Henry the Adequate

Become one with the Tao, but do not become one with your towel.

It is, however, ok to become two with your towel, and becoming three with the twins next door is keenly encouraged.

What’s that?

Am I awake again? I try to feel about for some heart pits. Or pocket plumbs. Yes, I think I may be awake.

Strange Other Memory floods my senses, like a tidal wave of stuff that floods. Kind of the way water does. Only it is memories. Well mostly memories. I do notice that I am dripping and there is a guy with a bucket nearby.

The bank teller stands to one side, arms folded beneath her breasts as though she is saying “Here, look at my arms. Are they not enormous? Are they not magnificent?” Or something like that anyway.

A large gentleman in a suit is saying stuff to me but I do not know what it is because my head is throbbing and because I am too busy admiring the teller’s arms. Something large and solid impacts the side of my face, almost like a hand except it is way to big for that.

He slaps me again. “Who are you working with?”

“What? Nobody.” I am confused and shaken and disoriented and strangely aroused. I am also, it seems, tied to a chair.

“We have your girlfriend.”

“Oh,” I say as though he has just told me something I do not know, “Can you ask her if she turned the gas off, because I think I might have left it on and that is really bugging me.”

“You think you’re funny?” I am about to say something clever and macho, such as “Yes, actually,” or “I KNOW I’m funny,” or “Can i go now?”, but… “What are you - some kind of communist agitator?” he demands, while simultaneously playing my face like a drum, “Trying to destabilise the banking sector?”

“Huh.”

“That’s it, isn’t it.” He hits me again.

“No,” I wail, my powerful voice echoing from the walls like a thin warble of defiance, “My account was overcharged. I just wanted a refund on the fees.”

“Ha! So, you admit it! Filthy communist agitator scum!” He hits me again, harder this time.

“Ow,” I say, because I have such a way with words.

“You all heard the confession.” The teller steps forward. “Time for sentencing.”

“Wait a….. Ow,” I point out, eloquently.

“Send them to R&D.”

“What?”

“Does he need to be conscious?”

“Not particularly.”

I have a feeling this is about to get ugly.

It was a dark day in the old city. Ominous storm clouds spread their oppressive shadows like an enormous shroud of Turin, only not nearly so mouldy. A few enormous drops of water hurled themselves onto the road like suicidal toaster ovens, but still the heavens persisted in not opening up.

“Damn humid,” remarked a stranger as I passed.

“Yes, it is.” As I approached the corner I couldn’t help noticing that the stranger with the enormous brown thighs stopped talking to me. This, I concluded, was a good thing. I have had my fill of enormous brown thighed strangers, let me tell you.

And anyway, these kind of literary devices - you know like when you have somebody say something instead of the narrator just coming out and telling you that it a humid day - never seem to work out the way I’d hoped and I think it’s because they are too clever by half. It certainly has nothing to do with any kind of imagined incompetence on my part. No sir. I’m here to assure you right now that none of my incompetences are at all imagined…

So, I glanced around the corner to see if it was safe to proceed. You can never be too careful. Unless you really want to. If you want to be too careful, please go right ahead. Don’t mind me. Moron.

Fortunately it seemed as though the demon lords had neglected to place any wards about this particular quarter of the city. Complacency? Carelessness? Overconfidence? No such thing as a demon lord? Who can say. All I know/knew is I was not taking any chances.

Not here. Not now. Not while so much as at stake. Steeling my resolve I swore to stop thinking about steak, but you have no idea how hungry I was at this point. It was a hunger that burned in the pit of my heart, like flaming heart-pits. I longed for her with an intensity that can only be understood by somebody who has lived the depths and heights of legendary romance, or somebody who has suffered from heart-pits.

I have got to stop talking about heart-pits on account of there is probably no such thing and also because it seems to be ruining that which passes for a narrative…

Too late, she cried.

So, having prepared myself mentally for what was to come, I turned the corner confidently and with much aplomb. Well, with some plumbs, at least. I always keep a few plumbs handy, just in case. I mean, they’re not steak, but they’re better than heart-pits.

“Stop!”

Damn! Spotted! Spotted dog. See Spot run. See Spot hide. See me hide. See me watch as the evil minions of chaos seek and fail to find and wander off to do something unspeakable to somebody who isn’t me. And a good thing it is too. Because I am a man with a mission. Well, not so much a mission, as a calling. But “calling” is not really the right word either.

Dollar. I am a man with a dollar. Dammit. I have a dollar, hear me roar, in numbers too big to ignore. I am invincible! Because of my dollar.

