Henry the Adequate

The Chair

“So, what’s this all about then?” I enquire, as I am roughly strapped into a big grey metallic looking chair made of wood. Or a big wooden looking chair made of metal. Whatever. It is definitely a chair they are strapping me into. This is one of the first things I notice when consciousness returns. Well, this and the cell I am dragged out of and the hallway I am dragged down and the bright room I am dragged into with the something-looking chair made of something-else right in the centre.

It occurs to me in a sort of vague sort of way, such as one might experience after being brutally clubbed into unconsciousness, that I do not seem to have wandered into the correct end of this scene. However, being the kind of fellow who is not at all keen on rewriting a couple of hundred words, I will now skip back to the beginning in a way that we are all going to pretend is really quite arty and not at all lazy and incompetent…

….

I wake. My name is Henry the Adequate, and I am a superhero. No, wait, no I’m not. That was a dream, wasn’t it? These weird semi-dream semi-flash-forward episodes are beginning to get on my nerves. It is… Today is… Well, I was at the bank. Am at the bank still, apparently, and feeling not in the least super, and only mildly heroic and my head hurts like an enormous head full of broken glass and bowling balls all rattling around together. That’s the heroic part you see, because heroes always get all beat up right before they emerge triumphant and stuff.

I look forward to my imminent triumphant emergence with such glee that I am quite giddy. Although that may just be the blood loss.

The room in which I have awakened is a dank, dark, steamy cell with water running down the walls and a single window high in one wall, through which the smell of death and decay wafts like a particularly enticing roast. The room is exactly like this, only air-conditioned, and the water running down the walls is, well, not there, but it does appear there is a private bathroom, and that probably has water. And it is a particularly well lighted level of darkness they have going here. But anyway, you get the idea. You see how ominous my lot is at this point. And there is still the smell of death and decay to deal with.

Actually I think that might be roast beef.

I stand now, easily despite my many wounds. Concussion? Major blood loss? Pah! These are minor things to a man who has valiantly and fearlessly requested a refund on his bank fees.

I only fall down a few times on the way to the door.

It is locked. Right. Great. Perhaps if I just fall down here for a bit.

…..

I am being dragged down a hall, past offices and what look like labs of some kind. The men dragging me are dressed in plain grey uniforms that seem vaguely medical, vaguely mad-scientist, and I flash back suddenly to one of those freaky movies with the monsters and the lab coats and the thunder and lightning and horror horror horror - you know, like The Man With Two Brains, or Herbie Goes to Monte Carlo, or Flashdance (Shudder).

“So,” I remark cleverly in a clever attempt to find out what is going on, “What’s going on?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Right. So. You drag people down here often?”

“Shut up.”

I am about to suggest a group hug, but it appears we have arrived somewhere. I realise this because we have stopped at one of the doors and because there is a guy there in a white uniform who says “You have arrived somewhere.”

“Where do you want him?” asks one of the draggers. I wonder if that is what they’re called. Draggers. I was going to say “goons” but that seemed a bit too judgemental, you know. Actually one of them has an earring so is probably quite sensitive and deep. Yes, I bet they’re called draggers.

“You have the paperwork,” asks white uniform guy.

“Sure, where do you want him?” Which brings me back to the chair…

The Wisdom of Henry #174

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.

Back on the Banks of Des Pair

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 too 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.

Shiny

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.

The Wisdom of Henry #173

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

The Great Battles of Henry #7

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.

The Wisdom of Henry #172

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

In the Ocean of Des Pair

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.

The Great Battles of Henry #6

“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.

The Wisdom of Henry #171

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”.