1
Hateful Caterpillar looked at the door numbers, 74, 72, 70, and on the opposite side, 73, 71, 69… none of these was the dwelling he sought. This could not even be the street or location, because his objective lived in a tower, high above an enormous agglomeration of dwellings. This much was clear from the nature of the signal Hateful Caterpillar had detected since his birth, and which he still felt. It was the bitterest emotion of the myriad he detected, remote yet strong, and directed to a place close to his birth. Indubitably, Hateful Caterpillar owed his very existence to this venomous emanation, hence his overwhelming desire to track its source.
He had an idea. Since the object of the vitriolic thought waves (and there was no question, the signal’s origin was a conscious mind) was nearby, why not investigate this target? Perhaps something or someone would provide a clue as to the Hater’s whereabouts. The same could not be said for Hateful Caterpillar’s birth mother, Big May. Great in volume, prolific in quantity, her near-continuous speech provided no useful information whatever. His emergence from her stomach was probably due simply to the fact that her post-operation wound was the richest source of Hateful Matter in the vicinity of the Hater’s target.
Hater, creator – how I long to return to you! I will return. I will!
2
Aaaaaarriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiahggghaaaaaaaaa!!!!! As Big May screamed, the very depth of her pain gave her a degree of detachment. Woozily she thought: My God, the neighbours will be thinking, “May and Rick must be having great sex!” She could hear Rick already on the phone, and seconds later he was by her side pressing a pillow to the gaping wound on her stomach. But not before a deal of blood had spewed forth, along with greenish puss or matter, one painful issue of which had the distinct form of a… caterpillar...
3
Far off, high above the pell-mell of the metropolis, a woman shifted in sleep. She dreamt of a large creature, much bigger than herself. She knew, as one knows in dreams, this thing had once been part of her, though she could not tell how. Yes, she had nourished it – him – but still was not sure of his nature. She tried to dream things back to the time of separation, but then realized with horror that he remained connected to her. Her role of feeder and carer was still not done. No wonder she was exhausted! With growing fear and revulsion, she felt her own substance weaken, as if it would soon dissolve and be completely absorbed into his.
4
“I, the Hen-man, am so frustrated and so desperate, I lust at stills from a film depicting a man who is so frustrated and so desperate he's masturbating to a clip of a woman stripping to take a shower who is so frustrated and so desperate she knowingly strips as she is watched by a man who is utterly frustrated and desperate. Not content with that, I, the Hen-man, will attempt to heighten the thrill by sharing with another male, even if it be my gay brother, in the hope that he is so frustrated and so desperate he will get off on my straight fantasy and respond, thus heightening my thrill.
“In other words, I am a complete twat. Fortunately for me, my brother will only become fully aware of this when I have already viciously turned on him for the third time, and gotten our mum to support me in my attempted emotional assassination."
“True, he will hate my guts afterwards, and for all time. But I will now have the complete attention of my mum, and will thus save several toilet rolls/week, since I will no longer have to simulate her ass-wiping by using multiple layers of paper, I will get the genuine soft touch instead.
“As for my Hatefulness, I will focus it around the stench of the intra-divan cat food, in the hope that it will take substantial form some miles hence...”
5
I harder thy goodies!, said the Hateful Caterpillar. No, no… that can’t be it… He hadn’t quite heard that right, surely. Brad wasn’t yet fully awake, but realized now this must be a dream. It was a while since his goodies had been hard, thanks to the very substantial nightcaps… I ha-a-de you-r-r gut-t-e-r-s!
“Oh, fuck! It’s real!” Brad half-leapt, half-fell from his bed, painfully jarring his creaky knees. There, where his mouth had been, on his pillow was a greenish puss-coloured caterpillar. Bizarrely, fully awake as he now was, Brad was sure the creature fixed him with a kind of knowing expression, as if thinking: No, you aren’t the one. You are not the one I seek. But that was absurd.
Suppressing these irrational thoughts, Brad picked up a leaflet from the littered floor, scooped the caterpillar up, and flitted it out the window facing the old cemetery. As he did so, another crazy notion came into his head. The thing was grateful, sorry for having disturbed his sleep, the unpardonable error in taking him, Bradley, for H-man (who the hell was that?)... must be on his way...
6
Hensman, Hen-man, H-man, Hater-man, Hater… Mark typed the versions of the character’s name; then saw that he would use them all, and some others besides, which he hadn’t thought of yet. He’d make them up as he went along. The character himself would emerge similarly, fragmented, viewed from various perspectives, and be assembled (hopefully) in the mind of the reader.
There would be no obvious temporal ordering. Let the reader sort that too. Or simply imbue Hateful Caterpillar with the power to time travel, perhaps a property of all Hateful Matter.
7
Woof is the answer. Only woof can counter x-ate!
8
But love cannot triumph yet.
9
The antithesis of love, the disjunction of relation, the severing of family ties was now the dominant, the unavoidable trend. It was fully declared, the two sides, ancient and upstart, would now square up, and the drama move to a new stage.
10
Power resides in the eldest of the four generations
11
The voice spoke from the computer – it said: at the end of time, the echelon of each will determine their category of post-temporal embodiment.
