The pursuit is over. My dogged determinism has paid off, and like a dog, I have my bone. Only this time, it's a whale.

 The ocean laps around my feet. The boat is sinking. Only minutes ago, I chanced upon the leviathan as he rose from the water, seeking air and a copy of the London papers. Disguising myself as a newspaper vendor, I lured the unsuspecting beast near me. However, the clammy sea air permeated my moustache adhesive, and my disguise faltered at the crucial moment.

 Eye-to-eye, we looked upon each other. My hand was outstretched, offering the newspaper. His flipper-thing similarly reached out, curled and holding money. We were inches apart, his warm breath enveloping me, the scent of fish and long-discarded paper boats staining my clothes. Then he leaped mightily, silhouetted against the sun like Free Willy, free and unfettered by the hands of man.

 He struck the sea, a mighty blow that send waves across my poop deck, and sank down into the azure. I aimed to follow, but the great shock had sent my mast into the deck, and the water was rising fast.

 Is this the end of me?

 Nah...

I am at sea

A whale's back. It is erotic. Image via Wikipedia

Call my Ishmael. It isn't my name, but the change will do me good.

The whale took Max some days ago. As is always the case, it lured him into a van with the promise of sweets. I followed the trail for days, losing the hump-backed kidnapper when he entered the ocean. Overhearing the gossip of fishermen in a seaside tavern, I picked up the beast's scent again yesterday and headed into the tempest brewing off-shore.

Moo. Image via Wikipedia
Endless fields.

 They stretched as far as the eye could see, field after field, as if there was no end to the fields. It was worse than space.



We were not at Woodstock. We were in a crappy field. There were 14 hippies overall, and about 7 cows. To my eternal disappointment, the cows weren't wearing hats, but that's not the issue here. I'd made some general enquiries as to where we were, but the cows were too stoned to help and the hippies generally just mooed.

 Some time passed on that grassy hell, stretching out like something long and stretchy. A big elastic band, perhaps. But I digress. Max was getting hungry. So was I, but I wasn't planning cannibalism yet.

 "So, you still don't know where we are?" I asked the lead hippie.

 "You can't, like, be here man." He replied distantly.

 "Seriously? We're doing this? You're a cliche. You're all cliches!" I raged, "Why can't I meet fleshed-out, relatable characters?"

 "You've got me!" Max chirped up from behind a cow.

 "You're not fleshed-out!" I yelled angrily. It was true, Max was just a stupid sidekick really. I mean, he has a tramautic backstory and a dogey past filled with tragedy and triumph, but you never ask about that, do you? No, all you want to hear is another story about Max getting his head stuck in an ostrich or carrying out race crimes against Smurfs.

 Damn you! Damn you all!

I should be working...

So, instead, I've found the most delightfully mad piece of art to grace the surface of the earth, just for your viewing pleasure (Yup. It isn't like it happens to be on the front of a book I have. Did a lot of research to bring you this...)

The Football Players, by Henri Roussea.
Image via Wikipedia. As usual.

Yes, this may be my new favourite thing ever...

It's like Woodstock all over again.

You can, however, stack wood.
Image via Wikimedia Commons

The safety pod descended at breakneck speed.

 That was a lie. Our necks were unbroken. I considered breaking Max's and blaming it on speed, but it seemed like a lot of work.

 Things had been going well on the Spaceship - we'd bought some branded clothing and souvenirs from the gift shop and began training to fight Martians (Just in case) when Max... Well, it was Max... he killed about 14 people. Well, they were robots. It was an accident. On purpose. They touched his comb. Their own faults. He said.

 Anyhow, that explains our exile in the escape pod, in which we were currently breaking our necks. A while ago, Earth had reared her ugly head afore us, scraping the dark sky with her continental hair and surfacewaters. We entered the atmosphere at speeds that could... well, break one's neck...

 And now we were crashing. Earth piling up on both sides of us, a chasm of soil spreading out across the countryside. A few cows meandered across our path, flying onto the screen of our extraterrestrial vehicle and blocking the view until we put on the windscreen wipers. Slowly, we slowed down over a long period of time, slowing to a halt in a field full of Hippies and cows, both of whom were meandering around slowly.

 We emerged, yawning and stretching into the sun. I wondered where we were, and approached the lead hippie. Well, the tallest:

 "Is this Woodstock? Did we travel through time again?"

 "No man." The Hippie replied. "You can't, like, stock wood."

 "Are you going to be a cliche?" I asked.

Space is so big that it's small. Or something.

The Moon. If this story has
taught me one thing, it's that
all of Space has a dark side.

Outside, the stars hung silently in the night sky.

 Of course, that's wrong. Stars aren't hung, for one thing. Besides, it wasn't the sky they were in, and night is just a relative term, worthless in the endless expanses of space that enveloped our ship.

 Max, as befits a man of his staggering Maxness, had acquired a job as a cook on a space-liner. Of course, such things don't exist, but you never complained when I wrote about Unicorns or Piranha-Bears, so shut up. The liner was pretty empty, to be honest. After all, who wants to cruise Space?

 Yes, you probably do. Please stop interrupting.

 We were in the cafeteria. It was one of those generic places you might see in Sci-Fi piece, all gunmetal grey with exposed framework and cold metal tiles. The tables were fixed in place, long flat surfaces with uncomfortable benches bolted down besides them. It was like a school lunch room, I suppose, except in space. All in all, a very depressing scene.

 Max was sitting opposite me, poking at his space-gruel with a space-fork. We had a window seat, by the window. A huge, thick pane of something transparent, the window framed the open space that surrounded and oppressed us, and also served as a great place to stick up posters.

 There were no posters on our window though. That would not be appropriate.

 "I want to go home."

 I looked up at Max, lowering my space-spoon from my mouth.

 "It's too cold in space. And I feel so claustrophobic."

 I looked outside. Around us, the emptiness stretched to infinity (and beyond, I understand). Max was right - the openness was oppressive, crushing and unending. I felt trapped.
 Still, no point getting depressed about it all. The space-gruel was good anyway.

 "Come on," I said with fake cheer, reaching out to pat Max, "We'll go and get some fleeces from the gift shop, then I'll take you home."