A Duck's Life

A Duck’s Tale: Chapter 2

Chapter 1 available here.

—-

 Feathers.

Lights skimming, seen only through closed eyelids, like sunlight on a bright Summer morning.

Shrieks in a tongue that I did not understand.

And then… burning. A pain as bright as the sun, at the top of my spine, just where my hair line ended.

My consciousness coalesced from the void, an array of bubbles rising through a black lake, slowly ebbing their way to the shimmering lights above the surface.

“What… what… have you done to me?”

My eyes had not yet opened fully. The room, if it was a room, appeared to be dimly lit. I was lost in a kaleidoscope.

“It was easier this way, and you have my most sincere apologies for the pain.” The voice was male, calming and self-assured. I had no idea who he was.

“Where am I?”

“In the mansions still. Underground. We have been busy.”

“Why? What are you doing?”

The kaleidoscope began to come into focus. I could see silhouettes only, dancing ghosts in the room around me. The voice’s owner began to pace around the room.

“The ducks… they are unhappy. There may well be violence on the way. Rules have been broken. The criminals must be punished.”

“But… who are you? Just please tell me, what is going on?”

“You know me. You have written a great deal about me.”

“I honestly have never heard your voice before. I can’t focus my eyes yet, so can’t see you.”

“My mistake. Then it is my honour to speak to you personally for the first time. I am Alfred.”

“I must still be drugged, “ I replied. “I know that I can’t talk to Alfred the Duck. So you can’t be him. You know why? Because he’s a duck, that’s why. And humans and ducks aren’t exactly renowned for their abilities to converse with one another. Now, quit messing me around and tell me who you are!”

Despite the bleary eyes and foggy mind, my anger was rising.

“Ah,” said the Alfred Pretender. “But have you never wondered why my assistants and attendants could relay messages between you and me? And why they could translate for me?”

“Honestly,” I replied, “it’s clearly an act. Alfred the Duck is just a brand for selling books, CDs and music. Oh, and toy Alfreds. The Alfred the Duck whom I have apparently interviewed in the past could have died and been eaten in some Chinese restaurant for all I know. He or she could have been replaced with some other duck and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference. It’s not like I can tell two ducks apart. I followed the Alfred character as it was such an interesting meme, you know, a duck, making out like it’s a rock star. It was just a bit of fun. People can’t talk to ducks.”

“Yes they can, and you’re doing it now. I’m the original Alfred. It’s always been me.”

“Bullshit. Let me out of here. I want the police here. Now.”

“Please, you must understand me, just wait until your head clears. The operation is always quite a shock…”

“Operation! What the hell have you done to me?” I began to stand, still whirling around in a room of shadows and borderless silhouettes. The burning sensation at the top of my spine grew in intensity. I swear I could smell my own boiling flesh.

“It was necessary…an implant…” the voice was flustered, afraid, “…to help you understand me. You who have reached out to me when the media despised me. You – who followed me and wanted to write a true story…”

I began to stumble forward, towards what I thought was a door. I kicked into some equipment on the floor on my journey. “I didn’t reach out to you, it was all an act. A joke! My editor told me to take the angle of pretending the Alfred the Duck character was real. I’ve always had a flair for the creative. That, plus a natural affinity for parody. It was the perfect mix. Don’t mess me about by pretending that whatever sick game this is actually involves me talking to a duck! I mean, for crying out loud. You’ve gone too far. Let me go.”

“..but please, if you just…” his voice was strained.

“Let me go. Get me out of this building.”

“…just five minutes…”

I pushed by a figure nearby. The figure did not resist me. “Let me go. Get me out!!”

The Alfred Pretender begged with me all the way to the gates of the mansions. I limped into my car and just drove, still in a haze of poor vision, which had recovered just enough for me to drive a safe distance away, reaching a nearby park. I half-crashed my car into a fence surrounding the park, stopped the car, and just sat.

And waited.

And thought.

A Duck’s Tale ::: Chapter 1 - A New Arrival

At about 3am this morning, I received an email from Alfred. Short and to the point as always, it simply read, “I am certain you are ready to hear what I have to say. Drop by before sunrise if I am correct.” Admittedly, I hadn’t gone to bed yet, but was thinking about doing so, but Alfred’s email was so tantalising. What would he be willing to tell me? Why the sudden email, which, by most people’s standards, was very early in the morning, but for me, was about the middle of the night?

I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep with such questions hanging over me, and would kick myself if I missed out on a golden and rare opportunity to meet Alfred, especially considering his most recent scandals in the press. After downing several cups of coffee with four sizable lumps of sugar in each, I took a quick shower and shave and headed off to Alfred’s mansion.

In a hazy whirl of caffeine and sleep deprivation, I drove the half hour or so to his mansion. It was the depths of the night, and, still in early Spring, the air was as cold as it would have been in winter, with the exception that we were having an unusually high level of humidity. It was like driving through a darkened swimming pool. My skin felt as though I were sweating, but not enough to warrant trying to wipe it off my face.

The roads were deserted save for a few straggling drunks and those little trucks that clean the leaves from the gutters so I had a relatively easy journey. When I neared Alfred’s mansion on top of Highbury Hill, sat there like a king’s throne atop a mound of other, lesser mansions, I was surprised to see it in such a hubbub of activity. The forty or fifty elegant windows that looked out from the front of the mansion were lit up like a beacon in the dark, cold night. All other windows on the Hill were dark. As I neared the mansion, I saw that, not only was there apparent activity inside the mansion, but outside as well: five JCB diggers with orange hazard lights swirling colour into the night, were all busy digging a trench in the front gardens of the mansion.

What on earth was going on? I began to be unsurprised by the rumours of complaints made by the residents of Highbury Hill and Alfred’s activity. The Neighbourhood Watch, it was said, had mounted a series of vociferous complaints about Alfred to the local council. Unfortunately for them, Alfred had the local council members in his pocket, and, after buying each of the council members a new car, he was allowed to go about his curious activities, both at night and during the day. The nearby residents were then left with the option of selling their homes and moving on, but, given that Alfred’s activities and un-neighbourly behaviour had made the national news, no one was very keen on buying their homes in the area. So, one by one, the residents moved out and left their mansions dormant, fleeing to other homes around the country. Their mansions lay at rest, waiting for the time that Alfred decided to leave.

I parked my car near to the grandiose entrance to Duck Towers and, dodging gruff workmen and digging machinery, rang the front door bell.

It was time to discover what this was all about.

The Aftermath

Rumour has it that the infamous Alfred the Duck hasn’t left his labrythine mansion in weeks. All he’s done, some sources say, is intensely monitor the internet’s reaction to his latest story. That and order chinese pancakes. And left-hand gloves.

But are these just rumours, or, if they are true, are they just the excesses of a mind so overflowing with creative genius that us mere mortals could never hope to understand what was going on? At the moment, it may be too early to tell.

What I do know, however, is that when I interviewed him all those weeks ago, he was brimming with intelligence. The air almost hummed with ideas buzzing around his mallardian skull. In any case, I can understand why he wants to hide, even if only for a while. The press have been less than kind to him, what with his eccentric behaviour and apparent penchant for human females. Hardly a day goes by when another famous model comes forward to tell of lost weekends of debauchery and Chinese Takeaways with the One Known as Alfred.

I’m going to contact him again now, using the email address he said to use ‘only in an apocalypse’ and see what happens. I will cross my fingers, put on a left-hand glove in honour of him, and wait.