The Mackeral

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

Joe was sixty-five years old and retired.

He lived in an old battered caravan by the sea on west coast of South Africa, it is a desert region an not many people live here, which is, as he likes it. He found a nice secluded place near the beach, miles from any people, and started fishing. He’s been fishing for two years.

One afternoon he got a bite on his line and gave the rod a jerk. When the fish was hooked he started reeling it in, it put up one hell of fight, but eventually he managed to get to shore. As he pulled the hook from his mouth, he saw that there was something strange about this fish. He inspected it closely, and yes it was true, he was sure. There could be no mistaking. He had caught the Holy Mackerel.

He knew it was the Holy Mackerel because, well, it was a mackerel, and it had a tiny halo over its head. Thus; the Holy Mackerel.

He was overjoyed. He had heard much talk of the Holy Mackerel, but would never have imagined that he would be the one to catch it. He tried conversing with fish by saying things like; “Boy, for a Holy Mackerel you sure put up one hell of a fight.” But the Mackerel remained mute, and never responded to one of his remarks.

He telephoned a newspaper group in Cape Town, and within hours his little caravan in the middle of nowhere, was surrounded by people and cameras. They came in cars, busses and helicopters, and still they came. Joe had put the Holy Mackerel in a plastic bucket filled with seawater.

The Mackerel swam around and around inside the little plastic bucket, with his little halo floating above his head, as the crowds surrounded him in eager anticipation of whatever was going to happen next. Surely the fish would talk and disclose some universal wisdom; after all, it was the Holy Mackerel.

But the fish remained silent for seven days, but after swimming around for seven days in a small circle in a plastic bucket, he gave it up and he spake. He started slowly

“Gaagh” said the fish, and after he had cleared his throat in this manner he continued. The cameras flashed and everyone hushed his neighbor to silence as they awaited the wise words of the Fish. And the Mackerel spoke.

“I just have this to say.” Said the Mackerel “There aint all that many fishes in the sea no more.” And then he said no more.

The people tried to coerce him with snacks and food, and one or two even threatened to fry him in a pan. But the Holy Mackerel was not phased, and kept his piece ever after.

When it became obvious to Joe that the fish was saying no more, there was the danger that he would lose his commercial value, so he sold it for a generous sum to the Cape Town aquarium. They put the Mackerel in a tank all on its own, and people from all over the world came to look at the Mackerel. And paid for it too. But the Mackerel never said another word. He just swam around in that tank with his little halo above his head, and enjoyed the admiring glances of the humans beyond the glass. What’s more, he was fed generously, because he was the star attraction.

But for the next fifty years people came to admire the Fish, and ponder over his prophetic words ‘There aint all that many fishes in the sea no more.’

Whatever could he have meant by that they wondered?

II.

Fifty years later a team of brilliant marine biologist, combined with a team of equally brilliant social scientists, came up with a treatise as to what the Mackerel meant by his prophetic statement.

They said that the global starvation the world was experiencing was directly due to the oceans eradicated fish stocks, and that this was what was meant by the Mackerel when he said ‘There aint all that many fishes in the sea no more.’

There theory was generally accepted by the starving population of the earth

A Brood of Bats.

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

I live in Smalltown, USA, out in the Midwest. It is still called Smalltown but has grown into a bustling city since my youth.

That all happened when the yuppies came. Well they called themselves yuppies and came disguised as yuppies, but I knew better. I know what they really are; a brood of bats.

Yes sir, a brood of evil bloodsucking vampire bats. They hide away, a few of the leaders in their mansions, but most of the more common vampire bats simply nest in the thousands of townhouse complexes that have sprung up all over.

Here they breed and produce more bats, that will eventually grow up, marry a little female bat, and move into a little townhouse batnest of their own, to breed, and so on, and so on.

By day they come out of their nests and put on their sunglasses, climb into their little sports sedans and drive off through the heavy traffic to whichever IT firm they work for in the city. At night they return to their nests and transform into the true shape of the vampire bat; the kind where they flutter about on a pair of black wings and go flying in search of a meal.

