YATDSS – Mission 6 (March Of The Space Penguins (OR Happy Fleet))

(I love that title so fucking much.)

PETER: Hey, listen Scott. I know I’m not one for sentimentality and all that shit, but, these penguins… you hear stories.

SCOTT: I think I know where you’re going with this.

PETER: Here me out. If we don’t make it out of here alive…

(pause)

PETER: I’m blaming you completely.

SCOTT: And there we have it!

DAVE: Niiiice. Had me going for a sec there, bro!

PETER: Thank you, thank you.

(A very large fish shaped ship appears.)

SCOTT: Oh, very tasteful.

ERM: Silence, human! This is very fashionable in our culture!

PETER: So what, you’ve got fuckin’ bed’s made of mackerel and fish tanks in your shoes?

ERM: Yes, actually!

SCOTT: Gayyyy.

ERM: Enough of your insolence! Men, attack!

(The large fish ship leaves, and enemy waves begin.)

DAVE: Dudes, I gotta insist you stop using homosexuality as an insult.

SCOTT: I’m sorry Dave, it’s just something I don’t even think about anymore.

PETER: Yeah, cos you’re a fag yourself!

SCOTT: That wasn’t even funny.

PETER: Sorry kid, I just like the sound of my own voice.

DAVE: Hey Scott, we can be cool if you help me with these bogus penguin things.

(Scott flies over.)

ERM: You meat-bags are more resilient than most of the others who have been sent to kill us!

DAVE: Bro, you guys are made of meat too.

ERM: Ugh, let a man be metaphorical!

PETER: THANK YOU!

SCOTT: Wow, Peter, looks like we finally found someone in the universe who agrees with you.

PETER: Fuck you, kid. You’re just jealous cos I’ve actually got some in my life.

SCOTT: Oh come on! I don’t even care about it!

PETER: Suuuure you don’t.

(battle carries on.)

SCOTT: So, evil space penguin leader thing, what do we call you?

ERM: Erm.

PETER: Come on, ya fuckin’ bird, you must know your own name.

ERM: Erm!

SCOTT: Hey, c’mon Peter, maybe these things are too stupid to know.

ERM: SILENCE, HUMANS! I am Erm, almighty leader of the Space Penguin Army!

SCOTT: You’re name’s Erm? Fuck, I think that joke’s been used somewhere else.

DAVE: A derivation of it anyway, totally.

ERM: Th-this is an outrage! How dare you insult my name! I’ll attack you myself for your disrespect!

DAVE: Uh, yeah brah, you can handle this on your own.

(Dave flies off as Erm appears in his ship.)

SCOTT: Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

(They battle. Erm falls.)

SCOTT: All right, time to decide whether to-

DWAYNE: Guys! You’ve got to get back here right away! The captain’s been kidnapped by space penguins!

PETER: Jesus fucking…

ERM: Haha! The sock ruse was just a distraction!

DAVE: Oh great man, make our audience even more of a niche.

ERM: Smell you later, as you would say!

(Erm leaves.)

DAVE: Well, I guess we should all go back.

(Mission Complete…?)

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Let’s Ruin: Winnie The Pooh – Eeyore

It all began when my house fell down again, and I looked at it, and I thought, fuck this.

Like the first little pig, I built my house out of sticks, and here it was again, lying on the ground in a tiny little mound, taking up the space that usually my body would occupy, laughing at me. Laughing at me and saying, hey buddy, I’m in your spot, just try and move me.

Every fucking day of every fucking week of every fucking month this happens to me. House goes up, wind goes across, house goes down. Every day. I’d move if the location weren’t so perfect.

It’s not too far from the river that I get tired from walking there, and trust me, I get tired from walking easily. It was close enough to food that I could eat easily. And it was just the right distance away from everyone that someone could come over once a day and help me build my house yet again.

They were sick of it too, I could tell. Each day they were starting to get a little more begrudging about helping me out. A little more annoyed at me for not packing up and moving away to somewhere where the wind wasn’t so strong. I could see it in their eyes. They hated me.

