Rocket Randy

By Cody Turner

Not since Mark Twain, WIlliam Shakespeare and Socrates produced their iconic works, has there been a piece of writing as salient as Rocket Randy. Rocket Randy is the remarkable story of a boy that becomes a man that, based on the reader's point of view, may or may not have underwent a transformation that saw him become a rocket ship. It is a groundbreaking book that is sure to revolutionize the world in many ways. The young and exceptional rocket ship (or man, based on your point of view, of course) carries himself with such a natural charisma, and is such a talented and smooth operator, it's impossible not to fall in love with him. Even moons and planets seem to not be exempt from his singular charm. Through his mastering of small talk and gestures, he befriends everyone he meets, and effortlessly commands his environment. Using his very unique mind, he thoroughly watches the television and gains information few could ever dream of absorbing, much less retaining. The government notices his special qualities and contacts the young rocket ship (or man) and is intent on training him for space travel. He eventually finds himself rocketing toward Ganymede. Upon arrival, he leads nine astronauts on a highly successful mission and even ends up directly communicating with Ganymede herself, who seems to have an intense fondness for our hero. Rocket Randy leaves an outsized mark on history. Science Fiction and Science Reality lovers alike will fall head over heels for Rocket Randy. Absurdist Fiction and Absurdist Reality lovers will be unable to prevent themselves from becoming wholly engrossed in the story of the rocket ship (or man, based on your point of view, of course). Lovers of the Fantasy Genre as well as the Known Known Genre will find a home in the pages of Rocket Randy. Romance lovers and Indifference lovers will also ultimately end up feuding over who gets to be with Rocket Randy. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cody Turner
• Release date: Jun 19, 2020
• ISBN: 9781386313359

Cody Turner

Hello everyone. I am the author of Rocket Randy. I often eat Mini Wheats for breakfast and I like to spend my free time playing Fun Run 2 on my telephone. 

Book preview

Randy’s Big Introduction

Randy's life started out like any other man’s life, I suppose. I don't want to go into too much detail on the birthing process because I consider this to be a child-friendly book and the kids don’t want to hear about that nasty nonsense, folks! But Randy was born like any other boy, birthed from the woman's uterus, I believe it's called. Keep in mind, at this point his name wasn't Randy; it was Robert. But his parents soon realized he was actually more of a Randy. It’s hard to explain, and you’ll see the evidence as things progress, but his overall demeanor put him much more firmly in the Randy camp than the Robert camp. I guess of all the names, Randy does seem to go best with the moniker Rocket. His parents were named Williamsburg and Marcy.

His father seemed to believe he was a city. With Williamsburg, however, there was obviously clear truth to his belief. He would always start off conversations with the neighbors about Randy by telling them in his most thematic tone, A city birthed a boy. They would ask him what he meant and he would smirk at them and sit on a public bench that was an extension of himself. I should drop this subject now though, I suppose, as the last thing I need is trouble from a man who is actually a city. And I only even referred to him as a man because at this point in history, folks, and it’s not necessarily due to ignorance, people are wholly unable to comprehend the concept of a city walking and talking. People think cities are just meant to have bright lights. So it was only for the good of the reader, and certainly at my own peril, that I temporarily referred to Williamsburg as a man.

His mom, Marcy, never lost sight of how lucky she was to be married to a city. Overall, I’d say she was a good mom to Randy. She gave him food and something to drink every single day. She’d even share her beloved blackberries with him, which she had a special affinity for because they were the same color as her hair. She’d often have headshots taken of herself beside a bowl of blackberries and recount with great pride the numerous people, according to her at least, that told her they couldn’t tell the difference between where the blackberries ended and her hair began. It was one of life’s greatest confidence boosters for her: her hair looking so similar in color to a blackberry.  It was practically the only fruit she ate other than the apple slices in her fast food meals, but perhaps it contributed somewhat to her very trim build. Perhaps her petite figure owed its shape to those yoga videos she watched, but I’d say it was more genetics than anything. Yoga once or twice a month probably doesn’t have much physical effect. But listen, folks, the last thing I want to do is disenfranchise the yoga crowd, which I believe will be a huge part of this book’s audience, so I will say I have not extensively studied the health effects of yoga and mean no ill will toward yoga practitioners. I’ve done the thing where you put your foot flat on the inside of your leg beside your knee and put your hands flat together above your head, so you could certainly say I’m a friend to yoga. Randy’s mom was a lady who firmly instilled in Randy that he could be anything he wanted.

