At one time, the plutocrat, Victor R Murdochstein, was very proud of the Monster he had created. Undoubtedly, It had served him well by opposing everything that would threaten his interests and moneymaking schemes.
But Victor has had an epiphany, or, the more cynical would say, realises his Monster has outlived Its usefulness and is now more a liability than an asset.
So, due to collusion between the Monster and many of Victor’s underlings he has decided to personally hunt down his malevolent Creation and eradicate It before Its nefarious practices pull down the very edifice of his long-established enterprise.
But, the Monster is not going to give in easily. It has a mind of Its own and is firmly galvanised in Its determination to carry on with Its wrecking career, in spite of Its disillusioned creator’s attempts to track It down and dismember It once and for all.
So, Victor’s odyssey to track down the Monster has now extended to the now-watery reaches of the Arctic Ocean, to the north of Canada and Alaska.
In that region, moreover, Captain Robert Walton has been plying his trade now for many years. He used to operate cargo ships on the Eastern Seaboard routes of North America until the radical changes in climate caused the ice to the north of the continent to melt. Today, even in wintertime, the now sub-tropical waters of the North-West Passage would make a tourist think they were dabbling their pinkies at the Copacabana.
So, Capt Walton now operates in the very lucrative NW Passage trade between St John’s, Newfoundland and Anchorage, Alaska. However, things have not been going so well up there lately. A spate of shipwrecking has been reported, which, due to climate change, cannot be explained by them hitting icebergs. Rumours abound about a marauding creature terrorising the region, some even saying it’s their aqueous equivalent of Bigfoot or the Abominable Snowman.
This particular evening, Capt Walton is on the bridge of his cargo ship, just as the Sun is setting. Further out on the horizon, however, he notices a jet ski moving away at great speed. “Hmmm...funny that”, he mutters to his First Mate, “Sailor” Seamus. “That person on the jet ski seems very peculiar...in fact, he is the most horrible-looking individual I have ever clapped eyes on”.
Anyway, Capt Walton retires below deck for some chow, but, he has no sooner tied his linen napkin around his neck, ready to tuck into a nice big T-bone steak, when he gets a message from Seamus that some of the crew have just found the wreckage of what looks like a luxury yacht and fished a near-dead survivor out of the water. The message also informs him that the survivor is a well-known celebrity, so he better come quick.
Walton rushes upstairs and views the unfortunate wretch lying on his front with a crew member trying to push the sea-water out of his congested lungs. After a few moments, the man stirs somewhat, so he is turned over and given mouth-to-mouth. Walton can now see his face, and immediately recognises him as Victor R Murdochstein, the famous plutocrat.
The Captain orders some of the crew to carry the near-to-death Victor to his cabin, where at least he will be more comfortable. They do so, and retire, leaving Walton and Seamus alone with the virtually lifeless Victor. After a short while in the relative comfort of the Captain’s quarters, Victor begins to stir and show some signs of life. However, he still looks more dead than alive.
Walton: Easy, there, Mr Murdochstein...just rest yourself and tell us what happened when you get a bit of your strength back...
Victor (coughing): But...but...but...I don’t think I’ve got long to go...I can see a light and it’s calling me towards it...
Walton: There, there, old chap...just take it easy...Maybe you could summon up enough strength to tell us something of your story...
[Victor then begins a strange confession that is so blood curdling, it would make the Ba Ba Blacksheep nursery rhyme sound like the director’s cut of Joe Hockey’s first budget as Treasurer.]
Victor (weakly): Yes...it was a long time ago...but I can remember the events of It’s creation like it was just yesterday...Before I created It, however, I had traversed the country-side searching for all the diabolical spare parts which I would require in It’s manufacture...First, I searched for a heart – I was looking for the blackest, most despicable cardiac organ I could find – to pump its evil blood around its disgusting mal-formed body...
[Whilst listening to the near-dead plutocrat’s recount of these strange events, Walton and Seamus have contrasting reactions to the old man’s fevered descriptions of the Monster’s genesis. For his part, Walton assumes that Murdochstein is delirious, having exhausted himself trying to stay afloat in the water.
Seamus, on the other hand, thinks there might be something to it all. After all, before running off to sea as a lad, he had been reared in a rural Irish setting, where tales of leprechauns and banshees were readily believed by the inhabitants of such a traditional society. And, to complement Seamus’ natural openness to things supernatural, he also has a typically disarming Irish sense of humour.]
Seamus: Well, speaking of disgusting hearts, Mr Murdochstein, our ship’s chef serves them up to us on a regular basis...He says they are fillet steaks, but we know he pilfers them from the offal cart at the Anchorage abattoir...heh...heh...
[Victor ignores Seamus’ flippancy and continues with his outrageous tale.]
