Tales of Worldia

By Alistair Pan

A baby walks into a roadside bar, demanding a beer and a steak. Two drifters wait in a lab to get their heads swapped. A man goes on trial for making a spoon. Enter Worldia, where the absurd and impossible are everyday events. If you can imagine a Golden-Age-of-TV sitcom, a day at the circus, and that weird dream you had last night—all rolled up in a plastic burrito sprinkled with confetti—then you might catch a glimpse of what you’re in for.

These eleven madcap tales will drop you into a cartoon centrifuge and send you flying off on a magic bath mat into the unknown, as you encounter preteens with advertisements tattooed on their foreheads, vicious sweater-wearing dachshunds, and last call at Bogdan’s Belly Dance Bar.

Let Tales of Worldia enthrall you, as the one and only Alistair Pan, conjuror of apocalyptic whirlwinds, proposes that hope, compassion, and laughter can ultimately save the day—for Worldians, for all of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543905601

Book preview

Welcome to Worldia…

A baby walks into a roadside bar, demanding a beer and a steak. Two drifters wait in a lab to get their heads swapped. A man goes on trial for making a spoon. Enter Worldia, where the absurd and impossible are everyday events. If you can imagine a Golden-Age-of-TV sitcom, a day at the circus, and that weird dream you had last night—all rolled up in a plastic burrito sprinkled with confetti—then you might catch a glimpse of what you're in for.

These eleven madcap tales will drop you into a cartoon centrifuge and send you flying off on a magic bath mat into the unknown, as you encounter preteens with advertisements tattooed on their foreheads, vicious sweater-wearing dachshunds, and last call at Bogdan's Belly Dance Bar.

Let Tales of Worldia enthrall you, as the one and only Alistair Pan, conjuror of apocalyptic whirlwinds, proposes that hope, compassion, and laughter can ultimately save the day—for Worldians, for all of us.

Tales of Worldia

Alistair Pan

CONTENTS

Gerard the Fog Baby

The Swap

Spoon Man

The Getaway

Down the Path

The Royal Palates

Yohns and Thundara

Pioneer MacCaney

A Touch of Flavor

Things They Saw

The Importance of Family

Gerard the Fog Baby

I'm sitting in a bar, the kind of bar that's got BAR written on a sign outside the door. I'm on my sixth bottle of beer. It's a hot day, but it's probably always a hot day—the bar's in the middle of the desert, next to a highway that takes you from one dying town to another until you get to the sea. That's where I'm trying to get to: the sea. When I reach it, I'm going to sneak onto some ship and get away from everything—go to a place where I heard life is better.

There's no one here but me, the barkeep, and some old timer by the window. The old man's asleep with his head against the wall and his mouth hanging open. Once in a while, he lets out a whimper and adjusts his head. The barkeep's asleep too. I can barely see his face because of his mess of hair that looks like a gray mop and a big beard the color of dishwater. He's got his stool tilted back on two legs and he's resting against the shelf of hard liquor, arms folded over his beer gut, his beard covering him like a little blanket. Each time he breathes, the liquor bottles on the shelf rattle against each other a little.

Five empty beer bottles huddle together on the bar top watching me do to their friend like I did them. I figure I'll get something to eat after beer number six. Don't know if this place does any food—doesn't look like it—but next door's a little gas station with a little store with a little corner that's got some little plastic-wrapped meats.

I'm thinking about what kind of junk I'm going to eat, when the door opens. A girl and a little child walk into the bar. It's kind of hard to see them, because the room's got no lights and all you get is the desert glare coming in through the windows and the door whenever it opens.

When the door closes and they step in further, one of the windows lights them up enough that I see them nice and clear. Except I don't understand what I'm looking at. The girl could be ten years old, but no more than that. And the little kid? Well, I said I was on my sixth beer, but that don't explain what I'm seeing. He's about the size of a four-year-old—comes up to the girl's hip. But he looks like a baby. I mean he's got one of those big melon heads with barely any hair on it, and he's all chubby and bow-legged—and he ain't wearing anything except for a big, white diaper and blue running shoes. He's a too-big baby. He's too big to believe, but there he is.

The other thing freaking me out about the too-big baby is his eyes. They scan the room, checking out the old man and the barkeep, and then they come to me and stop. There's knowing in those eyes—the kind of knowing of an old man or a soldier or an ex-convict. I've seen that look—it's the look of someone sizing me up.

The girl leads him by the hand, and she sits him down at a table right behind my barstool. Well, I'm not happy about that. Now I can't see the too-big baby with the crocodile-lion-hawk eyes—can't keep my eye on him—not unless I turn around. Which I do.

