CHAPTER 36
Psycho-Fans in the Most Unexpected Places
Finding bin #897432 – GLPOA357%&11.FFF was as difficult as it sounded. The map proved to be useless, for it had been written in a font-size meant for the vision of a fruit fly. Even the magnifying glass did nothing to improve readability. I wandered around following the misleading signs that had been planted around the intertwining pathways between the heaps of garbage. I paused to wonder what living creature had been here to craft the signs and make the pathways. The skyline was a bleak collection of filthy peaks against the darkness of space. The dirtiness of the landscape was greatly enhanced when placed alongside the purity and cleanliness exuded by the vast emptiness of space.
At one point in my long journey through the winding maze of garbage, I was surprisingly approached by a human-like alien. He was strangely carrying a book I recognized as one of my own. It was a copy of Children: Rushing Away to an Early Candy-Filled Grave. One of the more popular bestsellers I wrote on Earth, but not one of my personal favourites. Upon re-reading it I remembered how all the quotes and statistics had been lies. The sudden appearance of the alien shook me up.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I'm Wendell. I'm a fan of yours.”
“Yeah, I see you've got one of my books there. Quite a fantastic coincidence that you'd be at the same place as me, especially in a place in which no living or mortal person can survive.”
“Oh, this isn't a coincidence,” said Wendell. “I heard about your trial. I knew you'd been sentenced here. I figured this was my chance to finally get the book autographed.”
I began to feel uneasy. Only a psycho-level fan would risk coming to a place where no mortal person can survive, just to get an autograph on one of my worst books. I expected a crazed assassination attempt to occur at any moment.
“So, will you sign my book?”
“No.”
“You won't sign my book?”
“I don't want to sign it. Not really into signing stuff. How do I know you aren't going to sell that book and retire?”
“I swear the book is for my own collection.”
“I'm busy. I'm trying to find a beard.”
“I've come all the way to Garbotron and you won't sign this book? I braved the surface of a planet in which no one can survive just so I could meet you!”
“You aren't a real fan if that's your favourite book,” I said.
“This book has a lot of good insight into the degenerative eating habits of the human child.”
“But it's pointless now!” I argued. “That book was a bunch of trumped-up lies written in hopes of scaring humans into changing their degenerative eating habits. But it didn't help, the humans became Greegs many years ago.”
“It's still a good read.”
“It's one of my worst books. Maybe the worst. What about Through Savagery and Back: The Life and Times of a Stranded Greeg? Didn't you read that one?”
“I didn't like it.”
“What!? The critics called it my masterpiece, my central opus, the summation of not only my own creative career but a perfect representation of the universal human experience.”
“It was a bit long and wordy.”
I was finished talking to the random fan. I continued walking down the path, but the fan persisted in following me.
“I know where this Beard you seek is. You're looking for the Beard of Broog, aren't you?”
“That's right.”
“Yep, I know where it is. I might be convinced to trade the location of the Beard for a personalized autograph on this book.”
I sighed, letting Wendell know that I was going to autograph the book, but that I was not happy about it. I signed a quickened, rather lame signature.
“What's this?” asked Wendell. “Sign your name properly! Spell it out! That's just a few randomly connective lines that no one could read.”
“You want the book signed twice?”
“No, sign this one,” he said, producing an entirely different copy of the same book from his backpack.
“You brought two copies of that book?”
“Of course. One has to be prepared on Garbotron. You have to account for the destruction of at least half your personal possessions. I didn't think it would be wrecked by you though.”
“I didn't mean to wreck it. Can you just tell me where this beard is?”
“After I have a proper autograph.”
I signed the double copy, this time writing out my full name with a flourish, even adding in some letters that weren't supposed to be there. The star struck fan began salivating over his newly acquired collectable.
“Yes! It's mine! I finally got the prize! I'm rich! Hahahaha!”
I felt sorry for this sad creature. His entire purpose in life was based on wanting to get my autograph. Mine. Me. Was I so important? Was I even interesting at all?
“I can tell you where the beard is now,” he said.
“Please.”
“Continue on the path until you see a sign reading This way to the Southern Continent of Plastic Wastelands. Do not follow that sign. Instead take a turn at the Wall of Leftover Cheese-Like Products. Follow the cheese until you reach The Lake of Liquids.”
“What kind of liquids are in the lake?” I asked.
“Nobody knows. But if it's garbage and it's liquid, then it's in there. Do not touch the lake.”
“Did I mention I'm immortal? Touching the lake probably wouldn't hurt me.”
“You must cross the lake. There is a seaworthy canoe fastened to the nearby shore. I've been using it to commute across town.”
“Town?”
“There isn't an official town yet, but I've been trying to make a society of sorts in my spare time. I've been naming places according to what type of garbage they're made up of. All the street signs and maps you see along the path were made by me. For transportation I've crafted the aforementioned canoe, as well as some decent miniature models of pushcarts and other rudimentary devices made of broken glass and twisted metal that I hope to see into fruition in the future. There is a lot of broken glass and twisted metal here. Was stuff like that popular on the planet where this garbage came from?”
“Unfortunately so.”
“There is a lot of work to do, turning all the metal and wheels into usable objects.”
“You should team up with this fruit fly named Milt. He's obsessed with cleaning up the planet. Could use a little help. He might take to your ideas of a society.”
“A fly?” Wendell suddenly looked at me as if I were the insane one. Perhaps we were both right.
“Yeah.”
“Anyway... was I still giving you directions?”
“You were telling me where to go after the lake.”
“Yes. After the lake, that's a good part. You will blindly stagger through the Swampy Maze of Visionless Wandering. You may find yourself disturbed by the fact that you cannot see through the hazy ground-clouds. You might find yourself falling face first on the uneven terrain. The swamp is always shifting and rolling, like the great tides of the Hroon Ocean. The swamp shifts because the garbage has turned alive over the years. A landscape with an agenda of its own. The original surface of this planet is but a forgotten core miles beneath the ancient onslaught of undesirables. Do not despair. There is a way out of the swamp. All you have to do is follow the call of the Garbage-Demons, for they only feed in the evenings on the north side of the swamp, and the north is where you must go if you would find the Beard of Broog. After you cross the swamp you are very close.”
“But let me guess,” I said, “there is yet another horrendous task before I find the Beard, something much worse than either the crossing of the lake or the blind navigation of the Swampy Maze?”
“You will see.”
“And it involves these Garbage-Demons?”
“You will see.”
I noticed he began to look in a bad
state. He was green, frothing, swooning. Nothing at all like the vigorous healthy life form who had approached me a few minutes ago.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
“I think the atmosphere is finally starting to get to me. I've been waiting for you on Garbotron for a few months now.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't be! Getting this book signed was the greatest moment of my life!”
“Oh...sorry again.”
Suddenly the crazed fan dropped to the ground. It was clear he was choking as a result of the toxic atmosphere.
“Pleh!” I yelled.
That uselessly dismissive non sequitur was as reactive as I got at the moment. Before I could move, the foul stench of Garbotron gave Wendell a series of fatal lung implosions. The stranger now belonged to the very waste-heaps he had tirelessly worked on naming and making signs for. The planet Garbotron is a living collector of all that is foul, or rather of all that goes near.
I searched the fan's backpack. He was carrying no provisions aside from my collected works. He had been lugging around all my earth novels in mint shape first-edition hardcovers. I left the books among the garbage, not because I felt they belonged there, even though some of them did, but I thought they might one day provide future entertainment for an unfortunate soul stranded on Garbotron.
Greegs & Ladders - By Zack Mitchell and Danny Mendlow Page 38