Any Way The Wind Blows
Long ago, several months in the past, by the muddy shores of the Zambesin River, a great warrior named Ben climbed from the smoldering wreckage of a small airplane. Once a proud soldier in the endless war against the walking dead, Ben had grown weary of small wages and so he abandoned his past to travel to Africa. His journey had been arduous and complicated: marred by unreliable pilots, an earlier crash-landing in the snowy Yukon, and a demonic cabin.
And now at last he had reached the birth-place of humanity, but at a great cost. Orange flames caressed, licked, and then devoured the red leather upholstery. He stood silently in the thick desert air, stoically surveying the crash-site as his much-loved Wall of Voodoo CD curled up and melted. It was clear that nothing could be done. It was time to move on.
Tall and powerful, Ben scanned the horizon for signs of villages and began his trek, sensibly bringing along his mighty iron hammer and his burlap sack. Such things would come in useful. The wind swept up hot sand into his eyes and sweat poured down from his majestic face onto his 100% silk tie, but he pressed on, thinking always of his quest and of a tall, frosty glass of water with ice.
And several months later, the righteous slayer walked into the small village of Senna. He spoke little and sought out a shower. However, there were none to be found. Ben approached the village council. And when he spoke, his voice thundered through the valley.
“I need a shower.” said Ben.
“Nobody wants you in their shower. Sorry.” said a councilwoman. The others nodded in agreement.
“I must shower. I am sweaty and uncomfortable.” said Ben, his sonorous voice causing the pictures hanging on the wall to shake. A single councilman raised his hand.
“I own a hotel, if that helps. You could just get a room.”
“I have no money, o’ councilman.” answered Ben, who was much taller and stronger than anyone else.
“Get a job.” suggested another councilman. Ben’s eyes narrowed, and darted about the crowded assembly hall, and all were silent except for the air-conditioner which hummed persistently, almost happily. Suddenly, he spied an ad on a bulletin board.
And Ben replied: “Gather all the people of Senna to the river's bank.”
And one of the councilmen rallied the people of Senna from watching the game on TV, and when they had finally arrived Ben led them down to an abysmal ebon pool in the river wherein dwelled the ferocious crocodiles, waiting beneath the fetid waters to devour any who dared to swim to close.
“O great men!'” he shouted, “I have read in your bulletins that your town faces great peril. I shall earn your respect and a shower by saving your lives. Firstly: these crocodiles in this pool! They’ve been eating people for years, but, fearing for their lives, none have tried to slay them. I now go to kill these crocodiles.” So he turned and dove deep into the pool.
The people held their breath, for they thought, “Surely this very, very handsome and very tall young man is insane and throws away his life, for the crocodiles will devour him!'” Then suddenly the ground shook, and the pool trembled and became red with blood and in flash of crimson Ben sprang up from the waves and up onto the shore, and the people shouted with joy when they looked upon him.
“People of Senna!' he said, “Know you all that I have slain the vicious crocodiles when no other would do so and because of this I am truly the Greatest.”
“Whatever shall we call you?” said one woman from the crowd.
And so Ben did pause for dramatic effect. “I am Makoma!” Ben had read that in a comic once, and didn’t remember what it meant.
Shouts of astonishment and jubilation rippled through the gathered masses. And so Ben, now feeling like a proverbial million bucks, gathered up his iron hammer and burlap sack and started to walk away.
And the crowd cried out to him: “Where are you going?”
And Ben answered: “I have more tasks to perform before my quest is done and I can finally shower.”
And so he ventured forth to the mountains. One day, Ben awoke to find a man wearing a Nehru jacket who held a large gun to his head.
“Greetings,” shouted Ben, “Who are you that holds a large gun to my head?”
“I am Chi-eswa-mapiri, who makes the mountains,” answered the man. The man grinned. “Give me your money, loser.”
“That doesn’t even make sense!” roared Ben, who struck the man about the head with his mighty iron hammer. The man fell to the ground and muttered obscenities to himself. And so Ben stole the man’s shoes and continued onward on his journey.
Before long he came to an area broken up with huge stones and immense clods of earth. Looking over one of the heaps he saw a man seated inside a yellow earth-mover, smoking a Chesterfield cigarette, dragging out the very earth and hurling it in shovelfuls on either side of him.
“Who are you,” shouted Ben (who has always been an exceptionally stylish) “that pulls up the earth in this way?”
“I am Chi-dubula-taka,” said the man in the earth-mover, “and I am being paid to make river-beds by the Senna Village Water Management Authority.”
“Do you know who I am?” said Ben. “I am he that is called Greater.”
“Really?” said the man. “We’ll see about that!”
With a shout, Chi-dubula-taka threw down a lever and scooped up a great mound of soil and launched it at Ben, but the hero-above-all-heroes had his burlap sack held over his left arm and the stones and earth fell harmlessly upon it, and, tightly gripping his iron hammer, he rushed in and struck the earth-mover about the shovel-assembly and caterpillar-tracks. Chi-dubula-taka tore off his mirrored aviators in disgust, gazing at his ruined machine.
“I’ll get you next time, Ben!” shouted Chi-dubula-taka, shaking his fist in rage. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I think I'll do!”
“You shouldn’t smoke.” replied Ben in a nonchalant way that really strung Chi-dubula-taka.
