The Adventures of the Scratchead Thunderbolt: Episode IV

Catching up?

• Episode I here.
• Episode II here.
• Episode III here.

***

Harold Smith stared blankly into the air above the lifeless form of his son, lying on his bed. His mind was in a whirl. He barely remembered anything else except that Melanie had called while he was at his very normal workplace doing his normal routine of holding a cup of Earl Grey in his right hand, while sitting cross-legged on his normal working armchair, and balancing his copy of the International Herald Tribune in his other hand.

"WHAT?" Harold bellowed into the receiver of his mobile phone, the new one that he'd tried to show off to his colleagues only for it to unfortunately slip off his hand and have its screen cracked just the week before.

"Harold," - Melanie's voice sounded weak and unbalanced - "Peter's in hospital..."

The rest of her words seemed to fade into the background as Harold held on to the receiver, while warm beads of perspiration started to crawl down his temples. Found him, unconscious in the room lying on the black box... Heard him muttering to himself... Doctors say they don't know what's wrong... Harold! What is wrong with our son?

It was Harold who suggested that Peter be taken back home - the best doctor in London declared that he knew absolutely nothing about Peter's plight. "Normal," said Dr. Lenny Parsons, scratching his full-grown beard while staring intently at the machines tied to Peter and his bed. "Absolutely normal. This is extraordinary."

"Enough!" Harold roared. Dr. Parsons jumped, and flinched when he saw the raging, senior Smith start to smoke at his nostrils, his face turning purple uncontrollably with every word he uttered.

"I - WILL - TAKE - MY - SON - HOME - IF - YOU - CAN'T - DO - A - SHIT!" Harold uttered menacingly through gritted teeth, while his hands tugged away at every single wire that was holding his Peter down on the hospital bed.

***

Scratchead Thunderbolt was perspiring profusely. The devilish sun burnt through every single corner of the cyberworld, devouring strangers, friends and all else - he was now, feeling the heat, wondering what in the world Uncle Darren was trying to make out to him. The right one, or the easy one... Bloody hell, it didn't tell me to go left or right. In any case, our superhero had already chosen his way as the story progresses here - he had taken the left road, following the hand that he used to write.

And what exactly did that piece of paper mean? His brilliant mind tried to work out a series of permutations for the number 209, but nothing concrete came out of it. He might as well have given me a fortune cookie, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt miserably.

The only positive about the infernal climate was that his shirt had dried - so had the mud, so he was walking, at least, on dry ground now, though he soon began to dismiss this slight advantage with the heat of the ground burning through the soles of his shoes.

Now, I am not too sure how quickly cybertime passed, but I believe it must have been cyberhours since Scratchead Thunderbolt had found himself embroiled in a cyberworld that he would rather have washed his hands off about. He was parched - not just your typical parched, but more of an I'm-so-bloody-thirsty-I-can-drink-a-lake! kind of parched. He needed a drink, and he prayed to every single entity Up There that he would soon get to see a lake. Or a cyberlake - whichever came first.

His prayers were answered. Not caring whether it was a mirage, the not-too-great-looking Scratchead Thunderbolt sprinted once he saw the reflection of the sun from the bright blue waters at the right side of the road. Failing to maintain his balance, he let his tired legs fall like bags of sand, took a deep breath and plunged his entire face into the lake.

And as he finished his nth gulp of cyberwater - which, really, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt to himself, tasted exactly the same as normal water - he shook his head rapidly to dry his head. Yes, he was ready to take on the cyberworld with his newly-satiated self. Bet you didn't think of Uncle Darren, bloody Lifeforce.

The oasis disappeared behind Scratchead Thunderbolt as he continued down the road that he had chosen. Cybertime seemed to have clocked the rest of the entire day - the devilish sun seemed to be setting at last - when he approached a strange (what else?) bridge.

The bridge was made of cold, stony-white granite, and peaked at the middle - it looked plain and emotionless, and was built on top of what seemed a very deep river. As Scratchead Thunderbolt crossed the bridge, he stared down from its peak into the water, and was shocked to realise that the waves made shapes that read like words in the river. He was sure that one of them read hurt; another read sadness.

"Ah, so I see Scratchead Thunderbolt has arrived here," came a rough voice from behind him.

