Masochism, a dreadful land filled with needles, broken glass and disease-infected blood. But thanks to it's inferior weight in landed in the portal at the millisecond it had changed to Gameworld.

The Earth landed with a thump on hard ground, this was a strange sensation to all people involved, humans were so used to the Earth moving by now that the feeling of suddenly stopping was enough to churn their stomachs. And it did so. Five minutes of vomiting later (seriously, their was so much vomit that that description doesn't quite get across just how much was coming out of their mouths. This was five minutes of continuous regurgitation, not a night over the toilet seat's worth of drunken babbling between short spurts. Records regarding vomiting speed were smashed into dirt, but unfortunately all the world record representatives were too busy puking to acknowledge this. It was a shame, really) they were ready to get moving.

Upon the clicking of the fingers of a giant person standing over the planet, The Earth's inhabitants grew to a similar size, easily crushing the planet under their now comparatively gigantic feet. This traumatised a surprisingly small amount of people, these were immediately assimilated and, it goes without saying, were brutally and bloodily murdered.

Zed in Paradise 2

“This is a song” Kafka took off his shirt and plucked a few strings on his looted instrument “inspired by one too many awkward moments”
“Don't do this, bud” Zed placed his hand over his own face in order to hide himself to some degree, even if only a little “Not this song, you could play anything, but not this song” he went ahead anyway, a solemn tone echoing from the banjo.
“As I stand here with my dong hangin' out-” he was interrupted by the insisting hands of a nearby restaurant bouncer and was thrown into the unforgiving wind of the building's exterior.
“Alas, your tunes are worth to the none” said Zed, joining his friend upon the pavement.
“One day I'm going to have to stop getting undressed in public and singing about my member” the other pulled his shirt back over his head onto his no longer clammy and naked chest.
“Yeah, maybe you should get therapy or something, I don't know”
“Therapy, pff, who needs it” he flapped his hand dismissively “I knew this guy once, Shaky Sam, wherever he went he'd vibrate. It was great, there was never any ice to break in conversations anywhere he went because all awkwardness would be ignored in favour of his shaking. Everybody loved him. Then one day he went to therapy and came back. We didn't recognise him at first because we were only used to seeing his shaking face. Then we had to get to know him as a person, turned out he was an Enya fan. It's not all hypnotising and loving your mother, you know, psychology's evil” he picked up the banjo that had been thrown at him.
“Let's kick out the jams sometime” shouted the bouncer from the door they had just walked away from. The instrument was strapped around Kafka's back.
It seemed that the rest of the day would be grand. They'd retire to the house of Kafka and play some video games or throw stones at old people. Or try crack. But none of this was to be, for it was then that Kafka's trousers would be stolen by the relentless trouser stealing monkey gang and he was left with his man parts flapping in the previously mentioned wind. Then, of course he got covered in cola and sand and threw up in reaction to the feeling it produced.
So yeah, Zed would always wear underpants. Returning to the time a while ago where we weren't flashing back to the history of the pants, today was a special day for Zed. It was the anniversary of the time he'd stumbled over the coffee table, rolled and stood up without a scratch. It wasn't often such events occurred so it was worth celebrating. And what a day he'd arranged. Breakfast on a patio, a quick nap before lunch on a boat overlooking a ravine. Then it would be off to France and back again. Some would say these were rituals of mundanity and unoriginality. Whereas others would be confused as to how the events were significant to anything in particular. To the latter he would say this: 'If a man with a croissant in his pocket is considered a loon, then dub me Sir. Loony Loon of Loonsville'. This could potentially answer many questions related to the general topic at hand.
Zed was about to leave his house when suddenly the telephone began ringing. Then it continued to ring. It was given a chance to make one last complete ring before Zed picked up the receiver and inquired who was on the line.
“Good afternoon” greeted a mildly friendly but mostly petrifying voice “my name is Howard Frazzle, I have just been legally declared leader of the Welsh republic of window boxes”
“Well that is certainly a joyous occasion for you. But I find myself torn between insight into things such as that and the amount of time I am currently late by for my appointment” Zed replied in his best telephone-exclusive voice.
“Do not fear, I shall not keep you long, all I wanted was-”
“I'm afraid I'll have to interrupt you there in order to compliment your use of the word 'shall', if that's quite satisfactory by you”
“Indeed, thankyou, but you flatter me. The reason for my call is that as of today I am your father-in-law”
“I see” Zed conveyed shock as much as he could, which wasn't a lot due to his emotions inhabiting the impatient side of his brain “But if that's all you have to say I'll have to bid you good day”
“Pray don't, good sir, I-”
“I'm sorry, I'll have to interrupt you again. You see there is a line between sophisticated vocabulary and extinct language such as the word 'pray' when not used as a verb. I hope to speak to you soon, goodbye” and thus the receiver was put back onto its hook or whatever you'd prefer it to be called.
And so it was that Zed left his home and stepped out onto the street whereupon he was greeted by sunlight and indifferent looks from the surrounding people. And by people I mean the beings who lived near Zed's home, who were less like people and more like lumps filled with hate and toe deformities. 'Ouch' they'd curse under their breath, their feet squishing unappetisingly as they descended onto the ground 'If only I were not so full of contempt and toe conditions'.
Outside the world was continuing as normal, people were dying, birds sat in trees waiting for their demise, trees sat in deep contemplation concerning the birds' structural integrity. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary happening anywhere. It was because of this that Zed took it upon himself to become a god.

