This one was on Bizarro Central a couple of years back…sandwiched between something called ‘Space Walrus’ and a promo for ‘The Haunted Vagina.’
I wrote it in an hour or two…writers usually say this kind of thing – man, I wrote this book in one night, in a fever or when I was drunk or when I was high, really – but in the case of ‘Wolfaconda’ it’s true. I think you can see when you read it that not much thought went into it.
I wouldn’t call it shit, but it’s not exactly ‘Martian Chronicles’ standard…
Yet it’s still one of the five stories I’ve ever had published elsewhere…which is weird to me, as something I think is far better, like ‘The Deterritorialisation of Nick Nolte,’ always gets passed over…well, passed over by about 4 sites/magazines.
I only submit intermittently, when I’m feeling low…I guess to get anywhere you have to be more dedicated, which I’m not…I save all my dedication for this site and…I don’t know what else…doing the zines…
But still…what is it about the Nick Nolte story? How can you not like something that has these lines?
Scrawled on the wall of the toilet were the first two-hundred and fifty-seven pages of Crime and Punishment, truncated in places.
Nick Nolte the polite, American character actor saving the Muscovite poor read it to the end, where there was a small note saying:
‘There is more, but it’s not really important.’
I don’t think I’ll ever understand what other editors like and don’t like and why…unless they like my Nick Nolte story then I understand them completely.
Actually, there are only two possible answers for the rejections:
i] They think it’s shit
ii] It’s not a match for their site
iii] There are better writers with better stories out there
I lean towards number ii most of the time, though I suppose ‘Nick Nolte’ could be a kind of shit I’m unaware of…
Where to go from here?
I don’t know…
Maybe I should write something about a 400 year old alien who wears the body of a South Korean guy with big ears and starts half-dating Gianna Jun…
Try to sell it in China…
The sun rose, the moon fell.
Everything was the same, but one thing was different.
Mark Twain noticed it, from his grave.
So did Megatron.
INT: FAT BRANDO’S RECOVERY ROOM, AN ISLAND
Fat Brando put the scalpel next to the sink then shuffled out of the room humming the Superman theme.
There was blood on the floor, blood on the ceiling, blood on the walls. None on the operating table.
The wolf looked at its body; where’s the fur? The anaconda did the same; where’s my fucking head?
Both questions were good ones.
Based on the novel ‘Wolfaconda’ written by Brother Kat from Series 5 episode of Red Dwarf ‘Angels & Demons’
First dilemma: Where to live?
The anaconda said rainforest, the wolf said snow.
It decided on rainforest.
To combat the extreme heat, the wolfaconda attached a fan to its neck.
There was no electricity, so it used a system of faith.
How did things go?
The first few weeks were a sharp learning curve. The sharpest of them all. The lower half of the wolfaconda kept heading towards the river, the upper half tried to move its face closer to the fan.
Gods, it was hot.
On day five it started to snow.
‘It’s no good,’ said the wolfaconda.
‘How do I turn off this fan?’ asked the wolfaconda.
‘It’s too white.’
‘There’s no off button.’
‘It’s too round.’
‘I assumed it would be hot all the time.’
‘Let’s buy a house.’
‘It’s making my eyeballs dry.’
‘How about Rio?’
The wolfaconda compromised and moved to Hong Kong. Immigration was surprisingly easy, mainly because everyone was asleep.
It half-slithered, half-prowled across the harbour.
It bought a house in Sha Tin.
It searched for work.
‘What can I do?’
‘I don’t have enough fingers.’
‘That’s not a job.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you start to disappear if you engineer content for more than four days.’
‘That’s very specific.’
‘What about property?’
‘Who would say no to me?’
‘Kill them if they do.’
The Wolfaconda closed the newspaper and became a night security guard. Every night for two months, it sat behind a desk in a residential building and scared the shit out of people.
Two months and one day later, the bossman called them in.
‘You mean fired?’
‘Yup, both of you.’
‘Don’t argue, just go.’
The Wolfaconda shuffled out of the building and muttered, ‘but there’s only one of me.’
Back at the house, it self-argued.
‘It was your fault, you’re too green.’
‘Yeah, and you’re too grey.’
‘You’re too long.’
‘You’ve got yellow eyes, it’s weird.’
‘You tried to eat Ice Cube.’
‘You harassed Liam Neeson.’
‘You’re holding me back.’
It tried to end the argument the same way it used to, but it could no longer go its separate way.
Five days later, after reading Candide and misunderstanding it in a spectacular way, the Wolfaconda decided to go to Europe and wander.
The theory: there were cold places and there were hot places.
It packed its bags.
It went to the train station.
As it was stepping through the ticket gate, a net fell on its head.
‘Ha!’ said Jon Voigt, climbing out of a mid-air vortex [theorised by Emile Hirsch, engineered by Ray Wise].
Chinese people stopped and stared.
Others turned their backs.
The Wolfaconda pleaded its case.
Jon Voigt sneered.
I’m a different person now.
You’re only mad at half of me.
I ate you.
You were acting?
Damn you, Jon Voigt.
Jon Voigt took the Wolfaconda back to his home in the Hollywood Hills and opened the front door. Ahead of him was Tom Wilkinson, holding a shotgun.
‘Not again, Voigt.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s not your house anymore. You sold it to me. Remember?’
Jon Voigt growled, took a break, stroked the shotgun then growled again.
The Wolfaconda saw its chance.
It slithered out of the net and into the garden.
Fourteen years later, in a forest near Maribor, the Wolfaconda stopped slithering and looked at the map.
‘According to this paper, we’re not in LA anymore.’
‘It’s nice here.’
‘I think it’s India.’
‘You’re not worried that Jon Voigt’s gonna turn up again?’
‘We’ve killed him eight times, there can’t be many more of him.’
‘He looked like Clive Owen last time.’
The Wolfaconda lay down on the grass, half of it closing its eyes, the other half reading the last 145 pages of Cat’s Cradle.
‘Vonnegut just writes the same book over and over…’
The other half didn’t answer.
‘Alone at last.’