Did I mention I have a dollar? A nice shiny dollar. Shiiiiiiny.

Good thing are worth the wait. As are hideous things. Hideous things are totally worth the wait - the longer the better.

My name is Henry the Adequate, and I am a….

“Excuse me, have you seen a kitten?”

“Yes,” I respond, heroically, “Yes I have. They are small and furry and taste like chicken. But I am too busy to talk about that right now…” I hurl the nearest minion of chaos against the wall like a sack of potatoes who is really angry at another sack of potatoes and is therefore hurling it against the wall. I sidestep to the left just in time to avoid a nasty boot to the head from some guy in a suit.

“Wow,” remarks the strange woman whom I have never seen before, “Great hurl!” She fishes a camera from between her pendulous breasts. “Can I get a photo?”

“Ok, but make it snappy,” (get it) I respond heroically, and strike a few super-heroic poses while one nasty villainous scuzzbucket beats me repeatedly about the head with an enormous club and another pokes me savagely with a feather. Damn those feather-wielding creatures of the night!

“That’s it!” she enthuses, “Yeah, like that!! Oooh, it’s GOOOD!!!! And again! Yes! Yes! Yes! OH FUCK, FUCK, FUUUUUUUUUCCCK!!!!” I really am quite good at posing for photos. Super, in fact.

But anyway, enough of this foolishness, for it appears there are two or three criminal masterminds currently pounding on my face; no doubt ruining several good photo opportunities in the process, damn them. “Enough of this foolishness!” I explain carefully, “for it appears there are two or three crimin….”

And here I pause for effect, and also because an orge-like creature with enormous fangs is gnawing on my shoulder. But mostly for effect. Pausing in the middle of a word for effect is very effectorizing. Trust me - I’m a super-word-thingy guy.

“LOL,” she says - or spells - “super-word-thingy. That’s sooooo funny!” And I’m about to respond, because that seems to be the polite thing to do even though I am kind of busy right now, but then I notice an awful lot of blood spattering about the place and flowing down from my shoulder and several other severe looking injuries and then I begin to think it might be time to start fighting back again…

“Maybe you should start fighting back again,” she suggests, helpfully.

“Uh… look, do you mind if I… you know.” I indicate the not-insignificant array of enemy combatants. “I mean, I’d love to chat…”

“Sure,” she says, “Go ahead.”

Right.

And then there is a whole heap of screaming, and moaning, and roaring flames from the flamethrower embedded in my forearm and it gets quite messy really and unpleasant and there’s probably no point going into any great detail hereabouts what with this being a family show and everything and no it has nothing whatsoever to do with the tremendous difficulty I seem to be having lately with action scenes but anyway I can’t be expected to keep it up forever now can I.

The End.

“Wow,” she remarks, disappointment plain in the tilt of her words and the way her breasts wobble with each disappointed shake of her head, “What a cop-out.”

Alternate ending # 1: “Wow,” she remarks, enthusiasm plain in the tilt of her breasts, “Maybe I can help you keep it up!”

Alternate ending # 2: “Wow,” she remarks, knowingly and wise and all wobbly-breasted, like somebody who has just found an unexpected block of chocolate at the back of the fridge, behind the milk. “I have just found an unexpected block of chocolate at the back of the fridge, behind the milk.”

Alternate ending # 3: Breasts. Breasts. Breasts. Breasts. Breasts.

If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs, you’re probably the executioner.

My name is Henry the adequate, and I may or may not be a superhero.

Consciousness begins to fade, tendrils of the old familiar Octopus of Despair tickling about the back of my brain. I try not to think of The Wiggles, but the Octopus of Despair looks so much like the octopus on that show; WhatsHisName the Octopus. Also, I have a new deal with my publisher - henceforth I am to be paid per octopus, so every time I use the word octopus, or octopie (That’s plural, right?)… ka-ching ka-ching!

….

Ken the Octopus lived down in the deep green sea. Ken the Octopus, he’s a friend to guys with octopus fetishes. Not to mention calamari merchants.

But on this day Ken the Octopus was feeling sad, and not just because he was a stupid pantomime octopus whose friends included a pantomime dinosaur, a pantomime dog, and four pantomime gay men, but also on account of the other thing which I may tell you about later but probably won’t.

I know, thought ken, and then he said it out loud - “I know” - for, you see, he is an octopus with a very small brain who is literally unable to think something without also saying it. Clearly such a situation just cries out for a smartarse comment like, I don’t know, something about this pointing to a career in management, but I will resist the urge, partly because it is so obvious, but mostly because I am not that clever.