The too-big baby's sitting in a chair with his arms crossed and his legs dangling, looking at me like he's trying to figure out what to do with me. The girl's standing next to him. She's looking at me too, but scared. She's got black hair and brown skin and freckles. She's wearing a blue dress. It's got a high collar, and it reaches down to the ankles of her brown boots. She's holding on to the skirt part with both her hands, trying to steady herself.

I'm not the talkative type, so I just keep staring at the girl and the too-big baby, and they keep staring back. I can't turn away, because I feel threatened—not by the girl, by the baby—but I can't say anything, because, like I said, I'm not the talkative type. Even if I was, I wouldn't know what to say to a girl and a giant baby who came out of the desert to stare at me in a bar.

The old man and the barkeep slept through this whole part, but they're both starting to stir like they're having a bad dream. The baby looks at them quick—reminds me of a cat that sees something move in a dark corner of a room it's sitting in. He waits for them to settle down, and then he looks back at me.

Excuse me, sir. It's the girl. She's talking to me. Me and the baby—we haven't eaten in two days. We're very hungry. She's trembling a little bit. She doesn't know if I'm trouble or not, but she's desperate. Her eyes are wide and innocent. I'm feeling a bit sorry for her now, and I'm thinking about what I can do to get her something to eat. I'm trying not to think about the baby, though. I'm trying not to even make eye contact with him.

The barkeep doesn't look like he'll be waking up on his own anytime soon, so I knock my beer bottle on the bar and call out to him. Hey, barkeep.

We don't have that, he says to nobody in particular, stumbling to his feet and almost knocking his stool over. He looks at me like he doesn't remember me coming in, and looks at the girl, but he doesn't see the too-big baby sitting in the chair just yet.

Hey, barkeep, I say. You got food?

I could get my wife to cook you up something, maybe, he says. How much money you got?

Twenty thalers.

He nods. Think she just did some shopping.

I look at the girl.

Could I have bread with butter and sugar on it and eggs and juice? she says.

The barkeep nods.

And I'll take a steak if you got it, fried up—and a beer. It's the baby. He's got a man's voice, deeper than mine.

What the— I hear the barkeep say. But I'm not looking at the barkeep, I'm looking where I know he's looking: at the giant baby that just ordered a steak and a beer.

You—you—you want a steak? the barkeep asks. I can hear his voice shaking.

And a beer, the baby says.

Okay, the barkeep says. He's heading to a door at the back of the bar, but he's walking kind of sideways and staring at the baby with eyes as big as two planets. He breaks into a run out the back of the bar, and I can see him through the window running—the best a fat man can—to a small house not far up a small hill just behind the bar.

Thank you, sir, I hear the girl say. I turn to look at her, and she's trying to put a smile on, but she's shy. My name is Belinda. She curtsies. And this is Gerard, she says pointing to the too-big baby. The baby nods at me.

I introduce myself. I'm Toran.

The old man by the window starts to snore a bit but then stops and says something in his sleep about a glass of milk.

Me, the girl Belinda, and the too-big baby Gerard—we sit there not saying anything until the barkeep comes back with the food. He's carrying one tray, and his wife's right behind him carrying another. She looks just like her husband, except she doesn't have a big, bushy beard. She hasn't seen Gerard yet, but her eyes are already bugging out as she follows her husband into the bar, because he's told her about him. Now she sees him and her eyes get bigger than they already were, and her mouth starts to drop open, but she clamps it shut and keeps her eyes down on the tray as she's setting it on the table.

Bread with butter and sugar, heap of scrambled eggs, and a glass of kinda-orange juice, the barkeep says putting the tray down in front of Belinda. He points to the other tray and clears his throat, Steak for the—I'll get the beer now. He goes to the bar to get a beer and his wife follows him. She stays at the bar and pretends to polish things as he brings the baby a cold beer. I give him twenty thalers, and he gives me five back. The whole time, he's staring at Gerard.

So am I. So's his wife—because none of us ever saw a baby chug a beer before. He's got his chubby little dimpled hands wrapped around the bottle, and Belinda's helping him tip it up. He's making gurgling, sucking, gulping sounds, and he's dribbling beer and saliva down his fat chin. He drinks almost half the beer before the girl takes the bottle away, and he lets out a belch so loud I think I feel it.

Now he tucks into his food. The girl can't eat yet, because she needs to help him cut up his steak, his fingers being too fat and stubby to grab hold of the fork and knife. He's telling her what to do while she's feeding him: That one—no, that one—give me the big piece…. Put some sauce on that one. He's swallowing down that steak as fast as she can put the pieces in his mouth, and he's chasing it all down with his beer. After it's all gone, he says, Oh, that was good, and he wipes his mouth with his napkin like a little man.

We're all just staring, except for Belinda who's getting to eat her meal now (and the old man who's been asleep the whole time, who's starting back on his snoring). The barkeep's wife is still moving her hand around with the rag in it, pretending like she's polishing something, but all she's polishing is the air in front of her.