Hateful Caterpillar looked at the door numbers, 74, 72, 70, and on the opposite side, 73, 71, 69… none of these was the dwelling he sought. This could not even be the street or location, because his objective lived in a tower, high above an enormous agglomeration of dwellings. This much was clear from the nature of the signal Hateful Caterpillar had detected since his birth, and which he still felt. It was the bitterest emotion of the myriad he detected, remote yet strong, and directed to a place close to his birth. Indubitably, Hateful Caterpillar owed his very existence to this venomous emanation, hence his overwhelming desire to track its source.
He had an idea. Since the object of the vitriolic thought waves (and there was no question, the signal’s origin was a conscious mind) was nearby, why not investigate this target? Perhaps something or someone would provide a clue as to the Hater’s whereabouts. The same could not be said for Hateful Caterpillar’s birth mother, Big May. Great in volume, prolific in quantity, her near-continuous speech provided no useful information whatever. His emergence from her stomach was probably due simply to the fact that her post-operation wound was the richest source of Hateful Matter in the vicinity of the Hater’s target.
Hater, creator – how I long to return to you! I will return. I will!
2
Aaaaaarriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiahggghaaaaaaaaa!!!!! As Big May screamed, the very depth of her pain gave her a degree of detachment. Woozily she thought: My God, the neighbours will be thinking, “May and Rick must be having great sex!” She could hear Rick already on the phone, and seconds later he was by her side pressing a pillow to the gaping wound on her stomach. But not before a deal of blood had spewed forth, along with greenish puss or matter, one painful issue of which had the distinct form of a… caterpillar...
3
Far off, high above the pell-mell of the metropolis, a woman shifted in sleep. She dreamt of a large creature, much bigger than herself. She knew, as one knows in dreams, this thing had once been part of her, though she could not tell how. Yes, she had nourished it – him – but still was not sure of his nature. She tried to dream things back to the time of separation, but then realized with horror that he remained connected to her. Her role of feeder and carer was still not done. No wonder she was exhausted! With growing fear and revulsion, she felt her own substance weaken, as if it would soon dissolve and be completely absorbed into his.
4
“I, the Hen-man, am so frustrated and so desperate, I lust at stills from a film depicting a man who is so frustrated and so desperate he's masturbating to a clip of a woman stripping to take a shower who is so frustrated and so desperate she knowingly strips as she is watched by a man who is utterly frustrated and desperate. Not content with that, I, the Hen-man, will attempt to heighten the thrill by sharing with another male, even if it be my gay brother, in the hope that he is so frustrated and so desperate he will get off on my straight fantasy and respond, thus heightening my thrill.
“In other words, I am a complete twat. Fortunately for me, my brother will only become fully aware of this when I have already viciously turned on him for the third time, and gotten our mum to support me in my attempted emotional assassination."
“True, he will hate my guts afterwards, and for all time. But I will now have the complete attention of my mum, and will thus save several toilet rolls/week, since I will no longer have to simulate her ass-wiping by using multiple layers of paper, I will get the genuine soft touch instead.
“As for my Hatefulness, I will focus it around the stench of the intra-divan cat food, in the hope that it will take substantial form some miles hence...”
5
I harder thy goodies!, said the Hateful Caterpillar. No, no… that can’t be it… He hadn’t quite heard that right, surely. Brad wasn’t yet fully awake, but realized now this must be a dream. It was a while since his goodies had been hard, thanks to the very substantial nightcaps… I ha-a-de you-r-r gut-t-e-r-s!
“Oh, fuck! It’s real!” Brad half-leapt, half-fell from his bed, painfully jarring his creaky knees. There, where his mouth had been, on his pillow was a greenish puss-coloured caterpillar. Bizarrely, fully awake as he now was, Brad was sure the creature fixed him with a kind of knowing expression, as if thinking: No, you aren’t the one. You are not the one I seek. But that was absurd.
Suppressing these irrational thoughts, Brad picked up a leaflet from the littered floor, scooped the caterpillar up, and flitted it out the window facing the old cemetery. As he did so, another crazy notion came into his head. The thing was grateful, sorry for having disturbed his sleep, the unpardonable error in taking him, Bradley, for H-man (who the hell was that?)... must be on his way...
6
Hensman, Hen-man, H-man, Hater-man, Hater… Mark typed the versions of the character’s name; then saw that he would use them all, and some others besides, which he hadn’t thought of yet. He’d make them up as he went along. The character himself would emerge similarly, fragmented, viewed from various perspectives, and be assembled (hopefully) in the mind of the reader.
There would be no obvious temporal ordering. Let the reader sort that too. Or simply imbue Hateful Caterpillar with the power to time travel, perhaps a property of all Hateful Matter.
7
Woof is the answer. Only woof can counter x-ate!
8
But love cannot triumph yet.
9
The antithesis of love, the disjunction of relation, the severing of family ties was now the dominant, the unavoidable trend. It was fully declared, the two sides, ancient and upstart, would now square up, and the drama move to a new stage.
10
Power resides in the eldest of the four generations
11
The voice spoke from the computer – it said: at the end of time, the echelon of each will determine their category of post-temporal embodiment.
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