I didn’t want their fucking help. They just decided that I needed it, just because I was so close to the ground that it was hard to look up, and because I didn’t have arms, just legs. Whenever I tried to rebuild the house by myself, I had to use my mouth to pick up each stick and move it into place.

They pitied me, that was it. They pitied me and they made themselves feel better by helping me out. I could do it by myself, oh yes I could. It would take me hours at a time, sure, but in the wood, hours are nothing. Nothing happens that would make you wish you didn’t have to rebuild your house. Except for the times when that dumb bear and his idiot human friend would go on stupid, pointless adventures. Or that time when the little kangaroo was killed by his wacko mother.

I remember that night well. Oh yes I do. The blood pouring out, splattering across my face, some working its way down my throat. It felt good.

It felt really good.

But like I was saying, rebuilding the house was tedious, sure, and it happened every day, and there was nothing else to do.

Only that’s exactly my point. There’s nothing else to do. Maybe that’s why I was angry. Boredom drives people to madness, and there’s nothing more boring than repetition, which to some people is a hell inescapable.

And this is basically what I was thinking when the sticks were gloating at me, on the floor, where I wanted to be later that day. Staring back, challenging me to rebuild them, to carry on doing what I always do and never break away from fear that change will drive me mad.

And here I was, with my usually dour face contorted into a sneer, a growl escaping my lips, growing tenser with every passing second, planning my revenge on a pile of fucking sticks I called home.

I had had enough.

One by one, I picked up each stick, and one by one I moved the stick and placed it in the river, and one by one they drifted downstream with the flow, floating away without a care in the world, hopefully to drown in the sea, the smug little fuckers. I hoped to whatever made us all that I never saw those things again.

And then I sat and I waited. And waited. I didn’t even know what I was waiting for, or if I was really waiting for anything.

All I knew was that the blood that had spilled earlier in the month had not been enough. My tongue craved more. My body desired that red substance that so seldom showed itself here.

It grew like a fungus inside of me, working its way through my body, infecting every fibre of my being until by the time night had fallen, the only thought in my mind was tearing whoever came near me to shreds, sheerly because I could.

I almost felt sorry for the annoying rabbit.

Almost.

A small part of me told me that when, after being asked if I wanted some help rebuilding my house, said in that despairing tone that implied I was beyond help, I ripped out his stomach, I was perhaps going a little far. But the fresh splashes of blood on my face washed away everything I could have once felt, other than pure rage.

Rage born from boredom. From the repetitive life I had been forced to live due to by four stubby legs and the company I kept. From the inane conversations I was forced to have. From being asked every day if I was fucking OK. From my house falling down, and being rebuilt, and falling down, ad infinitum.

I chewed on the rabbit for a short while, destroying his face, squishing and eyeball and not giving so much as a passing thought, before wandering sluggishly into town. His mutilated corpse lay still, as if it were asleep. Shame that he was now missing half his head, I guess.

I made it to the home of the bouncing dickhead who kept bouncing and bouncing and keeping me awake every fucking night and head butted his door. It hurt. I didn’t give a fuck. He didn’t answer and so I banged again and again, trying to repeat the same sort of repetition that had driven me to this. I almost didn’t notice the bear behind me. I almost didn’t see him run off.

Finally he answered, and his often large grin was quickly replaced by a look of sheer horror, and questions of what have you done, and blah blah blah. I wasn’t listening. I was working out the best way to separate that fucking tail from his body while he was still alive.

But he wouldn’t turn around. He just stood there, shocked look on his face, gawping at the blood covering mine, his tiny little brain trying to work out what to say next. I grew bored of this and reared up, with every intention of tearing his mouth off so he couldn’t gawp any more.

The buckshot slammed into my back just as I was about to jump. Clearly I had spent too much time staring at the slack jawed buffoon, and now the bear who almost wasn’t there was stood almost right behind me, boom stick in his hand and a look of terror in his eye. I turned slowly and snarled at him. He greeted this with another blast, which took my head clean off.