Gerard slaps his little belly and he gives us a smile—nothing too friendly, but it also looks odd because he's got a full set of teeth. What's the matter? he says, You never seen— He cuts off the rest of what he's going to say when the door to the bar opens.

Three people walk in and shut the door behind them. The one in front's a woman. She looks like somebody's auntie or a librarian or the lady in charge of the kitchen at a church mission. That's until you get to her eyes. She's got the same eyes as Gerard the too-big baby—the kind of eyes of something that's looking to maybe eat you, except hers are meaner. And she's got this scar running down the left side of her face. She's wearing a brown cardigan, brown skirt, brown stockings, and brown patent leather platform shoes. Ms. Brown.

The two behind Ms. Brown look like they're supposed to be twins, but I don't know. They've got the same bowl-cut, gold-colored hair, and these long boney-looking faces that look just the same as one another, and the same little slit eyes. They're about the same height, and they're wearing the same thing: black body suits made to look like tuxedos. The Tuxedo Twins. But the thing of it is one of them is as wide as the front of a truck, with muscles the size of small tree trunks, and the other one is so thin he looks like a big snake standing straight up on its tail.

I don't get much of a chance to marvel at all the sights I've seen today that I ain't ever seen before, because they get right into talking.

Ms. Brown laughs. It's ugly-sounding—like those witches in those old movies. A bar, Gerard? she says, and she's laughing it up while talking, and the scar on her face dances with the motion of it. A bar three days down the road? That's the best you can do?

Gerard's staring her down like he's going to do her a great mischief. He's still sitting, but I see he's not on his diapered butt now—he's got his feet under him in a squat. Looks to me like it's so he can move quick if he has to. If I wasn't a little nervous before, I am now. And the barkeep and his wife—they're behind the bar looking like trapped mice. The old man by the window, fast asleep—if he wasn't snoring, he could be took for dead.

It's them little baby legs of his, Ms. Brown, Standing Snake says to her, and he's smiling with these metal teeth the color of his hair. Did he just call her Ms. Brown?

His buddy with the same face, or brother or whatever he is, Like A Truck, has got gold teeth too. He's making cracking sounds with his knuckles.

Come on, Gerard, Ms. Brown says. We're going home.

Gerard doesn't budge.

Like A Truck steps forward. He's angry like a maniac, smiling a second ago, breathing fire all of a sudden. Get up, you little—

Ms. Brown holds up her hand and Like A Truck stops in his tracks. No, no, she says. No violence… not yet. Gerard's reasonable, aren't you, son?

Like A Truck steps back, and Ms. Brown gives Gerard a big smile, a real friendly one that makes her look even more dangerous. She switches up the creepy smile with a face like she's been done wrong, and she's shaking her head. Gerard, she says. Gerard, Gerard, Gerard.

Gerard's eyes are like two shivs.

What made you think you could just run out on us like that? Maydr and Paydr are—let's just say they're disappointed.

Standing Snake and Like A Truck are smiling. They've seen something like this before.

Ms. Brown's got her attention on Belinda now. She's looking her up and down, and I can tell the girl's interesting to her. Who's your little friend, Gerard?

No one that concerns you, Gerard says.

She have any talents? Honey, you do any tricks? You're welcome to come back with us. Ms. Brown's thinking it over. Now she's nodding. Mm-hmm, that's what's going to happen. She speaks over her shoulder to the Tuxedo Twins. The girl's coming with us too. Maydr and Paydr can decide on her.

I just told you she does not concern you, Gerard says. There's acid dripping off each word. Standing Snake and Like A Truck stiffen up, and they move forward a little, but they stay behind their boss. They're waiting for her signal.

She gives it to them. Boys? she says.

They fan out, Standing Snake to the left, Like A Truck to the right. Their eyes are on Gerard.

The too-big baby squats low on his haunches. He's like a coiled spring. I'm thinking about my weapon strapped to my side, under my clothes.

The door opens, and everybody freezes.

Seven people enter the bar: a white-haired man, who looks like a cross between a professor and an accountant (Professor Balance-Sheet) and six men—I think they're men—dressed from head to toe in white biohazard gear that makes them look like beekeepers. The Beekeepers—they're carrying these things that look like riot shields made of paper.

The barkeep and his wife are now just two pairs of eyes with hair peeping over the bar top from behind. The old man—still asleep, would you believe?

Ms. Brown's looking confused. Who are you? she says to Professor Balance-Sheet.

He pulls his eyeglasses low on his nose and has a look at Ms. Brown and her crew over the top of them. No, who are you?

Just a woman about to leave a bar, Ms. Brown says. Come on, boys, she says. You too, Gerard.

Gerard's not looking at her. He's watching Professor Balance-Sheet, who's now looking at him.

No, Gerard's coming with us, Professor Balance-Sheet says.