She would sometimes tell him, You can be anything you want.

Randy always had a look in his eye that said, I can be anything I want.  

Chapter One: Randy’s Early Years (Pre-Rocket)

As I previously said, Randy was born like any other man. His parents got together and did unspeakable things that I will not go into in this book. If you want to hear about all of that, and it’s not particularly something I like going into, as I am an anti-vulgarity advocate, but I do it for the people that want to know every detail about Randy’s life starting with the conception, you’ll have to listen to my NC-17 radio program entitled An All-Encompassing Analysis of the Birth of Randy City.

Randy cried a lot in his first two years. As I listened in to the City household with my omnipresent narrator powers, I thought to myself, Wow, this Randy is a big, fat baby who needs to get a clue! But I was later informed about the nature of babies. I guess, on the whole, you could say Randy was a peculiar fellow. But I’m sure if a microscope was taken to anyone’s life, peculiarity would be a common denominator.

At three years old, when most toddlers would be playing with Matchboxes, Randy was playing with fire. He took cues from Williamsburg. His father worked for the external city as a fire investigator and had insular knowledge about the nature of fire. His work put him in close contact with many government officials, both local and otherwise, much to the chagrin of some. Some of the police had grown exasperated with the phone calls about incessant smokestacks emanating from the Citys’ yard. Though he was viewed as an annoyance to a degree by some police and other government officials, he was respected due to his unique realm of knowledge. Even those outside of the external city he resided in periodically contacted him seeking his unique expertise. Some consulted him for advice on fire prevention, while some consulted him for advice on how to most expeditiously burn down a structure. He was sort of a necessary, and even lovable, nuisance. Though I wouldn’t use the word nuisance to refer to him myself. The government did keep tabs on him due to his propensity for starting fires to ensure things never got too out of hand. And part of their surveillance was simply to gain a better understanding of his advanced fire-starting methods and the psychology of the man who had become so well versed in the art of flames. I believe there were even some government officials that were practically solely employed to keep an eye on the old City.

Williamsburg would always start large fires on his property that would get sort of out of hand and then survey the land and complain about the financial cost to himself and chart out projections of how long his recovery would take. He watched documentaries on the Great Chicago Fires and would film himself on his freshly burnt property speaking about what he dubbed the Great Williamsburg Fires. Randy was much more interested in these fires than he was the great brand of toy cars. The flames seemed to intrigue the young man. He could roast two or three marshmallows at a time, which I believe takes a great deal of talent. Oftentimes, the marshmallow roasting was done at night. Marcy sometimes remarked about the moon being brighter when Randy was outside. And that remark seemed to have meaning beyond mere puffery or sentimentality. Randy loved the sky and believed his mom’s words to be true in a literal sense and beyond, though at this point he was likely too young to fully recognize or appreciate the abstract connotations. With Randy adeptly roasting marshmallows over those entrancing flames under the Randy presence-inspired brighter moon, nighttime and its Randy presence-inspired brighter sky seemed altogether mystical.  As the years progressed, Randy showed no significant interest in becoming an infamous arsonist, as many so-called experts I consulted for a psychological profile (which was rather superfluous in the first place, and only sought to make the account of Randy’s progression through the early stages of his life as thorough as possible) in the making of this book all but ensured me he would. On Randy’s fourth birthday he actually requested there be no candles on his cake. 

