The Fez Journeys On

  Dave was young yet believed himself old. He was young enough in mind and spirit that his very presence in the universe distressed him. He was not yet old enough to find satisfaction in looking back upon his life. When he looked back, all he saw was self-hatred and his former residence, the two being very much intertwined.

  Quack, however, was old but believed Himself young. Very few people understood their standing in the world, and fewer still cared. Quack had the capacity to recount tales from the immense and unthinkable period of time He had existed, and would gladly do so for a period which could translate on Glix as many millions times the length of time Glix had been in the physical universe. When He was an infant, He had accidentally brought another form of life into existence, which merited another star system being created in order to accommodate such a race. They ate sunshine and smiled with what one would refer to as either their toes or their appendices. For some time after this, Lady Whoosh was reluctant to allow Quack His own planet. When an adolescent, Quack and His brother Moo had ransacked a nearby party and spiked the punch bowl with lettuce leaves. It was less entertaining than it sounds. But one of Quack’s favourite adventures was the time He first bought a house.

  “You can’t control Me anymore, Mum!” Quack shouted as He left the portal of the house and attempted to slam the vortex on the way out.

  “I’m not trying to control You, I’m just saying perhaps You should think about what You want to do with Your life before heading off to get employed.”

  “I know what I want. I want to get a job.”

  “What do You need a job for? Why don’t you spend more of Your time exploring Your emotions and experiencing the wonders of existence?”

  This was a common debate in the House of Onomatopoeia. Moo had accepted His mother’s qualms and was now travelling around Greece (that is, the Greece of the Overworld; it should here and forever be noted that the precise conditions of the Original Overworld Greece generated such a fine environment for the expansion of thought, technology and understanding, that a replica of Greece was henceforth created in every Ache-style star system) and meeting up-and-coming gods and deities. Moo wasn’t interested in getting a job, and had focussed instead on something productive: writing a short story compilation.

  “I’m going to get a job,” said Quack, “so I can earn some money and spend it on vital things.”

  “What in existence do You need money for? The world can provide You with everything You need.”

  “I want to buy everything necessary to live.”

  “Food? A home? Life? These things don’t require money, Son. Food grows from the ground which serves as Your home and life can’t be bought or sold.”

  Quack left the home and some voluntarily used time later was in a meeting with a Unicorn.

  Chapter 8

  “I think We at Horn Industries will be very happy to employ You,” said the Unicorn.

  “Really?” asked Quack.

  “Certainly.”

  “No, really? I mean really, are You really going to call Your organisation Horn Industries? It’s like You just looked in front of You and picked the first thing You saw.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Really?”

  “Look, do You want this job or not?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Quack found Himself employed at Horn Industries, but quickly became disillusioned by what He saw there.

  “These products,” said Quack, “they’re things Nobody could ever possibly need.”

  “Sure they are,” the Unicorn informed Quack, though both of Them were fully aware that this was far from the truth. The business of Horn Industries had quickly become a desk covered in all the inessential items of everyday life. The Unicorn groped for the nearest object He could find. “Who could live without this magnificent brush-cleaner?”

  “As in a cleaner in the form of a brush?”

  “As in a device which cleans the back of Your brushes!” the Unicorn explained excitedly.

  Quack informed His boss of the unnecessary nature of such an item in the politest way He felt appropriate: “You’re an idiot.”

  “Look, do You want to be employed by Us at Horn Industries or not?”

  “When You say, ‘Us’, You mean You. When You say, ‘Horn Industries’, You mean You. When You say, ‘employed’, You mean idolising You.”

  “You, Me, Anyone,” the Unicorn mindlessly replied. “It’s all a process of relabelling for the greatest possible effect.”

  “And what effect is that?”

  “Whatever You want it to be. Why did You come to work here?”

  “I wanted money.”

  “Of course. That’s why Horn Industries exists!” the Unicorn proclaimed. “Because money is power and power is meaning.”