They swarm in large groups on their helpless prey, which is usually a homeless old lady or stray dog, sinking in their fangs and draining the victim of the last ounce of its blood. Whereafter they return to their townhouse batnests and wash-up and brush their teeth (with herbal toothpaste), before turning in for good early morning sleep. Soon, they are battling through the traffic again, off to work at the IT firm.

But, as I have mentioned, I am one of the lucky few who are wise to their evil plans of world conquest and domination. From here they will spread all over the globe, building townhouses and brooding millions of new vampire bats. They will someday rule mankind, and mankind will be their meal. They will stop at a MacDonald’s and order a big Mac mankind burger with a pint of blood, to go.

But I am safe from them here in my little basement room. I have my crucifix and wooden stakes. Various silver chains adorn my neck, and I have even swallowed a substantial amount of silver, which is said to make ones blood undrinkable to a vampire. Cloves of garlic hang about the room. No vampire bat will suck my blood. Just to make doubly sure I have my fully loaded pump-action shotgun by my side all the time. Let those bloodsucking yuppies come.

And while I wait for the day that the yuppie bats will inevitably come for me, as they come for everyone, time passes. And as time passes, the bats build new townhouse batnests, and continue to breed.

Breeding a myriad of bats.

Smith

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

I was perfect, I realized. Not Messiah perfect, like Jesus, or even Buddha, but a close second.

It was because one day, as I was walking down the street, it suddenly occurred to me that I was genetically perfect. That is, I was as genetically perfect as any human had ever been, therefore, I was perfect. As the realization of this genetical perfection of mine gradually sunk in, it dawned on me that I would have to do something constructive with my new found powers. In this regard I would need help, for I realized, the world was a troubled place. The local police station seemed like a good place to offer my services so I strolled over.

I walked up to the counter and said to the officer behind it “I have arrived.”
He looked up in a perplexed fashion and said “What?”
“I have arrived” I repeated myself, and added, “To solve some problems, of which I hear you people have your fair share, now, how can I be of service.”
The cop wasn’t busy with anything pressing so decided to humor me a bit longer.
“What makes you think there is anything you would be able to help us with?” he said smugly.

I explained my newfound perfection to him and assured him that it went hand in hand with vast cosmic powers, which in turn I would be able to use for the better of mankind, if I could only find a serious problem to solve.

“Why don’t you re-align the universe and solve all our problems?” he said and his fellow officers in the squad room laughed.
“That is the best idea I’ve heard all day.” I said and went to stand in a corner to re-align the universe. I stood there and concentrated, deciding that only a few minor adjustments to the cosmic wheels would be necessary. I re-aligned them slightly and then stopped to catch my breath and wipe a bit of sweat off my brow.

Just then someone off the street ran in and said, “ Have you people heard, George Bush just won the election.” ‘Shit, what have I done’ I thought to myself. I would better have to re-adjust the cosmic wheels back to the way they were. I went and stood in the corner and concentrated, but try as I might, I could not turn those big abstract wheels of time and space back to their original positions. I tried and tried till the sweat ran in rivulets down my face.

When I realized I was going to have no success, I turned back to the cop behind the counter and said, “ I confess, it was me, it is all my fault, and whatever happens hereafter is all also going to be my fault. I re-adjusted the wheels of the universe, but you proposed it.” I added accusingly.

The cop’s former good mood evaporated, because of what I had just said, or because of the news of the American presidential elections, I do not know to this day. But his whole demeanor towards me changed in a second, a bit scizo-like.

“Right, that’s it, off to the loony-bin with you.” he said, and momentarily six huge cops overpowered me and forced me into the most uncomfortable white sleeveless jacket I have ever been fitted with.

The ‘hospital’, as they refer to it, looks like one from the outside, with lovely rolling lawns and old Victorian red brick buildings. The inside, I found out later, looks more like scenes from Dante’s ‘Inferno’.

The white jacketed Doctor across from me asked the questions.
“What day is it today?” she asked. “Does it really matter, if you consider the bigger question? What is time? According to Janice Joplin ‘it’s all the same fucking day’ in anycase, man.” I replied.
A bit annoyed she continued, “What does it mean when I say ‘the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’?”
“It means the tree isn’t standing on a hill.” I replied.
Now genuinely agitated she tried one more “ What does it mean when I say ‘people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?’”
“That would mean exactly the opposite of ‘ people in stone houses shouldn’t throw glasses.’” I replied.
Her final question to me was “Mr. Smith, do you drink?”
“It’s a bit early in the morning, but what the hell, make it a double.” I said enthusiastically.