Victor: So...I finally found the blackest heart imaginable, discarded in a wheelie-bin at the back of the tally-room in Bennelong in 2007...
Seamus: Yeah, now that you mention it, I remember the guy who owned that heart – the Beast of Bennelong they called him – I hope you got his eyebrows too – now they were scary!
[The dying plutocrat confirms that, indeed, he did acquire the eyebrows, and continues on with the mind-boggling story of the Daemon’s creation.]
Victor: And then I had to search for a brain for my Fiend...but, to be truthful, it wouldn’t have to be very big as It would never need to be very intelligent...So, I went along as an observer to the Nomination Contest for the Republican Party’s candidates for the next Presidential election and, whilst listening to a “speech” by a candidate from Wasilla, Alaska, and munching on a free packet of peanuts, I put one in my pocket, realising my search for a suitable brain was over.
To view the following YouTube clip, click the link below: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zz4YHcqXNHI&feature=related Seamus: I hope you got the glasses as well...hee...hee...
Victor: The next part of my Wretch’s anatomy I searched for was its backside...
Seamus: Ewww...that must have been a bit of a bummer...heh...heh...
Victor: Yes, I ended up having to travel to the morgue at Taronga Zoo for that one...The last remaining Black Bear in the whole world had been kept there for years and had finally passed away from old age...So I got the morgue people to chop up its carcass and give me the backside...
Seamus: So that’s how your Monster got its great big black hole, then! Wow!
Victor: I then started my search for legs for my Daemon...But, in the end, I had to be satisfied with only being able to find one...
Seamus: Oh, why was that?
Victor: Well, I paid an after-hours visit to the charnel-house at the Canberra WorkChoices Workhouse and came across the one-legged corpse of a Public Service inmate whose working conditions had been so bastardised, she died of malnutrition...
Seamus: Yuk! And what happened to her other leg?
Victor: Oh, she lost that to the Joe Hockey Public Service cuts, so my Monster has a prosthetic instead...
[Just then, due to his weakened state from being so long in the water, and from the exertions from telling his story, Victor coughs up more brine. But, in spite of looking like he is finally close to death’s door, he proceeds to unburden his conscience over his role in creating the Monster. He carries on with his outlandish tale.]
Victor: Next, I sought after a hard hind, so that my Creature would be able to withstand any attempts by rivals to stab him in the back...So, after a leadership spill, I rummaged through the bins at the rear of the Federal Liberal Party Headquarters and found the discarded carapace of a giant cockroach...
Seamus: Jeeze! If you got its eyes as well, your Monster sounds like its stark-staring mad...heh...heh...
[And on and on Victor went with his account of the creation of his Fiend. He related how the raked through the bins at the back of a barber’s shop and provided It with hair that was a combination of Donald Trump’s comb-over and Bronny’s bee-hive. And It was provided with the cancer-ridden lungs of the deceased Chairman of the SCAM (“Smoking Cures All Maladies”) Tobacco Co, who had, during the tenure of his office, contributed vast sums of money to the coffers of the Liberal Party.
Walton, however, is still sceptical and believes that Murdochstein, whilst close to death, is delirious and has imagined all this monster-creating claptrap.
Then, suddenly, Victor’s breathing starts to resemble a death rattle. Very quickly, his life expires and Walton pulls the sheet up over his face. He orders Seamus to go up to the communications room and inform the authorities of what has transpired. Meanwhile, Walton says a quiet prayer for the repose of the soul of the now-deceased plutocrat.
But, he is no sooner finished his spiritual supplication when the door to his cabin is thrust aggressively open. Walton, thinking it is Seamus returning, turns around to listen to his report. However, instead of seeing Seamus standing in the doorway, Walton witnesses an apparition of the most horrible, quasi-human form that could ever be imaged. He realises now that the Monster is real and has come here to kill the master that turned his back on It.]
Walton (stammering with fear): Yuh...yuh...you’re too late...there’s nothing more you can do to him...he’s already dead!
“It”: Yeah...shit happens...
[With this, the Monster turns on Its one heel and leaves. A few seconds later, looking out of one of his cabin’s portholes, Walton sees the Fiend jumping back on its ramshackle jet ski, which had been leaking fuel into the surrounding water. Then, with a tremendous burst of flame, the leaking fuel has somehow been set alight, engulfing the Monster and Its jet-ski in a conflagration which now resemble a funeral pyre.
Walton rushes up on deck but can do nothing for the Monster as the twisted frame of the jet ski and the charred corpse of the Creature are all that remain. Meanwhile, Seamus is nonchalantly leaning over the guardrail with what seems to be a smirk on his face.]
Seamus: Y’know something, Captain...as my old mammy ironically used to say, “you live by the fags, you die by the fags”...These cigarettes, therefore, are a killer...I’ll have to give them up one day...heh...heh...
