Onwards and Upwards Whilst Backwards

Onwards and Upwards Whilst Backwards

Welcome to the amazing misadventures of me, Jamie Fucking Gardener. I say misadventures because, so far at least, nothing has quite worked out. I say Fucking because if life paints you as a monster, why not be one? It's tough for a chap in my condition. My skin throbs constantly and my joints grate when I walk. When I smile, children cry. Luckily, I rarely have anything to smile about! I have absolutely no memories older than 5 or so years (although if the last 5 years are anything to go by, this is a blessing and not a curse). Plus, I have the habit of saying the wrong thing - when my raging cowardice doesn't get the better of me and turn me into a shivering mute. In this particular misadventure, I was underground. Sadly, not in the 'dead as a Dodo way' (I read about the Dodo in an old, pre-event book). I was very much alive and feebly kicking my crippled ass down an ancient tunnel. And I was trying to be damn quiet about it. Oh, and I was also walking backwards.
         The ancient machines of our forefathers lasted far longer than their creators, and so it was by flickering, magical light that I shuffled awkwardly, heels-first down the corridor. My feet left smudges in the dust, revealing floor that had not been seen for centuries. There were ghostly, open doorways either side of me, little offshoots to enclosed rooms. I quashed the idea of exploring them; my rouse would only by myself so much time.
         I got the idea from a Jon Harland adventure. Jon fooled his trackers by walking backwards in the snow to lead them into an ambush. It looked like two sets of prints converged and vanished. Cunning Jon was lurking behind a rock and smote them down with a Boltshot. Of course, I didn't fancy my odds of successfully ambush anyone; even if I had a Boltshot. Physical violence is something I only wish upon others, I'm sadly incapable of dealing much of it out. No, I was just trying to buy some time. I'd found a likely hole in the ceiling of a side room, walked up to it and ruffled it up a bit. Then I'd reversed out, back into the central corridor and continued my original trajectory backwards. Perhaps they'd try to climb up into the ceiling hole? Maybe they'd get stuck and starve? Maybe I'd played a blinder? That would be one for the books! Too much to wish for. I just had to hope that the idea of me reversing back down the corridor was too ridiculous for them to imagine.
         And so, arse first and looking too ridiculous to imagine, I shuffled down the murky corridor. I nearly had a laughing fit at one point; imagining my pursuers charging down the corridor just to catch me facing them, on my hectic, snail-paced reverse getaway mission. The looks on their faces! It would almost be worth it! I'd be laughing my way to the torture chamber.
         The corridor eventually opened out into a huge room. Shelves surrounded the walls and stretched right up to the vaulted ceilings. Metal ladders leaned against them and I eyed up the rungs; if I could get one loose it would serve as a weapon. Remarkably, most of the books looked to have survived. I was desperate to explore them; however, a few morsels of knowledge weren't worth the torture that was wailing for me if I got caught. With my hunters in mind, I kept walking and plotted my next move. And so, after a short meander and a little jump, I judged myself ready.
         I amused myself by flicking through an ancient printout lying on the table where I now lurked. It was cheap paper and even in the see-through wallet it had started to fall apart. There were a few names in the title; 'George Washington' and 'Patty Hearst'. Reading it a little more closely, it seems to be a fictitious story linking each of these characters together. Something to do with a fictitious kidnapping and something called a 'clone'. I struggled with the old dialect but latched onto something I did recognise; a reference to 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.' It was often told as a children's tale however I never really saw the appeal. Falling into a lifeless slumber only to be woken up by a hoard of mangy midgets never really tickled my fancy. Although, given my current predicament, the poisoned apples sounded nice. I'd munch my way through an orchard of them right now.
         The approach of feet snapped me out of my self-destructive reverie. I tried to gauge how many pairs, praying it was just one. A fairly weak plan had formed in head on my tragic escape attempt; much closer to Ol' Jon Harlands in fact. It looked like I was going to have to face my followers at some point so I might as well make it on my terms. In my preparations I had reversed past one column, continued behind another one and then retraced my footsteps back to that first column. From there I had hopped onto the table from where I now perched. Maybe this sort of foolishness only works in stories. I was about to find out! The footsteps approached the column I was hiding behind and I tightened the grip on the metal bar in my hands; I had unscrewed it a few minutes earlier
         Two people rounded the corner and several things happened at once. I sprung from my vantage point. At the same time, the table collapsed - I was as heavy as I was ugly. And one of my followers turned to look into my pitted face and stumbled backwards into his comrade. Ugliness is a curse. Supreme disfigurement, however, is good for more than making children cry.
         Making children cry is its best use in my humble, monstrous opinion.