I guess in some ways, I deserved it. But as my soul fell into the ground to meet the one who would torture me for the rest of eternity, all I could think was, fuck you bear. I was doing you a favour.

Let’s Ruin: Winnie The Pooh – Winnie

Tigger is bouncing.

I’m swallowing a pint, trying to drown my anger and sorrow. Rabbit’s still pissed at me for being an idiot, and Owl won’t stop shaking his head when he sees me.

Tigger is still bouncing. It’s what Tiggers do best, I hear.

Not even Eeyore will talk to me. Eeyore the loner. Eeyore the cynic. He glares at me like I’m worthless, a pile of dirt manifested into a walking form and wandering round, hitting on chicks, getting in his face.

Right.

Up.

Close.

Tigger says I should bounce with him. Says it’ll be good for me, bouncing.

He never stops bouncing.

He didn’t stop bouncing when Roo died.

Kanga just sits in her house and cries, and cries some more, and Tigger bounces round like nothing happened.

Where is Piglet? Probably at Rabbits’, bitching. Bitching about me and my sad, pathetic existence. We fell apart. Yet we still see each other. An endless stream of wood as far as the eye can see and we still see each other. He looks at me with despair. It’s weirdly comforting.

Tigger says, come on, bounce. Get it all out of your system. Bounce around a bit, feel alive, feel young. He says it all with a smile. I want to wipe it off his face.

I tell him to shut up, that I’m going out and for God’s sake don’t follow me. He looks hurt, slightly. He still bounces.

I slam the door on him, on my house, my life. I tell myself, I’m just gonna walk.

Walk and walk and walk. Away from these people who look at me with the disgust and the hatred. They all hate me, and I understand why. I just don’t need to be reminded about it.

Maybe I just need to escape.

Not my fault the balloon exploded.

Maybe I just need to get out of here.

I blame Christopher Robin, but I have no reason to. He left us a year or so back, said he needed to grow up, find a woman, get a job, all the things a real man should do. He left that night with a tatty suitcase and a head full of hope. We never heard from him after. We assume something Very Bad happened to him.

I bet Tigger’s raiding my cupboard now, the damn thief. I bet I’ll get back and find half my stuff gone.

Screw it. I’m not going back. I’m going to walk through the woods and get out of here. I’ll kill a Heffalump if I have to. Screw it. I’ve had enough.

The worst part is the way Kanga looks at me.

Try and break away from that thought.

Don’t think about that.

Don’t think about the sorrow in her eyes, the tears that stream down her face, that one unanswered question ringing out from her mouth every time I see her.

Why? she cries. Why? Why my little Roo? Why did you take him away from me? Then she droops her head and the Sobbing starts, with the Heavy Breathing and all that unpleasantness. Then the vacancy in her eyes, a deep pool of black that goes on to eternity. Every day I try and talk to her and every day she cries and stares, and one day I snap and shout, well, maybe it was his fault. Maybe you shouldn’t have left him to wander around, huh, Kanga? Maybe it’s not my fault your son’s dead. Maybe you were just a terrible mother.

I regret nothing. So I tell myself.

Tigger said it was part of the healing process. That it had to happen eventually. He told me next time I should just bounce instead of shout. I broke his nose.

I’m walking and I’m walking and all I can think about is Kanga, her fur wet with tears, her pouch empty, a twitch in her arm that is becoming more evident every day. Owl giving her advice and her sending him away; stupid Owl, you wouldn’t understand. Rabbit doesn’t bother with any of this. Rabbit goes about his day like it’s every other day, protecting his carrots from Tigger.

Rabbit says he saw Kanga hanging around when it happened.

Rabbit glares at me and says I don’t think you meant to do it Pooh Bear, but you could’ve done something to save the poor kid.

I’m turning and heading back now. Words and phrases are going through my head and for the first time I process them, make them real, think about them for more than a fleeting second.

Owl saw it all happen. He says Kanga was looking anxious and twitching more than usual. He just assumed it was because of the heights Roo was reaching.

A height that kills a joey as it hits the ground in a horrifying squelch next to a yellow bear standing shocked to the spot, all eyes on him, trying to avoid the bloody mess near the tree.

