Again, I feel a lot of blue cheese before my bed time may not be a good thing… Reading comics and eating a lot of blue cheese has disastrous consequences for my dreaming life…
There’s a man who lives on a remote island. He came there many years ago accidentally diverted by bad weather. Much as did his fictional predecessors in Lost, the Island of Dr.Moreua, Huxley’s Island and so, he found himself becoming more a part of the arcane life he encountered there. Little outposts of madness that could not be tolerated on the mainlands. He falls in love and is eventually married to a woman who was raised there by her mad scientist father. He is a tinkerer; a mad mechanic. He is wheelchair-bound and partially mechanical himself; one wide crazy metal eye and a claw like chromed hand.
But, lingering concerns about in-laws aside, the man loves her and so they marry. Time passes and, as is often the case with these strange fantasy romances, the man must eventually return to the world.
Word reaches him in the following years however. His wife bore a child. Her father continued his experiments. The island sunk further into absolute madness. He resolves to return. He finds a Bosch painting waiting him.
His father-in-law has busied himself ‘improving’ his own form. He is gleeful with metal parts. A jaw, an eye, legs, an arm: all now flashing LED’s and weird clockwork parts.
But his experiments have not been limited to his own flesh. The man’s wife has been reduced to a mound of flesh with skin like pork scratchings
The man’s son… he is told that there were complications. His son lies on a platform to one side… looking like a football with rough leathery skin. For his health, he is placed inside a mechanical mobile appartus that looks like a small remote controlled tank.
The man feels compelled to stay. He cannot leave them like this. He cannot overpower the cackling scientist so he will stay and care for them. But, as years pass, he suspects that the son has no control over this small metal cage. That it is controlled directly by the father. He plays games with the little tank, but the father always looks on. Smirking, adjusting controls on his own exposed wiring.
He doesn’t know what to do.
…
No more late night cheese feasts for Waxy.