Anyway, “I know,” thought/said Ken, “I will go and visit my friend, Rags the Dog.” Ken the Octopus enjoyed visiting Rags the Dog even though Ken tended to shrivel up and die when removed from the ocean. Rags was such a pleasant fellow. Oh, sure, he had a tendency to tear apart shoes, newspapers, and any kind of sea creatures - particularly those with tentacles. Sure, there was the leg-humping thing. Who could forget the leg-humping thing. But none of that really mattered, what with Ken the Octopus being an enormous masochist and all.

“Hello Rags,” said Ken.

“Hello Ken,” said Rags.

“Hello Rags,” said Ken.

“Hello Ken,” said Rags.

“Rags,” said Ken.

“Yes Ken?” said Rags.

“Will you stop humping my tentacle.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that Ken,” said Hal…. uh, I mean Rags, in a spooky voice. This really freaked Ken out, so he wrapped several tentacles around Rags’ throat and squeezed and sqeezed and squeezed until the dog’s eyes popped out and its windpipe collapsed with a kind of a crunching sound just like in the movies.

“Groovy,” thought Ken, the freaked-out suddenly-1970s octopus. Then he said “Groovy”, adjusted his afro, and wandered off in search of some acid and maybe a hot she-octopus chick or two.

“Excuse me, sir, Might I interest you…”

“Diiiiieeee evil minion of chaos!” I howled politely, while simultaneously discharging a raging torrent of liquid plasma from the flamethrower embedded in my forearm, which is my way of saying, “Please don’t come to the door before I’ve had my first cup of coffee.”

I’m subtle like that.

CONSERVE WISDOM by, I don’t know, doing something all conservationalized and wisdom-promoting, like planting a wisdom tree or something.

Anyway, this whole “Conserve Wisdom” thing isn’t working out nearly as well as I hoped. Fortunately I have several new things planned that will make the “Conserve Wisdom” thing look like some kind of pathetic notion dreamed up by a moron with very little imagination (and, please, no comments to the effect that the Conserve Wisdom thing does that all on its own. Remember, I have a flamethrower).

For example, stay tuned for the brand new series entitled “Preserve Wisdom”, which will be closely followed by “Be Excellent to Wisdom” (with apologies to Bill and Ted), and “The Magic Faraway Wisdom Tree”.

My name is Henry the Adequate, and I may or may not be a superhero, depending on which set of memories is the real one. Unfortunately we seem to currently be trapped in those memories in which I am not a superhero. Please be patient - normal service will no doubt be resumed as soon as normal service is resumed…

“Uh,” I say, confidently, “I think there’s been some kind of a mistake, like, with my account.” Silence. A terrible terrible silence as all eye turn to me in horror and dread anticipation, as though each of them attempts to believe the unbelievable, to fathom the unfathomable, to shag the unshaggable, but also hoping to force, through weight of sheer willpower, this poor deluded fool to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.!!!

I pause for breath before adding some more of that lovely filler designed to take up column inches without over-working my brainy artistic-ness…. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!!!

“Yeah,” I continue, having managed to use up a good portion of the chapter without actually writing anything new, for though I may be an un-superhero these evil monsters will surely discover that I am not to be so easily trifled with. Unless they have some trifle in the canteen. Hmmmm, trifle.

Anyway, “Too many bank fees and stuff. You know,” I explain on account of I like to live on the edge. It’s a sort of a curse. In addition to living on the edge I am also partial to trifle, hot coffee, thunderstorms, strategy games, fast cars, slow cars, and photos of naked breasts. Please send nudie photos in an unmarked envelope to the usual email address.

“Certainly, Mr…” she begins, while all about me horrified onlookers gasp and groan with an air of quiet foreboding, almost as though I have offered myself up like an extremely handsome lamb to the slaughter.

“Call me Henry,” I interrupt in order to save the author the trouble of inventing a surname for me in this weird alternate reality even though he could probably use the practice on account of really sucking in the making up names department.

“Just step this way, Mr Henry.” She leads me through an unmarked door like a curvy wolf leading an extremely handsome lamb to the slaughter.

“So,” I follow eagerly, “Is this the Excess Fees Refund Department?”

“Something like that,” she replies cheerfully, when suddenly I black out for some unknown reason. As consciousness fades I vow to ask the large fellow with the baseball bat if he knows why I am currently passing out. Just as soon as…