  “No. I came to get a job. Money makes the world go round.”

  The Unicorn looked quizzically at Quack for uttering this nonsensical idiom. “Round what? Round in a circle? Round like a circle? The world is a realm, not a circle. Life is a line.”

  “And what line is that?”

  “Up, up, up, and to Me. That is the meaning of success.”

  Quack had by this point concluded that His coming to Horn Industries (and very possibly His own existence) was a mistake. “Whatever the meaning is of success, money is not the meaning of meaning.”

  “What exactly is it You want?” Moo asked Quack over a drink. They were sat in a bar in their local neighbourhood. The small community comprised only several million entities, from Ants to Leviathans – ordered in such a manner only by the relative base universe-level size of their latterly formed animal replicas.

  “I want meaning,” said Quack said. “Or, at least, I thought I did.”

  “You have meaning as You are. What You seem to be in search of is the loss of meaning.”

  “How do You mean?”

  “We live in a world where One may feel content if One wishes. By attempting to apply the idea of money to this, You wish to organise freedom in terms of possession.”

  “I think rules can be beneficial,” said Quack. “Rules can help control without oppressing. Do You think that’s a terribly bad thing? That We should all go against the rules for the sake of ‘freedom from authority’ – freedom from thought.”

  “Rules are perfectly fine, in place,” said Moo. “What You need is a planet.”

  “What?”

  “You need a planet. It would be great for You. It’s exactly what You need.”

  “How so?”

  “You can lead people. You can create a civilisation and lead it from the origin of life until it is self-sufficient and can take control of itself.”

  “That sounds like a lot of hard work.”

  “Nonsense,” said Moo. “They try to establish their own, secular system of ethics after a few hundred thousand years.”

  “And what happens until they can take control of themselves? Come on.”

  “You lead them.”

  Quack frowned. “So You’re suggesting I get a planet just so I can assert My dominance? The Will to Power.”

  “No. To lead, not to dominate. With a planet, You can guide them to a perfect world – a utopia – through Your teaching.”

  “So the Will to Knowledge?”

  “Better still: the Will to Ideas. Through teaching, One can create a better world. When everyone is a thinker, the world can guide itself to perfection.”

  On Quack’s hatchday, he received a planet as a gift from His Parents. He received a set of goblets from His Brother, Moo.

  Chapter 9

  “Here’s a goblet,” Quack said.

  “Okay.” The Space Chicken was unused to receiving holy kitchenware. It was one of the few godly activities he hadn’t yet become accustomed to. “Where is it?”

  Quack paused. “It should be in your possession right now.”

  “Define ‘possession’.”

  “Have you got it?” Quack asked.

  “No.”


  “Then it’s not in your possession. Don’t you think that was an unnecessary explanation?”

  “Yes. Well, I don’t have this goblet, so if You’d kindly tell me where it is, that would be helpful.”

  “Oh Me,” Quack said.

  “You haven’t done something else wrong,” the Space Chicken said, in the form of an offensive question, which he hoped would shine through as a major feature of all his conversation.

  “No.”

  “What have You done, then?”

  “I may had conducted a little mistake.”

  “That’s what I just said.” The Space Chicken began to subconsciously peck the ground in frustration.

  “No. You said I haven’t done anything wrong, when I evidently have. I find that quite disrespectful.” Quack turned His Bill upwards and attempted to take the moral high ether.

  The Space Chicken squawked. “Where is that goblet‽”

  Quack performed a quick check and then announced, “According to My calculations, the goblet I sent you has landed in...” Quack performed the tuttutations of scanning through a list. “Gord.”

  “In Gord‽ What’s it doing there? What’s Your goblet doing in that country? They can’t even speak!”

  “I’m sorry, Spacey, but in terms of the universe, it’s very difficult to tell the difference between BongVe Bong and Gord without using a microscope. It’s only about 100 km.”