Randy's first day of school soon arrived. He was a proud kindergartner. In a striking display of confidence, he initially wanted to wear two bookbags to school on the first day. But eventually his parents convinced him to settle for one. I believe they searched the internet for images of cool kids with bookbags and showed Randy a bunch of kids with sunglasses on that all wore only one bookbag.

Randy City! the teacher called as she came to Randy.

Large and in charge! Randy said proudly.

A simple here would suffice, young man! she said in a shrill and severe voice. Deep down, however, I'm sure she was impressed with this young man of only five years old conducting himself this way. Randy smiled and looked straight through her. He didn’t know what suffice meant anyway.

After roll call, Mrs. Winkler stated with all the relish of a Drill Sergeant, I know you're used to having your every whim catered to by your mommy and daddy and your pre-K teachers! But you're in kindergarten now, kids! Time to get tough! Time to learn a little about the real world now! I am sick and tired of young punks thinking they rule the world! She smiled. Just joshing, kids!

The kids did not laugh or talk for much of the day. In fact, if I do recall correctly, one child in particular held a grudge against that teacher for that comment for the rest of his life, for many years drawing pictures of the teacher with Xs over her eyes. I think that’s a fine way to vent frustration.

Soon it was the sacred time of the day for the elementary school children. As they walked in line toward the outside, Randy looked at one of his classmates. He was a young man, only five years old, keep in mind, named Joey. His head was large and shaped a little like a pickle jar. He wore a nice striped shirt that I’m sure impressed his teachers. His shoes were striped as well, which I believe immediately revoked any fashion points he had earned with the striped shirt. I don’t know if it was a combination of confidence and ignorance or a combination of confidence and extreme intelligence, but five-year-old Randy spoke to the kid with a social intellect far beyond his years.

I’m Randy and I’m large and in charge! Joey stood wide-eyed and looked perplexed. The corners of his mouth ticked slightly upward, but never fully committed to a smile. The conglomerate of children emerged outside. With eyes squinted, Randy happily walked toward the track. In fact, he was almost marching, folks. I believe all children love running on the track at that age. Perhaps my view is clouded because of my own athletic prowess. I was one of the fastest kids in the class. I don’t mean to brag, faithful readers, but back in my prime I could run for several minutes without stopping. Randy ran the required laps making sounds as he went. Some might say he was attempting to imitate the sounds of a rocket, but I’d say it could just as easily have been a racecar or an airplane.

How’d it go? Randy’s mom asked shortly after Randy got into the car.

Good.

Did you learn anything?

No. Can we get something to eat? Randy was already well versed in the drawing of pictures and the taking of naps. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to learn, folks. It was simply that he was unlike the other kindergartners that viewed drawing pictures and napping as unattainable and mysterious acts. The other kids had to focus entire cortexes, until their brains were sweating and tired, to try to ascertain the tiniest idea of how to hold the crayon. And they wanted nothing more than to sleep after the gargantuan mental effort they had to muster to try to grasp even the loosest command of the crayon technique, but then they just couldn’t figure out how to lie down on the mat correctly. This was simply not the case for Randy. He knew how to hold a crayon and how to lie on a mat. It was elementary to him. So hopefully that sort of explains to you why he answered the way he did. Keep in mind, a furious That’s not the way you hold it! is one of the most common remarks you hear from a kindergarten teacher, folks.

Sure. I’ve been dying for some of those stolen burgers!

Marcy loved McDonald’s more than just about anything else in the world. She often dreamt of Ronald McDonald. She celebrated her sixteenth birthday there. Her parents (and I don’t mean to travel too far back into ancestral lineage; that will perhaps be explored in a future book) didn’t think that was too much of a Sweet Sixteen. In a sort of reversal of the traditional parent-child roles regarding Sweet Sixteens, they desired a more luxurious birthday, but they understood her reasons nonetheless. When she was twelve years old, an employee at McDonald’s told her she was a good lady. For whatever reason, those words stuck with her. She had a perpetually unquenched fascination with the Hamburglar. Marcy thought he was the cutest burger thief in the entire world. He was practically always caught, readers, but perhaps the forbidden aspect of an at-one-point-stolen burger enhanced the taste for Marcy, similar to the way shoplifting gives an adrenaline rush to some ladies. When the Hamburglar first came on the scene, I thought he would have been arrested pretty quickly. A large company like McDonald’s should easily be able to have someone that steals their merchandise prosecuted, I believed. I was astonished when McDonald’s began using him in advertisements. But humans and their social structures are complex, so I accept it. And McDonald’s, of course, is a brilliant company that engages in ingenious marketing, and I recommend everyone reading this book right now go and purchase a meal. I’ve dreamt of shaking Ronald McDonald’s hand myself and then never washing that hand again. Today they were just going to go through the drive-thru.