Scratchead Thunderbolt turned around to see a wizened man with a broad face whose blue eyes gleamed with mischief and excitement. He was dressed in a straw hat that was so wide it managed to keep his entire face in the shade, and in a long-sleeved shirt that appeared too thinly-cut. His trousers seemed to be over-patched, and all in all he looked most like a farmer in normal land.

"You look confused," said the old man. "Don't look like the great that Tigerblade mentioned."

"Tigerblade?" this time Scratchead Thunderbolt was genuinely confused, if not already.

"Darren John is christened Tigerblade in our world," the old man replied, adjusting his straw hat such that he could see the face of Scratchead Thunderbolt. "In any case, this is the cyberworld, and I can tell you that you and I are different. But I must introduce myself," he reached out to Scratchead Thunderbolt with a rough, thickened right hand that seemed to have been overworked. "I am the keeper of the Land of Apologies."

The Land of Apologies. This must either be a dream, or a very funny cyberworld. Scratchead Thunderbolt was unsure what he could ask, so he let the Keeper continue with his drivel. "Look all around you. This entire river does not stop flowing - you people are convinced that the computer can replace one-to-one communication, real-life, that is."

"BUT - " The Keeper cleared his throat - "It is not the case. Yes, Thunderbolt, this land stores emotions transferred through fibre-optic and copper cables. The true meaning behind your messages are never felt by the other side."

Scratchead Thunderbolt nodded, slowly digesting what the Keeper had just told him. "Do you mean that this river has stored every single emotion that we have tried to convey to the other side?"

"Not everything, of course," the Keeper smiled in satisfaction that his message had been told rather satisfactorily. "Emotions are funny things. And the computer is not everything in life - telepathy is still the most powerful method of transferring emotions, though it is difficult to attain."

Surely you didn't have to tell me that, thought Scratchead Thunderbolt to himself. But whatever the Keeper said seems to make sense... Apologies, confessions... they never did work online, did they? At least, they didn't work too well for me -

"But you, Scratchead Thunderbolt, you should have had some first-hand experience of this... ah... emotional filtering. Let's see," the Keeper put up his left hand to block the sun, staring into the distance, as if trying to find something very far away. "Ah, there!" his other hand pointed to the north-west, at some tiny waves from far away. The Keeper then made a pulling motion towards the waves, and Scratchead Thunderbolt gaped in surprise when they magnified into visibility, as if he was staring through a telescope.

But as he read the words the waves made, his jaw dropped further than ever.

Scratchead Thunderbolt, 2005.
Filtered: Sincerity, love.
Count: 5.

His mind drifted back to his past, back when he was staring in front of the computer, hands shaking and sweating, as he finished typing his confessional message to a pretty girl that he'd seen in class whom he'd never dared to speak to in person.

The reply from her was dry, tasteless, disgusted.

But the second reply was just the same.

Sorry.

It didn't help. It didn't help at all...

Scratchead Thunderbolt was deep in thought when the Keeper walked towards him and patted his shoulder. "It works both ways," the Keeper smiled at him, eyes twinkling as he took a piece of straw from his hat and started to munch on it. "The filter works on messages that are sent to and from you."

"Why is there a Land of Apologies?" Scratchead Thunderbolt abruptly asked.

The Keeper chuckled, while he threw the remainder of the straw into the river. "There is no why, son, there is none - this is the way the cyberworld works, and this is not what Tigerblade wanted to see happen to you. You have made your choice. Now please cross my bridge, and I wish you the best of luck."

Scratchead Thunderbolt was speechless. It was as though he had just learnt of something that he never would have imagined existed. He had so much to tell the Keeper, but nothing came out of his mouth. He decided, in the end, on a hug. The Keeper just patted him on his back. As Scratchead Thunderbolt turned to continue his journey in the cyberworld, the Keeper suddenly shouted in his direction.

"Thunderbolt, have you figured out what 209 is?"

He turned back, and shook his head, looking disappointed.

The Keeper smiled and shook his head as well. "It's not fortune cookie shit, all right?"

Scratchead Thunderbolt kept the smile on his face as he continued to face the road that lay in front of him. Even the Keeper of the Land of Apologies is such a nice person - there must be hope in this world.

To be continued.