  The Space Chicken rolled his eyes. Well, he theoretically did. As a chicken (well, a Chicken), the prophet remained – however powerful and unusual he was – unable to move his eyes independent of his head.

  “Will it be enough?” the Space Chicken asked. “I’ve never seen a situation where a cup was deemed worthwhile enough to trade for a spaceship.”

  “Goblet,” Quack corrected.

  “A mug for a spaceship?”

  “Boat.”

  ‘A trade is a trade,’ Fred Jr argued. ‘It is inevitable that, before long, any transition of property will be deemed – if both parties are coöperative enough – sufficient material for commerce.’

  “It’s still just an acrylic beaker.”

  “Believe Me,” said Quack, “pious gold would have been enough to buy you whatever you wanted.”

  The Space Chicken’s mind began to wander.

  “But don’t even think about spending it on anything besides what I ordered,” warned Quack. “Okay?”

  The Space Chicken paced in circles for a few seconds, mumbling something to himself about retiring to a mansion.

  “Okay?”

  “Oh, all right, then,” the Space Chicken agreed. “Are You going to send us another goblet?”

  “No.”

  “What? Why not? We need to pay for this Spaceboat. And, according to You, a saucer is enough to do that.”

  “It’s a goblet.”

  “And where is it?”

  “In Gord. You can easily go and get it.”

  “Or You can send us another one.”

  “Do you think I can just conjure anything I want out of nothing?”

  The Space Chicken paused. “Yes. That’s exactly what I think. Now, if You wouldn’t mind, could You go ahead and creatio ex nihilo us another spoon?”

  “A spoon‽ How did you get from a godly goblet to a spoon?”

  “How do You get from BongVe Bong to Gord?”

  “You can let Me know when you get off the train in a few Haca.”

  The Space Chicken rambled around like a headless chicken, blaspheming and groaning and thus insulting the god in multiple ways.

  “From what I can tell,” said Quack, “the goblet fell in the Prong. It may have washed up on its banks in Castle or Gate.”

  “Fine, I’ll just drown on my way to getting a boat. How delightfully improbable, yet of course it’s going to happen to me anyway!”

  “If you die, I’m able to resurrect you in two to three working days.”

  “I’d rather not die or live, thank You very much, if it’s all the same to You.”

  “Well, it’s to your benefit, as the goblet should now be located right next to the Spaceboating workshop.”

  The Space Chicken scowled. “You did this deliberately, didn’t You?” he scorned the god. “Out of an awkward convenience.”

  “I assure you, I would never do anything for your convenience.”

  ‘We had best be on our way, dad,’ said Fred Jr.

  “Oh, make sure you keep an eye out along all the bank, you two,” said Quack. “The goblet may be very tiny. Then again, it could be massive and heavy. Who knows? These things tend to get mistranslated.”

  Chapter 10

  Freedom is the main thing teenagers long for. The ability to do as you please, to go where you like, without the restrictions of your parents, and to dye your hair a painful colour and shout at figures of authority. That is the theory, at least. In reality, all a teenage boy wants is to have a place to stay, some food and a reasonable amount of social activity. That, and a car.

  All teenage boys are different, of course. Apart from Clint and Clein. They are exactly the same as each other. They are also the archetype of explorational teenagers. While still believing that a man is always the one who knows best for himself rather than his parents, the two had set off into the world to forage for themselves. Who can say whether people ever truly become individual, and at what age they should leave home? University life usually served to substitute for an answer to both these questions, but Clint and Clein had instead decided that seventeen was the age to leave their home and never turn back.

  It was a silent journey, as both of the twins had identical thoughts and emotions, so had no use for spoken language between them. They did, however, unintentionally communicate through thoughts, though it was largely one-sided on both sides.