So now I’ve been sitting in this little padded room for the last few years, while Bush is going bomb happy. Why don’t I change things back? You ask. Well, I’ve been trying all this time, but when I re-aligned the universe, my perfection slipped out of place a fraction, thus I am not perfect anymore, not even close. Being imperfect also means being virtually powerless. Certainly without any cosmic powers.

I can do nothing but try, under heavy sedation, but perfection eludes me. How can I ever regain my perfection and re-adjust the cosmic wheels again? If anything ever seemed impossible to me, this does. Turn Oh Cosmic Wheels, why won’t you turn?

Bat V

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

It was a sunshiny day at ‘the place’ and the people were going ‘Ho-Ho-Ho’. They were going ‘Ho-Ho-Ho’ because they had outsmarted Batty. He was somewhere far away flying harmlessly through space.

They went about their daily business at work, school and home, assured in the fact that Batty no longer posed a threat to their peaceful existence. The day passed peacefully and uneventfully. As darkness fell over ‘the place’ the people closed their windows and shut their doors, and turned in for a good nights rest, except for a few late night revelers in the city pubs.

But, unbeknownst to the people, Batty and Belinda were close by. They were somewhere in space, close to the place, but they were no longer alone. They had prospered in space. In tow flew their offspring, four little bats; Berty, Batny, Betty and little baby bat. One happy, albeit thirsty, vampire bat family.

The mayor was one of the late night revelers at a local pub, and started walking home in a carefree fashion, after all, there weren’t any bats around tonight. He was also bound to be re-elected, he thought to himself, after all it had been his idea that they should escape the bat and fool him. He was laughing to himself as he strolled down the street, ‘Ho-Ho-Ho.’ But suddenly he was over whelmed by six thirsty bloodsucking bats, they appeared out of the night as if from nowhere. His tune changed to ‘Argh!-Argh!-Argh!’ as he was being mangled to death by the bloodsucking bats. Once he had expired, Batty and his family had a virtual feast of blood. They sucked, and sucked, until their little bellies were filled to capacity. In the early morning hours, while ‘the place’ was still shrouded in semi-darkness, they retired to Batty’s old cave for a good days rest. They had flown far, and blood was their reward. The pure life giving essence of blood.

As a new day dawned over the place, the people found the mangled remains of the mayor in a lonely side street, the place was a bloody mess, and they knew, Batty was back. They had traveled across the galaxy in an attempt to evade the bloodsucker but had failed. There was no escaping that bloodthirsty bat. The people all packed their bags and headed for the launch pad in town. They were getting away while it was still day.

Batty the vampire bat could feel there was something amiss when he awoke this evening….

The End.

Bat III

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

He flew further than his little wings had ever flapped. They flapped until they felt they could flap no more. Flutter, flutter, flutter, flapped the wings of little Batty.

Until he flew so far that he came to where he had never been before; a completely different place. Here he glided to the ground, and found that the streets and houses were also deserted. Then he spotted an utterly peculiar bat, with a tag around his neck that said ‘Bobby’.

“Hello Bat, I’m Batty from ‘the place’, tell me, did the people come past here by any chance?” said Batty. The utterly peculiar bat nodded confirmation with his head but said nothing. His head, however, kept nodding up and down, so Batty took that for a yes. He hadn’t expected anything more from such an utterly peculiar bat, so he flew on.

Outside of town Batty came across another bat, he gave him one looked and realized this was a totally way-out bat. His hair was cut in a rooster and dyed purple. He sported an assortment of belly, nose and earrings, and was lavishly endowed with cheap tattoos. One large tattoo on his forearm read ‘Benny’.

“Hello bat, I’m Batty, can you by any chance tell me where the people might have gone?” The way-out bat replied, “I don’t know where they go, but they go ‘Ho-Ho-Ho’.” That was a great help, thought Batty to himself as he fluttered away.

