Tales of Mr. Jack Happy: 2008 - 2009


My name is Jack Happy, and I was born a slight lad years ago in an insignificant town. Instead of dwindling away in obscurity and my life's history having no meaning, I have decided to imprint myself upon this world... Upon this "Internet" about which I have heard so much.

It will be a glorious age, an age of enlightenment... Another one, I mean, not like the first one, but a newer, better one. This time, with computers! And shiny electronics, like PDA phones and shit. YOU BEST BE BELIEVIN' IT, YA'LL -- WORD IT UP! BRINGIN' IT NEW SCHOOL UP IN THIS PIECE.

I will conquer this planet with my pen... keyboard. Penboard. I will conquer your minds through the power of words and it will be the most horrific, magnificent thing you have ever known. Yes! What I will create can hardly be fathomed by the shallow wits of those imbeciles who have surrounded me my whole life.

I will show those cretins from my town. I will teach them who is the important one, and who will be forgotten by time. I will live on, whilst they fade into oblivion. I will surround myself with figures of great import, not like the fools of my past. This will be a new era in my life, a new chapter of Jack Happy.

And you will be forced to ask yourself, why do they call me Mr. Happy? Is it because that is my surname? Is that what you think? Then, perhaps, you have not thought hard enough!

This endeavor is not FOR YOU! It is not for anyone. It is for the good of all mankind, it is for the historians to look upon and weep, weep because of the overwhelming greatness of what we have done... Displayed the best and worst of all that mankind can accomplish when their consciousnesses are melded together into one form.


June 19th, 2008:

A single bird, perched upon a branch in a nameless forest somewhere far North, sings a mournful song. That song is a requiem for lost innocence.

“Now! Now!” The klaxons sounded throughout the base, sirens glaring red hues all along each and every wall. “Now! Move, move, move!” The shouting was raucous and noise ear-piercing as the soldiers rallied. They hefted great rifles of destructive powers unbeknownst to any man before, secret weapons of a shadow nation. “Go, go, go, go, go!”

“Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go! Go! Go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go! Go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go!”

One man lit a cigarette, silhouetted against the rising sun to the East, standing outside a hidden door carved into a great oak tree, and looked solemnly at its smoldering butt. “I… I don’t smoke,” he muttered, then threw it to the ground and put it out with his tremendous boot. He heard the sad song of that solitary bird in the trees and stared skyward, pondering the days to come.

“All non-essential personnel to their quarters, all troops muster in the Great Hall.” An electronic voice droned over the public announcement system and relayed orders from the anonymous leaders of the Black Operation. “All pilots prepare for take-off, all engineers ready for assembly.” Throngs of men and women pushed through the steel hallways of the underground base buried deep beneath the ice-capped mountains, all trained for this day for years. “All commanding officers please convene in the debriefing chambers, all seats in their upright and locked positions.”

Outside, another man exited the camouflaged door and put his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Jack, you doing alright?” The first man looked at the newcomer and shrugged. “Well, I was gonna write a Blog or something, but I guess I ought to save the world first and stuff.”

“I guess so, Jack… I guess so.”
August 30th, 2008:

“Jack! Watch out!”

The fish came flying from the crystal-clear waters of the bay and right past Jack’s head. It jerked on the fishing hook it had been snagged on and landed hard on the deck, flopping about like… a fish out of water… which is exactly what it was. Jack looked down at it and thought about its meaning.

So cold. So lost. So dying. Like this Earth. So Earthy.

The voice that called out warning to Jack belonged to an older man with an appearance of a salty sea captain. He was a salty sea captain, in fact, the very same sea caption of the ship they stood upon, the S. S. Shipshape. He squinted his one good eye at Jack and smiled, bearing his snaggly teeth.

“Jack, m’boy, ye almos’ got smacked wit’ that der trout.”

Jack gave the captain, his fast friend on the harsh seas of the past month, a long look. “Captain Snaggletooth, it would be not the first time, my friend.” They shared an uproarious laugh before cleaning the fish, a sizable trout full of fishy meats.

“Jus’ call me Anse, boyo,” the Captain said to Jack, stringing the fish up along with the rest of the day’s catch. “Yer likes the son I’s never had, ye know dat.”

“Yes, it is certainly a shame I had to brutally kill the son you did have, Cap… Anse,” Jack said with a sad smile. The Captain just slung a bucket of fish guts over the side of the boat and grunted.

“Dat basterd had it comin’, an’ ye knows I thanks ye fer doin’ its.” The Captain spoke with a gruff voice but a soft heart.

“Still…” Jack took out a cigarette and lit it, before blinking and throwing the lit butt over board. “Why do I even have cigarettes on me?”

October 9th, 2008:

“No!” Jack threw his body across the stage and in front of the Prime Minister, absorbing the bullet into the side of his Kevlar vest, before hitting the ground in front of the first row of seated reporters and miscellaneous press.

