Watch out everyone, this short story is retarded. But it should also make you cry a little. —K.A.
by Oliver Johns
The sun rose, the moon fell.
Everything was the same, but one thing was different.
Mark Twain noticed it, from his grave.
So did Megatron.
INT: FAT BRANDO’S RECOVERY ROOM, AN ISLAND
Fat Brando put the scalpel next to the sink then shuffled out of the room humming the Superman theme.
There was blood on the floor, blood on the ceiling, blood on the walls. None on the operating table.
The wolf looked at its body; where’s the fur? The anaconda did the same; where’s my fucking head?
Both questions were good ones.
First dilemma: Where to live?
The anaconda said rainforest, the wolf said snow.
It decided on rainforest.
To combat the extreme heat, the wolfaconda attached a fan to its neck.
There was no electricity, so it used a system of faith.
How did things go?
The first few weeks were a sharp learning curve. The sharpest of them all. The lower half of the wolfaconda kept heading towards the river, the upper half tried to move its face closer to the fan.
Gods, it was hot.
On day five it started to snow.
‘It’s no good,’ said the wolfaconda.
‘How do I turn off this fan?’ asked the wolfaconda.
‘It’s too white.’
‘There’s no off button.’
‘It’s too round.’
‘I assumed it would be hot all the time.’
‘Let’s buy a house.’
‘It’s making my eyeballs dry.’
‘How about Rio?’
The wolfaconda compromised and moved to Hong Kong. Immigration was surprisingly easy, mainly because everyone was asleep.
It half-slithered, half-prowled across the harbor.
It bought a house in Sha Tin.
It searched for work.
‘What can I do?’
‘I don’t have enough fingers.’
‘That’s not a job.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you start to disappear if you engineer content for more than four days.’
‘That’s very specific.’
‘What about property?’
‘Who would say no to me?’
‘Kill them if they do.’
The Wolfaconda closed the newspaper and became a night security guard. Every night for two months, it sat behind a desk in a residential building and scared the shit out of people.
Two months and one day later, the bossman called them in.
‘You mean fired?’
‘Yup, both of you.’
‘Don’t argue, just go.’
The Wolfaconda shuffled out of the building and muttered, ‘but there’s only one of me.’
Back at the house, it self-argued.
‘It was your fault, you’re too green.’
‘Yeah, and you’re too grey.’
‘You’re too long.’
‘You’ve got yellow eyes, it’s weird.’
‘You tried to eat Ice Cube.’
‘You harassed Liam Neeson.’
‘You’re holding me back.’
It tried to end the argument the same way it used to, but it could no longer go its separate way.
Five days later, after reading Candide and misunderstanding it in a spectacular way, the Wolfaconda decided to go to Europe and wander.
The theory: there were cold places and there were hot places.
It packed its bags.
It went to the train station.
As it was stepping through the ticket gate, a net fell on its head.
‘Ha!’ said Jon Voigt, climbing out of a mid-air vortex [theorised by Emile Hirsch, engineered by Ray Wise].
Chinese people stopped and stared.
Others turned their backs.
The Wolfaconda pleaded its case.
Jon Voigt sneered.
I’m a different person now.
You’re only mad at half of me.
I ate you.
You were acting?
Damn you, Jon Voigt.
Jon Voigt took the Wolfaconda back to his home in the Hollywood Hills and opened the front door. Ahead of him was Tom Wilkinson, holding a shotgun.
‘Not again, Voigt.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s not your house anymore. You sold it to me. Remember?’
Jon Voigt growled, took a break, stroked the shotgun then growled again.
The Wolfaconda saw its chance.
It slithered out of the net and into the garden.
Fourteen years later, in a forest near Maribor, the Wolfaconda stopped slithering and looked at the map.
‘According to this paper, we’re not in LA anymore.’
‘It’s nice here.’
‘I think it’s India.’
‘You’re not worried that Jon Voigt’s gonna turn up again?’
‘We’ve killed him eight times, there can’t be many more of him.’
‘He looked like Clive Owen last time.’
The Wolfaconda lay down on the grass, half of it closing its eyes, the other half reading the last 145 pages of Cat’s Cradle.
‘Vonnegut just writes the same book over and over…’
The other half didn’t answer.
‘Alone at last.’
Oliver Johns is Amazing.