Batty flew to the top of the tallest building in town, sat on the ledge, and rolled a joint. As he smoked it he pondered his predicament. When he had finished, he flew around in abstract circles, as he pondered it some more. This went on for what felt to Batty like a prolonged period of time, when the realization hit him. The people had gone back to ‘the place’, seeing as they had run out of places to go. He felt joy in his little heart at the prospect of the return trip.

He brushed his fangs and combed his hair, and took off his dirty white T-shirt that said, ‘WATCH OUT – I BITE!’. He took a clean one from his overnight bag that said, ‘BLOOD AND SMOKE.’ and put it on. Then he put the dirty shirt in the bag, along with his comb and toothbrush, zipped it up, and flew off into the everlasting darkness of space.

So sons and daughters, beware, this very night, in the dark reaches of space, a vampire bat is flying in search of the earth, in search of mankind, in search of blood.

Bat IV

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

Batty was flying through space with the newfound anticipation of fresh blood.

On his way to ‘the place’ however, he had to make a stop again at ‘the other place’, seeing as it was on the way. He wafted gently to the ground.

He met the strange bat again and they said their hello’s. “I want to introduce you to someone.” Said the strange bat. That was when Batty laid his eyes on the prettiest little blue-eyed bat he had ever seen. “What’s your name, pretty little bat?” Batty asked her. “Belinda.” She said “And if what I hear is true we have something in common, we both love blood. Love the T-shirt, by the way.” “I knew you two were meant for each other.” Said the strange bat.

Yes, Belinda was also a vampire bat, and she and Batty immediately hit it off. They went out for a night on the town, and went to party at The Main Vein. In the background Meatloaf was singing ‘Bat out of Hell.’ After they had drunk a few Bloody Mary’s Belinda said, “Where can we find some real action, Batty?” Batty replied, “I know where, at ‘the place’, where I come from, I have my suspicions that there are many people and much blood. But first, lets go and prepare ourselves, for it is a long flap away.”

They flew to the top of the highest tower in town and sat on the ledge. Batty rolled them each a joint. They smoked it and then flew around in the ritual predatory circles of bats about to venture into the deep black night.

Then they dressed in new garb out of their backpacks. She put on a pair of faded blue stretch denims and a T-shirt that said THERE’S A BLOODSUCKER BORN EVERY MINUTE. And Batty changed his old shirt for a fresh one that said BLOOD, SMOKE AND TEARS.

Then they kissed gently. Gently, for kissing with fangs is a delicate operation, and took hands as they flew off into the everlasting darkness of space.

So sons and daughters, beware, this very night, in the dark reaches of space, two vampire bats are flying in search of the earth, in search of mankind, in search of blood.

Bat II

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

Batty was flying through the darkness of space. Flutter, flutter, flutter.

He flew until he came to the other place. He glided gently on the light evening breeze and wafted to the ground. He could see that the people had been here, but were here no longer. He flew through the silent and deserted streets and buildings, until he met a bat from the other place.

“Hello Bat, I’m Batty from ‘the place’, did the people come past here?” he inquired from the strange bat. “Oh, you’re that bloodsucker.” Said the bat from the other place “Yeah, the people stayed for a while and then moved on. They said they were going where your kind could not find them.”

Batty flew around looking for a second opinion. Out in the country he came across another Bat from another place. “Hello Bat, I’m Batty” he said “Have you any idea where all the people might have gone?” The other bat thought a while and answered “No idea, but I know its nowhere near here. Try a good search engine.” “I’m not computer literate.” Said Batty and fluttered on.

He flew to the top of the tallest building in town; the thin bower. Here he sat on the ledge and rolled a joint. He sat looking out over the dark city skyline in the silence, as he smoked it, longing for the taste of fresh blood. Then he flew around in crooked circles as he pondered his predicament. “What to do, what to do.” He said to himself, and then slowly the realization hit him, like a bolt from out of the blue. The people must have gone beyond the other place, which meant; he would have to keep on flying. The lure of blood was calling.

He brushed his fangs with herbal toothpaste, and combed his hair in the traditional middle-path of all Bats. Then he packed his comb and toothbrush back into his overnight bag, zipped it up, and flew off into the everlasting darkness of space. He was once again looking for mankind’s new home, ever flying, ever searching.