Zed in Paradise 1

A feature of this whole arrangement will be posting parts of the book I am currently writing, the title of which is shown above. Bear in mind that this is less plot-based than most books one comes across, or at least that was the way it was supposed to be. There are no chapters so I will post chunks of around 1000 words at a time. If you don't like it you're only harming your spleen. Here we go:

The pants were awfully moist today. It seemed that they were always moist. Come to think of it, there was no day in memory, recent or far off, when the pants had been completely dry. Endlessly he would sit on a wet rear end, hoping in vain that the heat of said bum would generate a drier state of the pants. The pants had been bought for Zed on his twelfth birthday.

“You'll never need another pair” declared the birthday wizard (the wizard was a birthday tradition in Zed's family. At least that's what he had been told as his mother waved strangely towards the wizard) “For in these undergarments lie immortal kindred spirits”

“So why aren't you making balloon items?” Zed had shook his fist threateningly.

“...Just take the magic pants, kid” at that point in time the pants had only been a tiny bit damp, as if they had been taken off the radiator too early. As the wizard took his mother into the house for some reason, he inspected his recent gift. These were boxer shorts, and coloured a garish orange colour. What was also strange was that the pants seemed to have emotion. Just by being near them he could hear a little disappointed sigh. Nothing too major, though.

“Wow” he admired, if he had been listening properly he would have been able to hear the spirits of the pants begin to rise “these pants are horrible” and thus the pants became damp thanks to the tears of the spirits expressing such woe that it actually turned to matter.

And so, to this day the pants remained wet. The real question in this situation is 'Why would he keep such wet pants?' and the answer to that is simple. They were the only pants around. Don't get me wrong, he had other pants but when it came down to it, I mean in the most desperate of times when he really needed pants, all his other pairs were being washed. Or were lost. Or stolen. The wet pants, however, always remained, like a cat, always finding their way back to his underwear draw.

The alternative was to not wear anything under his trousers at all, which was simply not an option. You never know what's going to happen, but whatever does, be it predictable, shocking or painful, it was always an imperative for Zed to keep his genitals covered.

He had learned this lesson second-hand, if you will, from his friend Kafka. One day he and Zed had been traversing ground in order to get to town, where they would spend time and money eating at buffet restaurants and looking at fish. Now at this point it is necessary to point out that Kafka was a recovering sex addict (the two friends had been ten years of age at the time, but he had been pre-emptively addicted to it, just like his father before him and Jack Nicholson before him) and at any given moment would have sporadic attacks of confusing feelings for the opposite gender, followed by sporadic confusing acts towards said opposite gender.

It was in a certain buffet restaurant by the name of El Bastardo that a fair haired, doughy-eyed waitress had approached the two pre-pubescent people that Kafka had an attack of confusing feelings and actions.

It started slowly, as it always did. Kafka always without a doubt would start with his sentences trailing off into nothingness. He went to order his drink and came up with the following:

“I'll have some Ta...”

“Do you mean Tango, Kafka?” Zed asked nervously, knowing generally what the following events would entail. The waitress waited patiently with her patient smile.

“Yes but on the...”

“I have no idea where that sentence could go, Kafka...on the rocks?”

“No, I mean...”

“Come on, move past it” then came the stage of strange, rapid-fire conversation with the soon-to-be victim of his.

“So, Jenny” he addressed the employee, studying her name tag “Where do you come from?”

“Well...” she decided to indulge the child, it would kill some of her shift time, at least “that is the question isn't it, I mean there's where I-”

“Where do you live?”

“I'm not sure telling you would be such a great-”

“Come on, what are you, a taxidermist, hang loose” there was the double-whammy out of place and therefore nonsensical terms. Next would be the magic trick.

“I don't-”

“Want to see a magic trick?” he grabbed five sets of knives and forks from the nearby cutlery dispenser with one hand and placed his other palm-down on the table.

“Kafka, you don't have telekinesis, this trick can't work” Zed pointed out, his words falling on deaf ears. And by ears I mean testicles. The cutlery was thrown into the air with dramatic nonchalance. The trick to the trick was luck. That and a good wrist action, which Kafka wouldn't have developed properly until a few more years passed. And as far as luck is concerned, it would turn out that he did not posses enough, since he'd pooled all his points into his charisma skill. It hadn't been worth it. The trick had been inspired by his father who, in his last moments, had thrown a fork into the air and made it pierce the centre of his forehead. Whereas this had been the incorrect form of the trick, it was still awesome and so Kafka swore that one day he would master it where his father had failed.

At the current attempt, the cutlery tumbled in their descent and landed on the tabletop with a clanging.

“I don't think you-” began the waitress

“I'm not done yet” he hushed, sweeping away the cutlery with his arm and causing a particularly well swept spoon hit an elderly man in the head, causing a concussion. The rest clattered to the floor. He smiled at the waitress.

“That was less charming” Zed butted in “and more horribly shameful”

“I could be more charmed if you had thrusted your crotch at me when you came in” she informed.

“Well I for one found it impressing far beyond anything I've seen recently, indeed keep sticking it to the machine of society, my chum” proclaimed a nearby rebel youth intent on showing that he didn't need to be part of a generation of dribbling morons who would pirouette onto the bandwagon at the first glimpse of any music that incorporated shaking women, fast words, flashy lights or bleepy sounds.

“Who are you?”

“The man who has been to the other side and returned. The single soul of the universe whose wisdom knows no limits, I am the-”

“Shut up and leave, we need to resolve the situation at hand” Zed motioned towards his friend who had stolen a banjo from somewhere. The conceited one of many words did not leave but did shut up.

GAMESTART

Hooray, a new bloooog. I will at least attempt to contribute some Fun Written Stuff every couple of days. Try and enjoy some stuff, gawd. Also welcome.