Post by Torak on Sept 6, 2009 12:49:08 GMT -5
BONUS CHAPTER
BIZARRO
BIZARRO
“Bizarro” Meltdown, 19th April 2006
That’s a tad cliché isn’t it?
That’s a tad cliché isn’t it?
”Reality is the best possible cure for dreams – Roger Starr
Dreams: The sub existence of life”
Part I
If memory is our existence then dreams are our close relatives. They evoke memories, alert us of our subconscious feelings, warn us of our future actions and sometimes feel like they are lives in themselves.
It is usually difficult to distinguish a dream from reality during the dream as we are commonly involved in the dream situation. However, one notable difference between reality and ours dream is: during our dreams we have no control of our actions.
Some may claim that it’s not so different from reality after all.
One must wonder what Torak dreams of. Demons, monsters, Cerberus’ and various other hellish imagery would be a logical assumption taking into account his usual malevolent behaviour. A nightmare of his more than likely consisting of butterflies, fairies and tiny little kittens and uses his sadistic measures to compensate for such images.
In any case, the reality that is Torak is far more frightening than the worst nightmare you’ve ever had. For Some poor soul: his reality is seemingly due to become a thing of the past.
He dangles helplessly from the clasp of Torak’s huge masculine claw of a hand, wriggling desperately in an attempt to break loose. Alas, Torak’s grip is strong and not even a crowbar could pry his fingers from around the ankle of his powerless victim.
“Please no, I want to live!”
His pleas of mercy fall on deaf ears. Torak has no plans of sparing him; explaining the presence of the fire-axe he wields in his free hand.
Using his strength, he lifts his victim up high in the air and examines his body. He certainly does not look light; his hefty looking stomach indicating a rich, gluttonous diet. Torak obviously takes exception to this kind of lifestyle and looks set to help him lose some of that weight.
He holds the axe aloft for his victim to see clearly before slowly bringing it down to the throat of the poor sap, lining up his shot like a golfer looking to tee-off. The victim squirms frantically in a last gasp attempt. Maybe someone should tell him in a time of crisis it’s best not to lose your head.
Torak brings the axe back and prepares to swing. A smirk spreads across his face behind his thick mask as he swings the axe….
“JAAAAAAAAACCCCKKKKK!”
The shrill cry jerks him discourteously from reality. He sits up, sweat pouring from his forehead. The quilt is thick and uncomfortably warm and due to his sweat outpour his mattress is clammy and miserable. Why is he in bed? And why does he feel so different? That strident shriek pierces his ears once more.
“JAAACKKK! Are you up!?”
Am I up? Where am I? His thoughts are racing through his mind, a process that dazes and confuses him. He holds his hands out in front of him. They are small and attached to pathetically thin arms. They reach up to his face, feeling the texture and ascertaining his reality. His face is smooth and feels young.
He leaps out of bed instantly, startled by what he discovers. He rummages around the room he now occupies, knocking over a bed-side lamp with a cartoon image. An already untidy bedroom is made worse by his frantic search for a reflective surface.
”What are you doing up there?!”
He finally finds something; a small plastic rectangular strip with a reflective coating. He glares into it tentatively. The object hits the floor as his hands shoot up to cover his mouth, as if to stifle a scream. He quivers as he reaches back down to pick the object up again. As he gazes into it the distorted image looks back. The image may be distorted, but still it’s all very clear to him; It’s him alright, except…he’s in his mid-teens.
Horrified, he hops up onto his feet and looks around at the room. He notices he is wearing pyjamas, something that he feels deeply uncomfortable and ridiculous in. He soon removes them and replaces them with articles of clothing that he finds draped over a chair, seemingly laid out ready for him to wear; a white shirt and black trousers.
Suitably dressed he exits the room and makes his way down stairs, cautious with every step as he approaches the source of the discordant voice. The shadow cast on the wall as he descends look much more familiar to him. It is much larger than he is and resembles a monster of a man.
He continues, reaching the corridor of the house at the base of the stairs. He shuffles hesitantly toward the doorway where a faint humming noise of a female resonates through. He crosses the threshold and views a large, burly woman keeping herself busy in a tidy kitchen. On the table is a bowl containing soggy looking cereal.
“Did you sleep okay?”
She asked without turning to face him. He half expects her to turn suddenly, bearing an evil-Medusa like face. However, when she days turn, she has a cheery, loving smile and a glint in her eye.
”That was a bad bump you took on your head yesterday.”
She notices the petrified look on his face and adopts a concerned face.
”What’s wrong? Have you been having funny dreams again?”
He doesn’t reply but she notices the look on his face that indicates that her question may have been appropriate.
”Oh silly! You and your dreams. I won’t even ask you what you dreamt of last night. Last time you dreamt that you were a technician on a spacecraft in the year 3000 and all the crew were wiped out due to a radiation leak caused by you.”
He glares at her. He doesn’t recall any such dream, but then again, he doesn’t really recall much right now.
”Apparently, you died but were brought back to life as a Hologram but died again at the hands of some squid. When you woke up, you thought your name was Billy Doyle and you kept asking where your smelly brown coat was.”
None of this helps evoke any memories. He does wonder though, how could he image an entire career in just one night’s dream?
”Over active imagination I say. Now eat your cereal like a good boy. The school bus will be here any minute.”
He feels awkward about turning his back to her, but he does so and obediently sits. He lifts the spoon that lies close to the bowl and digs it into the moist flakes. He gathers a pile onto the spoon and lifts it to his mouth before wrapping his lips around it and munching on the flakes that now occupy his mouth. They taste disgusting, but he continues eating anyway.
With every spoonful his mind drifts slowly away and he becomes hypnotized by the milk that swirls in the bowl. He drifts off.
BEEEEEEP!
The sound startles him so much that he knocks the bowl over, spilling milk all over the table. The woman turns to him and places her hands on her hips, seemingly forcing a sigh out of her robust figure.
”What are you like? Go on, go catch the bus. I’ll clean this mess up.”
He pushes himself, and the chair he is sitting on, away from the table with a screech before hopping up to his feet. Once again, he obeys her orders and begins to leave.
Although not certain of the layout of the house, he manages to find the front door and is immediately greeted by the sight of a huge bus filled with youthful exuberance. He swallows hard, seriously disliking the prospect of going to school, especially on a day like this. However, he feels he must go, almost lacking control of himself.
He reluctantly shuffles down the path towards the pavement by which the bus rests impatiently.
To Be Continued…