So sons and daughters, beware, this very night, in the dark reaches of space, a vampire bat is flying in search of the earth, in search of mankind, in search of blood.

Quote paper

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

I.

Ben was an amateur inventor. He invented things from basic concepts, hoping they would become popular.

One day he had a brain wave while watching an advertisement on television for the most famous brand of soft drink. He deduced that the popularity of the product rested solely on the name, rather than the taste there-of. What if he borrowed the name and just changed it a little bit; cola-cola. Yes, he liked the sound of it. He designed a nice modern looking emblem for his product, also using red and white as the primary colors, and went down to the patent office to register his invention. This was the easy part, now he had to get it sold.

He looked everywhere for a buyer but found no one that was even remotely interested in his product brand. Until he made a contact with a small no-name brand beverage and sweet manufacturer. Mr. Hobson was a friendly man, but also sharp and shrewd. He reasoned he had little to lose by accepting Ben’s proposal, especially seeing as he was asking so little money for his idea. They shook hands and signed an agreement. Ben relinquished the right of his idea for a small sum, and Mr. Hobson’s company proceeded to produce the soft drink; cola-cola.

Over the next few months Ben sat at home and watched the rise of the cola-cola company on his television set. Within a year it was a multi-million dollar industry, and was quickly becoming a serious threat to the livelihood and future existence of the established major players in the business. Everywhere you went people were drinking cola-cola, not only for its catchy name; but this cold drink also actually tasted nice.

Ben sat at home and watched as Mr. Hobson grew filthy rich, virtually overnight, on his idea. He compared this wealth with his slight compensation therefore, and resolved to procure a better deal with his next invention.

He spent a long time thinking before he struck gold in his mental mine again: personalized toilet paper.

II.

He had the idea of designing toilet paper with well known quotes of famous people on it, because everyone had a saying that they would like to wipe their backsides off on.

He also undertook to manufacture the toilet paper himself after having again registered his patent. First he experimented with the classical Greeks and Romans. So that his first toilet paper rolls contained the following quote by Archimedes; “Eureka!”

Only after testing it on his own toilet, did he grasp the value of his invention for the first time. The ultimate critical commentary on the foundations of society. He sold more rolls than he could produce, and this in turn went back into the development and manufacture of his product.

There were rolls saying; “Man is by nature a political animal” – Aristotle, and; “Nothing can be created out of nothing” – Lucretius. The examples were endless, the world was full of great quotes deserving of a butt wiping, business would boom for a long, long time to come. As long a people were producing shit, orally and analy, the money would keep on rolling in.

Some lines sold well all over the world, like the toilet paper with flowery print and Queen Victoria’s famous words; “We are not amused.” Or the George Bush and Donald Rumpsfeld quotes, which were especially popular in the Middle East, but sold well throughout the world.

Other lines only sold well in certain countries, such as the Winnie Mandela quote that was only popular among white South Africans; “With our tires and our matches, we will liberate this country!” But it was so popular amongst this group that the sales absolutely skyrocketed.

Another good seller was Patrick Henry’s; “Give me liberty, or give me death!”

III.

As fame and fortune grew Ben could start to personalize toilet paper for his own private use. He had a quote that he got from the tutorial comment on an old term paper of his, which was his personal favorite. It went; “There is no such word as ‘albeit’ in the English Language.” Sometimes he would have a big meal the night before, so that the following morning he can produce bodily excess several times in succession, followed by the pleasurable wiping of his ass on this great literary criticism.

He took care never to make public statements himself because he had learned from experience what the consequences of one’s words could be. He also made sure never to sell the rights to this invention so that, as long as he lived, he would decide whose words gets an arse-wiping, and whose doesn’t.

Oom Sampie

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

I walked under the shade of the big baobab tree onto the porch of the Marula Hotel. At the entrance I stepped inside the reception room, and turned right towards the bar.