I’m running now. I may be the bear with a slow brain, but now my mind is working faster than ever.

Those nights that Kanga and I spent together, we don’t speak about. She left Roo with Rabbit and we made each other feel whole again. Kanga used to say that she’d never felt so much love. She’d never felt like she’d really had someone’s attention before, not in the amount I was giving her. That she’d do anything to keep it.

She said people ignored her, and she wanted to be seen.

For a brief moment, Tigger comes back into my mind, bouncing, always bouncing.

Not like Kanga bounced.

That thought makes me grimace. What was I thinking? If the others had found out we would’ve been kicked out of the woods.

I’m back at our makeshift town, and I’m panting and I’m starving and I have to find Kanga. Have to expose her.

Roo used to say his mother could hit a pot of hunny from hundred yards with her peashooter.

Said she was the best shot in the whole hundred acres.

Tigger’s still bouncing in my living room, and Kanga’s sitting on my sofa, twitching uncontrollably, staring off into space.

Tigger can be so insensitive.

So can I.

I try and shout but can’t. She’s crying. It makes me want to put my arms round her and give her a hug, tell her it’s all okay. It isn’t. She isn’t.

Instead I growl, fiercely. You killed him.

Kanga stops twitching and her head shoots up to look me deep in the eyes. She says, “what?”

You. You killed him. You blamed it all on me, let them crowd around you with their sympathy and kindness, and you lapped it up.

Tigger stops bouncing. Good. That shows how huge this is.

Kanga stares at me, her eyes wide. “No,” she says, “Why would I do such a thing?” But she doesn’t cry anymore. She just yells, “No, never. How could anyone be so cruel?”

Tigger stares at her, his mouth shut. He’s still as a mouse.

Tigger whispers, “Kanga?”

Kanga gets angry. She leaps to her feet, and with that sudden jerk a small object is thrown out of her pouch and lands on my couch.

It’s a tube, which, with just the right amount of air pushed through, would be able to fire an object about the size of a pea.

If that pea was particularly cold, it might even burst a balloon, which would be unfortunate, especially if there was a little marsupial grabbing onto the string, screaming, mummy, mummy, help me mummy as he falls to the ground.

Kanga goes berserk. She screams, “What other choice did I have? You never paid enough attention to me. I had to do something.” She turns to me and yells, “Our fling didn’t make me feel loved. It made me feel sick.”

Tigger is rooted to the spot. I’m fuming, angry with myself, disgusted at her. What kind of person would perform such an atrocity to get attention? That’s beyond messed up.

Kanga storms out of the house, and we follow her. Rain falls heavily through the trees, clouds covering up a bright full moon, and Kanga slows her pace as she sees what’s ahead.

 

The animals of the Hundred-Acre Wood stopped her.

They said, we heard everything.

They said, you could’ve just told us.

Kanga screamed at them to move.

They stood still in a line.

Tigger and I blocked all her escape routes.

Rabbit bounced forward and said, you don’t deserve to live.

Eeyore, the silent one, lunged at Kanga’s throat.

She screamed.

And screamed.

Blood flew and landed on the ground.

No one moved.

Eventually, even Kanga was still.

 

It wasn’t quite justice. But it was enough.

Let’s Ruin: Winnie The Pooh – Piglet

I sat up and lit a cigarette. A cool breeze rolled in through what we called the window, nothing more than a glorified hole in the wall of my house. In fact it wasn’t even a window. It was the door.

Temptation to get up and close said door flowed through me, but the relative warmth of the bed kept me at bay.

I could hardly see a thing, but I knew where everything was. It’s hard to forget when you live in the same place for so long. The only light in the room was the slowly disappearing glow at the end of my cancer stick, but with my prior knowledge I could make out the bedside cabinet.

I grew bored with the cigarette. Stubbed it out. Lay down again in bed.

My companion was snoring softly in the manner only he could get away with without my brain telling me to throw my arms around a persons neck and end their constant in out in out that rattled my brain as I tried to sleep. His large belly swelled and fell, swelled and fell, one arm ascending and descending with it while the other lay next to him. I took up the still arm and cuddled next to him.