And so Ben continued his on long walk, as all Chi-dubula-taka’s power had become his; until he finally came to a forest of bao-babs and thorn trees. Scratching his head and uncertain exactly what a bao-bab was, he stood and was astonished at their size, for every one was full grown and larger than any trees he had ever seen, and close by he saw a man kneeling down on the dusty soil, planting a single tree…for tomorrow. He was taller than most of the people Ben had encountered on his strange and wondrous trip, but not nearly as tall and strong as Ben who was very tall and strong indeed. Ben was not afraid, and called out to him:
“Who are you, O tall man, who is not as tall or as strong as I am?”
“I,” said the man, “am Chi-gwisa-miti, and I am planting these bao-babs and thorns as food for the elephants.”
“That’s neat.” said the Ben. “Is that your job or something?”
“No, it’s more of a civic duty.” answered Chi-gwisa-miti. “Could you please pass me my Nalgene?”
And so Ben, powerful and very, very tall, reached forward and handed Chi-gwisa-miti his Nalgene, for he could hear from the tired and scratchy sound of the man’s voice that he was dried out and needed a plentiful drink of water.
“You could use a shower.” said Chi-gwisa-miti in a frank manner, which (while truthful) was not entirely polite.
“Wrong. I’m the greatest.” answered Ben, who left in a huff.
Ben’s epic journey continued, skyrocketing to every higher levels of excellence and awesomeness. He traveled far towards the west; over rough mountains and water-logged morasses, fording deep rivers, and tramping for days across dry deserts where most men would have died, until at length he arrived at a clearing a large river.
As he is known to do, Ben hunted down and killed an impala with his bare hands and put the venison on the fire to slowly roast, pausing only to apply liberal amounts of Papaya Curry Sauce, which is basically delicious on everything. At midday, when the sun was right overhead, he heard a rumbling noise from the river, and looking up he saw the head and shoulders of a man emerging from it. And behold! Right down the river-bed and up the river-bed, till they faded into the blue distance, stretched the man's grey moustaches.
“Who are you?” bellowed the man, as soon as he was out of the water.
“I was about to ask you the same question, pal,” answered the hero; “and, before I fight you for getting my nice neat camp all soaking wet, what were you doing in the river?”
“My name is Chin-debou Mau-giri,” said the man. “I was collecting drift-wood for which I use to create pieces of folk-art which I then sell at community events.”
“Tell me Chin-debou Mau-giri,” asked Ben, seizing his iron hammer, “what is your fighting style?”
Chin-debou Mau-giri stroked his gray moustache.
“You can call it the art of fighting without fighting. A good fight should be like a small play but, played seriously. When the opponent expands, I contract. When he contracts, I expand. And when the opportunity presents itself, I do not hit. It hits all by itself.”
“Swell.” said Ben, rushing upon him and striking with his hammer. But the man from the river was so muddy that the blow slid harmlessly off his chest, and as Ben stumbled and tried to regain his balance, the giant swung one of his long moustache hairs around him and tripped him up.
For a moment Ben was helpless, but remembering the power of the flame-spirit within him, he breathed fire into the man’s eyes and freed himself.
“Daaaamnnn!” moaned the Chin-debou Mau-giri, rubbing his eyes fiercely.
“I banish you from this place!” said Ben. He struck Chin-debou Mau-giri in the face, with his fist, the impact so intense that it was almost as if Ben had a giant fist made out of a red stone…a right hand of doom, if you will.
Chin-debou Mau-giri turned and hopped on his nearby Vespa scooter to flee. Ben, let loose a victory cry that was more victorious than any other victory cry ever before uttered. At last his quest was over. This was a good thing too as his hair was all stuck together from sweat and he was getting really thirsty.
Returning to the village of Senna, the crowd cheered with amazement as Ben strode about them, signing autographs and posing for high-five photo-opportunities with various denizens of the town.
“Hear me people of Senna!” said Ben to the assembled crowd. “I have saved your town from pretentious folk-artists, bandits, unwanted land-developers, and crocodiles. I also helped the man planting…those…plant…things. Surely now I have won a shower!” Applause roared through the air and Ben really wished he had a NJ Beast and knew how to play guitar so he could deliver a suitably awesome face-melting solo. So preoccupied was Ben by this dirth of outrageous guitars, that he scarcely noticed the arrival of a familiar looking van and a man clad in a checkered, double-knit suit. Ben’s eyes widened in amazement.
“Sweet Christmas! It’s the Publisher’s Clearing-House Sweepstakes!”
“That’s right, Mr. Parazooski!” said the man.
“That’s Parazynski.” said Ben.
“Whatever!” said the man, still smiling for the cameras. The man cleared his throat and started to address the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasure to announce that Ben hasn’t just won a shower, but also one million dollars! Let’s give this guy a big hand!”
Ben wept in joy (but did it in a way that was totally manly and not at all lame) and would donate most of his money to the village of Senna. He used the rest to charter a boat back to the sunny shores of the United States. He had been on his journey for almost a year since he had originally left JREZHS. He wondered what had happened since his absence. His voyage took longer than expected, as his boat capsized and he wound up spending a lot of time wandering around the floor of the ocean.
But that story is not now.