Look, Randy. Listen, this is important. See that uh, that uh drive-thru speaker there? What’s the technical name for that? I’m not sure. But the point is: you won’t see one that large at other fast food places. Look at the smooth edges. That’s how you make a drive-thru speaker. That’s how you keep the customers coming: smooth-edged drive-thru speakers. Marcy spoke with clear authority on this treasured subject. Randy studied it pretty well as they ordered. He reckoned a sharp-edged one would look good too.

I think it’d be cool if one had spikes on it, mom!

Randy, Randy, Randy. You don’t understand the first thing about fast food aesthetics.

She shook her head and looked as ashamed as you can possibly look at a five-year-old. Randy smiled, unfazed.

Throughout his progression in elementary school, Randy continually exhibited an unmitigated upbeat attitude. He never met a teacher that intimidated him, never had any particular trouble with another student. At least no bad relationship that affected him negatively in any way. His grades were good. Yes, it could be said the future looked bright for young Randy. Some might even say . . .  as bright as the stars . . . Haha.

After elementary school was over and done with, Randy decided it was time to go to middle school. Middle school is grades six through eight in case you are unclear, folks. It’s a transition period between elementary and high school that can make or break a man. You either glide into high school as a strong and capable fourteen-year-old man, or you stumble in as a shell of your former elementary self. I’ve seen many young men recede into nothingness and live lives of squalor due to bad middle school experiences. Randy woke up ready and willing for all middle school had to throw at him. He had watched some TV shows that showed some big, fat nerd having a bad time, but he knew he wasn’t a big, fat nerd. And keep in mind, readers, I’m only using the preferred terminology of the TV shows; that unseemly nerd talk does not belong to me. He woke up on his own that day, walked into the kitchen. The wooden floor comfortably creaked. He saw his dad with a bite of burnt toast in his mouth.

Good morning, son. Put some toast in the toaster there and eat yourself some toast.

Certainly, sir!

Randy walked over to the open pack on the counter and reached in. He carefully avoided the end piece and, through what I would refer to as very smooth maneuvering, managed to get out two fine-looking pieces of bread incredibly quickly. This was a capable eleven-year-old young man. He put it in the toaster without missing a beat. I’m sure Williamsburg was impressed, but he was not a city who easily expressed admiration. Especially when it came to handling toast, which was near and dear to the old City’s heart.

Are you ready for your first day of middle school?

Certainly, sir!

It’ll be tougher than elementary, but I’m sure you can handle it. Are you worried?

No, not really.

I can’t even remember a time when Randy showed even a trace of worry. As he and his dad crunched their toast simultaneously, the parallels between the two grew increasingly apparent.

They got into the car to begin the drive to middle school.

You have your seatbelt on, Rob— Randy? The clicking sound said he did now, folks. Williamsburg turned the radio on. Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire was on. Williamsburg sung along, using his one hand that was off the steering wheel to draw a ring of fire in the air. He often reminisced about the power of the actual rings of fire he created and felt Johnny Cash had either knowingly or unknowingly created that song just for his episodes of righteous arson. The song ended and the deejays talked in excited tones about mundane observations and topics. Randy looked out the window.

Do you like that song, son?

Yeah, it’s a good song.

It takes a real man to make songs like that. Randy believed those words to be true.

