War and Creepy, Part 7

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Creepy smiled at me apologetically. “Should I be? Sorry, it’s just that I have this ow.”

I smiled as Creepy sank gracefully into a foetal position. The planet we’d been unceremoniously dumped upon seemed to have higher gravity than Earth, and while I was, one might say, pre-adjusted to a high-gravity environment, Creepy was altogether less robust. I blame the lentil diet, although on this occasion it slowed his reaction speed just enough to give my boots and I a little satisfaction. It had been a long trip. I looked around, adjusted my sunglasses, and decided on a direction that might lead towards habitation.

“So, here we are on some planet whose name I can’t even pronounce, looking to join the Gorbajixi Foreign Legion. I’d like to say this is out of the ordinary for me.”

“Why are we going to do that?” Creepy was still on the ground, shuffling through his notes. “Do you think it was one of them? In my toilet?”

“No. Apparently, people join the Gorbajixi Foreign Legion to remember. So I figured we could sign you up, and you could regain your memory, and then we could go home.”

“Yes…” Creepy murmured intently. “Yes … yes, it’s all falling into place.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“Of course,” Creepy climbed to his feet and looked at me with that familiar lofty expression. “It’s all a part of my notes.”

“Incidentally, about the notes you wrote on my, well, you know,” I said, as we struck out towards the bumpy red horizon.

“The most important of all,” Creepy confirmed, “at least according to what I’ve got written down here. What about them?”

“What are they, and when can I wash them off?”

“I can’t tell you!” Creepy laughed and shook his head indulgently. “Honestly, why do you think I wrote them in such a hard-to-reach spot? I had to be sure you couldn’t crane your neck over and read them somehow. Obviously, that’s also why I didn’t write them in my own files. You can’t be trusted, and this was the only way to keep the most important information from falling into your hands, and ensuring at the same time that I kept a close eye on you. I haven’t yet discounted you as an accomplice in this, whoever you are.”

“You’ve deducted all this even though you don’t remember what you’ve written on my … there … and even though you don’t remember why you did it or what happened before or after that.”

“Easy to deduce, based on what I’ve read in my notes, and what I know about my own impeccable system of logical thought and clinical detective work,” Creepy frowned and looked around. “Where are we?”


“Why are we in Mexico?”

“You thought that maybe a giant sentient enchilada stole your memory.”

“Why is the gravity so high?”

“You drove us through the up-until-now theoretical Annoyance Event Horizon on the way here.”

“Are you sure it’s not just a high-pressure system caused by your unwarranted sarcasm?”

“I object to the use of the phrase ‘unwarranted’ in this context.”

“Objection sustained, on the grounds that I can’t remember whether your sarcasm is warranted or not.”

“You mean your notes don’t tell you?”

Creepy toiled along beside me in silence for a little while.

“Where did you say we were, Mister …?”

“Lincoln. Abraham. We’re on the forest moon of something-or-other, looking for a shield generator.”

“I’d’ve thought a forest moon would have more trees.”

“What have I told you about you and thinking?”

“I don’t remember.”


“Look, Abraham, if that is your real name,” Creepy said after a couple of minutes, “according to this – ”

“Look,” I interrupted him. In the distance, between two weird blobby red mesas, a low concrete building had come into view. “Habitation. Let’s see if anybody’s home.”

“Yes,” Creepy said thoughtfully, writing something on the back of a Polaroid. “Finally, I feel that my quest is nearing its dramatic, nay explosive, conclusion.”

“Give me a bit of warning, if you can,” I requested. “I don’t want to get any of it on my shirt.”

About Hatboy

I’m not often driven to introspection or reflection, but the question does come up sometimes. The big question. So big, there’s just no containing it within the puny boundaries of a single set of punctuationary bookends. Who are these mysterious and unsung heroes of obscurity and shadow? What is their origin story? Do they have a prequel trilogy? What are their secret identities? What are their public identities, for that matter? What are their powers? Their abilities? Their haunted pasts and troubled futures? Their modus operandi? Where do they live anyway, and when? What do they do for a living? Do they really have these fantastical adventures, or is it a dazzlingly intellectual and overwrought metaphor? Or is it perhaps a smug and post-modern sort of metaphor? Is it a plain stupid metaphor, hedged around with thick wads of plausible deniability, a soap bubble of illusory plot dependent upon readers who don’t dare question it for fear of looking foolish? A flight of fancy, having dozed off in front of the television during an episode of something suitably spaceship-oriented? Do they have a quest, a handler, a mission statement, a department-level development objective in five stages? I am Hatboy. https://hatboy.blog/2013/12/17/metalude-who-are-creepy-and-hatboy/
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