The whole room went into chaos, screams and shouts ringing out from the alarmed guests of the conference. Security personnel quickly moved to secure the entrances for the auditorium. The head of security, a bald-headed Native American, got on his radio and started barking orders.

Jack picked himself up and brushed off the dust, pulled himself onto the stage and helped the Prime Minister back to his feet. “Are you alright, sir?”

“Yes, son, thank… thank you,” the old grey-haired man gratefully smiled while straightening his silk tie. “The nation owes you a great debt.”

“Of course it does,” Jack said, “All in a day’s work, Mr. Prime Minister.” At that very moment, a legion of black-clad ninja fell from the ceiling and began massacring the crowd.

Reaching into his vest, Jack pulled out a cigarette and lit it, then flung it into the crowd, whereupon impact with one of the ninja it exploded and sent shuriken and gore flying…

December 31st, 2008:

Standing against the dingy shapes of a debauched city, Jack gazed downward at the throng of party-going people celebrating the end of a terrible and glorious calendar year. They went to and fro, red plastic cups of liquor and beer in hand, smiling and laughing, full of finger foods and bullshit. The corners of his mouth curled downward into a frown as he contemplated the horror of the year to come.

He wore a top hat upon his head of the most brazen red hue and a band of sparkling gold. It was tall and magnificent against the night sky. Donned upon his nose was a pair of glasses in the shape of four numbers: two, zero, zero, nine. They were made of plastic painted pink and adorned with fluorescent glitters. They shimmered against the city lights a rainbow of colours, reflected on his skin and in his deep, soulful eyes. Eyes full of soul and depth. So deep.

A gorgeous blonde woman in a red evening gown came walking up behind Jack and began to speak, but before she could do so, he grabbed her arm and threw her over the edge of the building, sending her plummeting twenty stories to her messy death. Her confused, blue eyes stared upward into Jack’s face as she fell, pleading for an answer for this random act of violence, pleading for retroactive mercy. The partying crowd parted momentarily for the woman to impact before resuming their jubilee.

“Dames.” Jack took a cigarette out from his clown suit and tossed it unlit off the roof, then tore deeper into his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and threw it after.

March 17th, 2009:

An actual conversation, 2:01 AM, somewhere in the depths of cyberspizace:

—“Happy Birthday!”
—“What? No, they’re… they’re not. They’re the day you’re born.”
—“BULLSHIT! Was I born today?! NO! I was born FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTY THREE years ago! Huh!? Huh!?”
—“But... Not the exact day. The date. This date, twenty six years ago. You were born.”
—“Prove it! Were you there?!”
—“No, but your mother was. Pushing your fat fucking head out of her cooch.”

It was at that very moment that the space-faring robot armada broke atmosphere and began raining down fiery death upon the great cities of Earth-Gamma. The citizen scattered, but the casualties were enormous. The Battle Mech Suit Patrol Force Police Department Squad, or BMSPFPD, began surmising wildly with the foes, to little avail. They were both outnumbered and outgunned, surely fated for doom. DOOM!

—“And you believe her filthy lies?”
—“I don’t see how she’d gain in lying… Wait, what are you even saying? That she lied you were born on this date, or that you were born at all?”
—“What is wrong with you?!”

At 2:15 AM, the human race knew no greater atrocities than those brought about by the robot death squad known as the Harbingers of the Blackest Death in August amongst the Leaves of the Trail of Bodies by which We Are Known. They rendered our militaries twisted heaps of bloody metal and left our cities smoldering ruins. They raped our children and forced mothers to watch. They resurrected Bella Lagosi and punched him in the face in a very impolite manner.

They smoked all of our cigarettes.

June 18th, 2009:

Jack Happy reached into his pants and pulled out a… cell phone. He looked at it and then around the subway car he was riding. It was the early morning, so the typical crowd of commuters was onboard with him. Mostly professionals: men in dress shirts and ties, women in modest but trendy tops with unrevealing skirts.

An older Hispanic man snored behind Jack, his head leant against the train window, drooling on himself. On the other side of the aisle, an elderly man with white hair read the newspaper, legs crossed with shirt and pants both freshly ironed. One of the employees of the rail line walked up the aisle, the walkie-talkie on his belt buzzing with static and the back and forth of the dispatch.

Pushing a few buttons on the phone, Jack read his email and sent a few short replies. The train then dipped into a tunnel and his phone bleeped as service went down. Jack drank coffee from his Spelunkin’ Donuts mug and read the news articles he had already cached on his fruit-themed smartphone.

The conductor came on over the speaker, scrambled and barely audible, announcing whatever stop up to which they were pulling. A twenty-something Asian girl with long hair stepped off, and a disturbingly overweight woman in a floral dress boarded, waddling her way to one of the handicapped-reserved seats by the door.

Putting his phone away, Jack checked his hair in his reflection in the window and considered getting a haircut. He ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw and sighed faintly to himself. Somebody on the train smelt like cigarette smoke.

“Maybe I should write a Blog?”

P.S. Jack Happy watched as a walrus descended from the heavens and crushed c. Jay Wrong to death.

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