If only any of this was real.

My mind wanders back to when this all started, about two months ago. It was raining that night. It always rains on those kinds of nights.

Him, stood at my door, panting, soaked, desperation in his voice.

Me, lonely, depressed, and with plenty of what he needed.

I made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Particularly not in his state.

I remember the way he shook, violently, as if he was in the middle of his own personal earthquake. Most would have blamed the rain, but I knew better. His arms clutched his oversized belly as if it were a small baby that wouldn’t stop crying. He cried, no sadness in his tears, just pain, agonising pain.

I asked how long it had been. He only shook his head, muttering something incomprehensible.

Our psuedo-family in the woods had tried to intervene with this behaviour. There had been meetings with him, meetings without him, meetings with doctors, meetings with specialists. We had tried everything we could think of, and none of it worked.

He was an addict. I was abusing this.

I told him about my stash. About how I understood his pain, and how I knew he could only survive if he had the one thing he desired more than anything. He sat at my table and shivered, a small amount of hope now starting to grow in his small, black eyes. I brought some out to prove it, and had he the strength he would have lunged at it.

I knew what I was doing was wrong.

I let him have a taste, let the sweet nectar work it’s way through his body, into his veins. He craved more, but I held it away. I said he could have as much as he wanted, but I wanted something in return.

Anything, he pleaded, I’ll do anything.

And that’s how we ended up here.

For two months I had been feeding his habit, and for two months, once a week, he would come over and fulfil my desire. We depended on each other like never before.

I knew what I was doing was wrong. But it made such perfect sense. We were weak. We were easily persuaded. The mind tends to persuade the body to do outlandish actions when life becomes too much.

And now here I was, snuggled up next to his unconscious body, keeping itself alive only by instinct. He was warm and comfortable, and I was once more overpowered with temptation, but this time it was to fall asleep in his embrace.

But I knew I couldn’t.

For as much as I tricked myself into thinking this was more than it was, my practical brain told me different. This was nothing more than an arrangement, a deal. He needed what I had to offer. He would never want more than that.

What an empty existence to have. What a foolish person I had become.

As he kept coming back for more, and as he spent those nights with me, I found myself becoming attached. Attached to his body, at first. And then attached to him.

I realised that I loved him.

The way he smiled at me as I handed over his next supply. His sticky breath after his last hit. The way he made love to me, like no other before him. Every part of me wanted him to stay forever, even if it meant I could just pretend that I wasn’t as lonely as reality dictated.

Yet I knew that if I started making these thoughts known to him, showed any more affection than was necessary, he would leave. I would never see him again, only in passing as we went about our daily business. He would find another supplier. I may never find another man.

I moved his arm back to where it had started and myself to the other side of the bed. He shuffled slightly, settled, went back to sleep. I closed my eyes and tried to follow suit, but sleep is a cruel mistress when your brain is telling you that you’re a bad person.

Selfish. That’s what I was.

I saw he needed help. He needed to stop relying on what was killing him. And I couldn’t let him do that. I had to have him to myself, and feed him what he told himself he needed.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I moved. He didn’t notice. I got out of bed and went to my desk. Praying I wouldn’t wake him, I flicked on the small desk lamp. Light poured out into the room. He didn’t notice.

I picked up a pen and wrote a note. I told him that he could take what was left. I told him to let himself out. I told him to never return.

I told him that he needed to see someone, that he needed to do this to save himself. To really try this time.

I told him that I refused to do this anymore.

I folded the note, wrote his name on it, and left it on my bedside cabinet. I dressed and moved to my open door.

I wanted to leave. I wanted to leave that note, let him wake up, read it, take what he needed and go. I wanted that to be the end of it.

But I didn’t want to be alone. Not after I had finally found someone. No matter how lonely I felt even with him there, it was nothing compared to the despair of being totally, completely alone.

I returned to bed, undressed, screwed up the note, threw it under the bed.

This was what I had. And it was what I would take.