Ms. Brown looks surprised he knows the too-big baby. She turns to him and smiles, like baring fangs. Gerard is in the employ of Maydr & Paydr's Flying Carnival.

You have a flying carnival? he says.

It's just the name, Ms. Brown says. It doesn't fly.

Professor Balance-Sheet looks like he's thinking this over.

Come on, Gerard, Ms. Brown says. She gives the Tuxedo Twins a look, and they start moving in on Gerard.

Stop right there, Professor Balance-Sheet says. He says it like he's the boss of all of them—like he's the boss of all of Worldia. Standing Snake and Like A Truck listen to him—they stop. You people have no idea what your situation is right now.

Ms. Brown steps forward. She's not doing that tough smiling thing now, she just looks mad. Here's the situation, old man. Little Gerard here is Gerard the Fog Baby. People pay a lot of money to get the crap scared out of them in our haunted house by the big vampire baby who comes at you out of the fog with his bloody razor teeth. Fog Baby draws in more revenue than anything at the carnival except the hoochie coochie girls. But Little Gerard here decided he was going to skip out on his contract, after all my bosses did for him. And trust me, nobody screws over Maydr and/or Paydr. So we're bringing him back to be dealt with. She turns to Gerard, And they will deal with you, I promise you that.

That's a promise you won't be able to keep, Professor Balance-Sheet says. Gerard the Fog Baby has some more pressing business to tend to, don't you, young man?

Hey—Toran. It's Gerard, speaking to me.

Yah? I say. My own voice sounds too quiet, like I forgot how to speak.

Get the girl and the barkeep and Mrs. Barkeep and the old man over there, and take them out of this place. Gerard's talking to me, but his eyes are going from the professor to Brown and back. Take them down the road—keep going till you get to the next town.

Don't move, Ms. Brown says to me. I didn't see it happen, but the Tuxedo Twins are holding weapons in their hands. Standing Snake's got a gun, and Like A Truck's holding something—I don't know what it is—looks like a metal rod, but the way he's pointing it at me, I'm guessing it does something bad to whoever it's pointing at. I stay still.

Gerard, don't hurt anyone, Professor Balance-Sheet says. He sounds real tense. His Beekeepers are holding up their paper shields a little higher, but they're waiting for his order.

Ms. Brown lets out a snort, but she's also looking a bit nervous now. How's this overgrown baby going to hurt anyone?

Ms. Brown, Professor Balance-Sheet says, if you're not stupid, then you must have guessed, from the way my men are dressed, that your 'Fog Baby' might be something more than just one of your carnival freaks.

Huh? she says.

Young Gerard is a weapon, he says, a powerful one.

Ridiculous, Ms. Brown says, but her eyes say that she doesn't think it's so ridiculous.

He's a cybernetic Directed Energy Weapon, and he's—he's malfunctional.

Gerard laughs. It's the kind of sound you expect to hear coming from a guy who chops down trees for a living or drives a big truck. That's what you call it? 'Malfunctional?' It's called free will. I'm a man, not a machine.

Gerard, the day you came to us and gave yourself over to our program, you stopped being just a man—you gave up your right to free will, Professor Balance-Sheet says.

Gerard looks angry. You lied, he says. I came to you looking for help. I was a dwarf asking to be made a regular size man. He points to himself. What the hell is this?

The deal, Gerard, was that you help us first, then we help you. For Stranarro, son. For your country.

Gerard smirks. That's why I left my country. Any country that thinks it needs a walking pulse bomb that looks like a baby is in more trouble than it can get out of. But you know what, Doc? I know something you don't know I know. Your crazy experiment is off the books. They don't know about your cyborg DEW babies, do they? What else do your bosses not know about you?

Professor Balance-Sheet looks like he just got smacked in the face. He goes all red. That's a ridiculous claim, he says. His voice is real low.

Do they even know you're romping around outside your jurisdiction with your little spacesuit dance troop? Gerard says. Let's call up headquarters and see what they have to say. If they back you up, then I'll come with you peacefully.

Whoa! Ms. Brown says. She yells it. Her face is red too. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the old man by the window shift to put his head down on the table and continue with his nap. Ms. Brown points to her men with their weapons on us. We're still here, you know. And we're the ones holding guns, not y'all, so you're going to do what we say. Gerard, you're coming back with us to Maydr and Paydr. The girl too. Now the both of you start moving or this starts getting tragic— she points at Belinda, beginning with her.

Then something happens. I can't explain it, but it's Gerard. He kind of cocks his head or twitches it or something, and he blinks. And I see something. It's almost like the air in front of him has turned into a ball of liquid, but you almost can't see it. And then it shoots like a stream right into the Tuxedo Twins. It happens faster than I can think about it. Somebody screams—I think it's the barkeep's wife. Standing Snake drops on his face like someone