Merle Haggard’s Big City came on. Actually, I believe it was Berle Raggard’s Busy, Stupid City. Berle changed his original name, Leonardon Crumbleton, to Berle Raggard, both to pay homage to the legendary Mr. Haggard, and to escape the atrocious former. His parents had loved Leonardo da Vinci, but felt it would be uncouth to copy his first name outright. Berle was an avid gamer. In a fortuitous case of happenstance, he actually fell in love with country music after looking up a song a famous country artist happened to spam in the chat of an online game. His altered last name, while paying a proper amount of flattery to Mr. Haggard, also took into account the last name of the country music artist with whom fate had arranged a shared gaming experience. Okay, readers, let’s return to the radio in the car. Usually, Williamsburg would catch and stop the song as soon as it began, before that poisonous first line could be uttered. But today, talking to his son about the credentials of Mr. Cash, it slipped his mind that the song had come on and he’d even missed the first word, but what he heard was enough.

. . .  grown sick and tired of this busy, stupid city, Berle began.

He immediately turned off the radio and muttered under his breath.

With tears welling up in his eyes, he stated emphatically, Well, I’ve grown sick and tired of you, you busy, stupid bastard! Keep in mind, readers, Williamsburg’s sentiments here do not reflect my own, as I am a big fan of both Merle Haggard and Berle Raggard myself, and encourage everyone to purchase their music.

Why does Berle hate you so much, dad? Randy asked, a peculiar smile on his face.

Williamsburg answered defiantly, Son, I guess every man needs a nemesis.

They arrived at the middle school. It was predominantly made of brick and medium sized. It was your average, run-of-the-mill, old middle school. The name of the middle school was The Old Middle School, I believe. Not the name I would have chosen, but I’m not the man in charge of naming middle schools. No matter how much I wish I was. In fact, it used to be my dream to name middle schools, but it never came to fruition and I tossed it aside.

Randy got out of the car. His dad drove away, still red in the face from Berle’s slap. Randy stepped his first step on the middle school sidewalk. He walked through the middle school doors and breathed in the middle school air.  He gave a slight wave to many of the kids he passed as he walked toward his first class. Randy knew that with the right type of wave he could make friends instantly. He’d learned it long ago as he waved at the mailman and was practically always rewarded with mail. His body suffered many a bruise from the rewards of the newspaper boy. Like a dog programmed to perform certain actions for a treat, Randy fashioned a perfect wave that he was mighty proud of. I’ve watched him wave, folks, and if charisma were ever embodied, it lied in the hands of Randy as he waved.

Randy City.

Large and in charge!

Mr. Whiskers smiled.

I like it. That’s how you let the class know you’re here.

Mr. Whiskers was the prototypical cool-o-rooni, as the kids say, teacher. He never wore the same sweater and always had a yo-yo in close proximity. Randy liked Mr. Whiskers. He knew he was destined for middle school success from that very first roll call.

As the bell rang and Randy was walking to his second class, he noticed a group of boys on the outskirts of the hall.

Hello there, fellows. The name is Randy. How do you do?

The group of boys with long hair and skateboards just looked at him.

Why are you talking like that? the alpha male of the group, the boy with the longest hair and the longest skateboard, I believe his name was Rip Crosby, questioned Randy.

Randy chuckled. The name is Randy. How do you do?

Rip Crosby and the other boys began to laugh. Randy walked away satisfied he had just made four new friends.

The day was a breeze for young Randy. His classes went well and he had made no enemies he was aware of. I believe the rapper Eminem has a quote that says something to the effect of: If you’ve made enemies, that’s good, it means you stood up for something. Or at least many people attribute it to him. Some say it was said by Winston Churchill, but that attribution seems to have been thoroughly debunked. But either way, Eminem has not come out and vigorously denied that he is the progenitor of the quote. I spoke with Randy some days ago about that quote and he thought it was absolute hogwash. Randy had liked the rapper Eminem until he found out about that quote; now he wants nothing to do with the rapper Eminem. Even if he didn’t actually say the