Here was a small crowd of locals, gathered in the bar as they did each day. In the corner sat Oom Sampie, and next to him, Oom Herklaas. Oom Sampie was relaying one of his legendary tales, based on real life experiences he would assure any listener. Oom Sampie considered his stories gospel, and anyone who would dare question the truth thereof, soon met with the righteous fury of the colossal man. For this reason Oom Sampie’s stories where always accepted as fact, if only within his own earshot.

He turned to Oom Herklaas next to him and continued the tale he was busy telling; “Yes, and so I was called to old man Venter’s farm. He had these two groups of baboons on his farm who where in a state of continual conflict with each other. Their warfare with each other was so extreme that the old farmer’s entire farm was being laid to waste by their fighting. He’s crops and grazing had been utterly ruined by their battles with each other. So I went over to his place to see what I could do.

On arrival I immediately went over to where the two groups were busy hurling insults at each other over a little divide. The one group sat on a hill to my left, the other on a hill to my right, agitating each other mutually. In between the two hills ran a small mountain stream.

I took in position at the river between the two opposing groups and shouted above the jabbering racket; “Silence! Enough! Quiet!” whereupon they immediately fell silent. I turned to the group on my right and said;
“Barbarians! Savages! Heathens! Aren’t you ashamed of behaving yourselves like monkeys! Don’t you have any manners! Have you no self-respect? Send me down your leader.”
There was a scuffling among them and eventually a big male started to climb down the hill towards me.

In the meantime the other group found the chastisement of their rivals quite amusing, so I turned on them and shouted;
“Barbarians! Savages! Heathens! Have you no shame! Do you have no regard for your fellow baboons? What are you, a bunch of monkeys? Send me down your leader!”
They scuffled about in an embarrassed state before a large male appeared from among them and started to climb down the hill towards me, where I was standing at the river.

Both the big males approached me from opposing sides of the stream and I said to them;
“Come fellows, this is no way to settle your grievances, shake hands. Think of the future of your clans, if you consolidate your powers and work in harmony you can strip the farmers’ crops much more effectively. Think of your young and their future generations. Come, shake hands like civilized baboons, bury the hatchet, and make peace.”

The tears in their eyes told me they were moved by my speech, and then they shook hands over the river. Cheers of approval went up from the baboons on the hills and since that day there has been peace among those two baboon tribes. The old man payed me generously, and never had need for my services again.” Said Oom Sampie proudly as he concluded his story.

“Yes, it certainly seems as if you have a knack with animals, Sampie.” Said Oom Herklaas among the approving murmur in the bar.

I drink my beer and make no comment.

That damned man, Sam

von Jacques Pinard Brown (Copyright)

Sam had a knack for disappearing ever since he was a little boy. Whenever the chips were down Sam was nowhere to be found.

When they were little boys and had been naughty the teacher would let them line up for punishment, which was usually a hiding. Sam would pull his disappearing trick and be nowhere to be found. The teacher would say “Where’s that damn Sam?!” and when he did not appear the teacher would meet out more severe punishment to the other boys because of his absence.

In the army they were once led into an ambush. When the survivors returned to camp they all asked “ Where was that damn Sam.” And found him lying in a hammock in the shade of some palm trees, sipping on a tall glass of cold beer.

When his wife went into labour with their first and only child, Sam was nowhere in the vicinity. She yelled between the contractions “Where’s my damn man, Sam?!”.

At work, when the pressure was on (It was always when the pressure was on), Sam was nowhere to be found. His bosses would look at each other in panic and bewilderment and shout, “Where’s that damn man, Sam?! Where the damn? ”

Always after Sunday church service the reverend would turn to his wife and whisper, “Where was that damned man, Sam?” When his wife’s family held an important wedding or funeral, his in-laws were always left wondering, “Where was that damned man, Sam.”

So Sam went through life never being there when anyone needed him, because he didn’t see the need. On the contrary, he made quite sure never to be around when need was pressing.

In the old age home he was never around when it was medication time and the matron was always yelling, “Where is that damned old man, Sam ?!”. So it went until he was ninety-nine years old and he eventually passed away.

At the funeral his wife insisted that his coffin be opened so that she could be sure that Sam could at least face this one responsibility in life; death. They slowly preyed open the lid of the coffin and, lo and behold, it was empty.

Everyone cried; “Where’s that damned man, Sam?!”.

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