The Expedition to find the Star Wars fan

The Expedition to find the Star Wars fan

 

We’d been camping for days in this vast and dense jungle, cutting through vines and, regrettably, resorting to consuming our guide’s flesh to survive. The tender meat of his hips satisfied the rumbling in our stomachs, but the stringy brain tissue set our minds into unrest. Almost regressing our mental processes back to childhood.

“Perfect”, I tell my crew.

The regret had been worth it. On day 3, after picking through the poor Sherpa’s bones, we see it emerge from the bushes. At first, we’re certain it’s a bear. Or even a monster – a Sasquatch of Satan’s own Americana. But the truth is much, much more terrifying.

It drags its blubbery mass from the undergrowth, sliding on a slick track of its own sweat and howling “FUCK DISNEY” to the empty sky – not even the journals of Marco Polo document such a ungodly beast. Emerging into the thin shafts of light from the canopy above, it screams and its skin seethes – but it gives us enough time to identify its markings. Wrapped around its fleshy folds is a cheap hooded jacket, patterned with green-on-red markings meant to resemble Boba Fett.

“My God,” gags Hutchinson. “He even has a zip-up face hood.”

I almost wish I hadn’t listened – I look up its face. Sure enough, the creature has its face covered in a zipped up part of the hoody to resemble the character’s helmet. I struggle to hold in my vomit, but some of the younger expeditioners throw up their rations onto their boots. I hush them, lest the beast hear us.

As the creature searches for its prey, the hooded sheath finally unrolls like the foreskin of a malformed whale. I’ll never forget those dead, cowlike eyes that watched the horizon.

Its fat, swollen lips begin to move between the patchy hairs on its cheeks and the ground shakes at the grumbling sound it makes.

“Jar Jar Binks was a bad character. Jar Jar Binks was a bad character.” It repeats. It repeats. It repeats. Our protégés tremble shudder and sweat.

“I… I can’t!” whimpers Thompson, who is but seventeen years of age. “It just keeps making that noise over and over!”

“Get a grip man!” I hiss, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him back to reality. “What would your mother say! Is this what she died for? Do you think she’d want to see this of her eldest son?”

He sniffles, and nods. I watch him chew his lip until its nought but flayed skin, but he holds steadfast amongst the shaking brush. Think of mother, he tells himself.

And the beast continues to make that sound, saying it in every direction, trying to find a similar beast that will reciprocate its opinions. We stay quiet, and wait for the response as well. “Jar Jar Binks was a bad character.”

Then, from distant clearings left unseen and untouched by civilised man, a similar guttural tone comes. Though distant, we all feel the other half of sickness’s spectrum. “Jar Jar Binks was a bad character.”

 

The initial beast freezes, staring into space. Then it makes a deep, phlegmy “hur hur” sound. A laughter not of this Earth, but of a dimension of the lowest common denominator. Not of a joke, but of an established opinion all these beasts share but discuss anyway.

The mate is found, the mating song begins.

“The Prequels were bad! They don’t exist!” it screams to the heavens. The mate will surely hear it, but we wait in tension for what it might return with. Thompson is now ghost-white. I think I am too.

“Prequels? There were only the movies!” comes back the eldritch voice from yonder, the distance closer than we’d prefer. The furthest tree-trunks shift. I know it approaches.

“Hayden Christensen is a bad actor.” The beast closest to us makes the next move. “Jar Jar Binks was a bad character.”

Then there’s that gut-wrenching chortling again, but not from the beast who made the sound to begin with. No, it’s the second. It pushes its way into the clearing to meet its newfound partner. Good God, this one is tenfold more hideous – sporting an oversized screenprint T-Shirt with markings, reading “HAN SHOT FIRST”.

They meet in the centre, circling each other in a kind of sluggish dance that would make a pile of tripe on a butcher’s table blush. They lock lips and clasp their tongues with each other’s, oozing with sweat, saliva and pus in a most hideous display of coitus. Moaning, heaving, whispering ugly nothings of Special Editions and Jedi Rocks.

I’m not proud of what I did. I regret telling off Thompson, as I have now began to make a wailing sound that is rising in volume and disgust. It is an absolutely unconscious action that I’m completely unaware of until Hutchinson gives me the same shoulder-shaking treatment. God bless that man.

The actions, however, are in vain – as I break from my stupor and look back into the clearing, both creatures have their eyes set on our position, watching our expedition party with a gaze of such condescending. The lips move; “Prequels”, grumbles one.

And they begin to advance.

Dragging their bodies toward us, they break into skull-shattering groans; gnashing neckbearded jaws; swinging greasy ponytails to-and-fro. There is not enough time for us to get away successfully. I cross my fingers, my toes, and pray to every God. Goodbye, my beautiful wife. Goodbye, sweet sanity.

But the boy, Thompson, has distracted them. As I open my eyes, I see that he stands before them.

Hutchinson chokes “Goodness, boy, what on Earth are you doing?”

The herioic carelessness of youth. The bravado, the adrenaline. The boy holds his trembling jaw still enough to call to those monsters at the top of his lungs;

“THE EWOKS WERE JUST AS BAD AS THE GUNGANS!”

We’re quiet. Even the beasts are taken aback; wide eyed and dribbling down their pop culture reference apparal. But it’s not the time to dally, we get up and run for our bally lives back down the path we cut, hoping to find our seaplane resting on the water’s edge.

 

I made the horrible mistake to look back that moment. I wish I hadn’t, but I just wanted to see Thompson escape. I really hoped he had, that way I could live with the hope that he hadn’t met the fate he did. I received at eyeful of those beasts lifting poor Thompson from the ground, dripping ooze onto his broken body. The screaming, the shrieking; “It’s all CG! Green screen! Green screen!” He was pushed into the Han Shot First’s creature’s mouth as an aphrodisiac mating snack, where he will find a new definition of pain and suffering as he is slowly digested over a thousand years

 

And that will stay with me to the grave.

 

Does an OK David Bowie impression.

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