  What do parents know? they thought. Parents always claim to be doing ‘what’s best for you’, but they never do. They just care for their own needs and opinions. All parents ever do is make you act like them. Why does mum want us to go to uni, again? Oh yeah, because it’s what she would have done. Because her intentions are always the best intentions. And look how well that turned out for her. It’s just what she wants. How could education benefit us in any way? It’s only so she has something to gossip about with her friends. So she can live out her own unaccomplished dreams through us.

  What was that she said about moving on from us? I bet she won’t. I bet she’ll just buy some new carpets and pretend she’s made just as much of a change to her life as we have to ours. If she commits to anything, she’ll probably do something outrageous, like getting a new son to replace us. Not a baby, though. A young adult she can keep in the home until he’s middle-aged. I’m uncertain how she’ll get one, but she will.

  You think? asked one of the other voices in the cumulative mind.

  Certainly, it replied to itself. Mum’ll be expecting another son to come knocking on the door and present himself. Instead, she’ll have to seek one out, but she will find one.

  I’m not convinced. I think she’ll get cats.

  I’m telling you, she’ll adopt a new son. He won’t come knocking on the door, and it won’t be pleasant, but I’m telling you she’ll find an annex child. The poor fellow will probably be walking along one day, he’ll get a knock on the head and the next thing he’ll see is a freshly laid shag carpet.

  We’ll see about that.

  Clint and Clein agreed upon a bet wherein they both claimed their mother wouldn’t steal a human, whilst their opponent claimed she wouldn’t. They would both hand Julian/Stella (each a half of two teddy bears) to the other, in exchange for Stella/Julian from Clint/Clein. They both shook hands with themselves on this.

  Within several seconds, they had gone back on their agreement.

  Chapter 11

  After about a week (which turned out to be five days on Glix) of living with Oprah and Calvin, Dave had begun to adjust to this new way of life. He fitted perfectly into their way of life – no impulse, no wo
rk and no children. Just the bliss of having no aims and so accomplishing everything intended.

  During the week, Dave had discovered something called ‘boredom’ and he loved it. It basically meant that, not only did you have no work to do or that you were inclined to do, but your mind had also relaxed and not bothered to make any decisions that you had to go through with. Dave’s mind was frequently coming up with stupid ideas that he felt compelled to accomplish. Such ideas varied in form, from ‘You want to read a book’ to ‘You wouldn’t mind giving bungee-jumping a go’. He would mind greatly, of course. When he was younger, Dave’s mind had persuaded itself that songwriting was fun. As it turned out, Dave didn’t know the first thing about how to construct a lyric or a one of the other bits of a song; much to his surprise, ‘Lemons and Limes Taste the Same to Me’ was never picked up by any record producers.

  At the Oprah and Calvin Deluxe Residence (the couple had renamed their accommodation in honour of their new educational aspirations and acquiring of a thesaurus), he felt himself melt into a Glix’n household. Dave had the memories of his younger failings stored away in a desk in his mind. He had become a Glix’n, but his personality still remained such an eloquent example of mentally unwell stability that without any warning it may conjure wild fantasies. At the moment he became at one with reality, he had been dreaming up a world of luxury, then had opened his eyes to discover himself part of it. At the moment he was at peace, he had developed his most outrageous idea of the week, though he didn’t mind so much, and forgave his mind as he had grown to do.

  The idea was this: he should make a jam sandwich, and then – if he was feeling adventurous – eat it. Oprah and Calvin had been shopping the day before and Dave had asked for jam specifically to suit this craving. The parents had gladly agreed. Upon his inspection of the fridge, Dave had found a large jar of raspberry jam on the top shelf. Good, thought Dave. I can use the big loaf of bread and fit the entire jar’s worth into one sandwich.

  Dave felt somewhat bad for having other people purchase all his food. He had offered to get a job and pay for accommodation and all other expenses, but Oprah had rejected this notion as silly and had told Dave to stay and relax in their shared house, saying there was no need to pay them. “Your presence in my ‘ouse is awl the riches Oi need,” she’d said. Dave retrieved a thin blade from a drawer and stuck it into the jar.