I keep waiting to wake up. This must be a nightmare, but each day when I get up, they’re still there. I just want to go back in time before they arrived. The ducks, that is.

I know that the business world is changing and that companies are trying to save money by outsourcing, but this is like a B-Movie Horror show. The ducks are everywhere now.

It started with our Strategy In Action training two months ago. We were told that there were going to be some radical changes. Little did we know to what extent. We were told that critical management teams were being replaced and that for the cost of one current manager, they could hire 27 ducks. That’s when the ducks first showed up.

At first, we thought they were kinda cute. You know, waddling around and quacking. Actually, it was kind of funny. But then things began to change. Instead of four Managers and one General Manager, we now had 186 ducks watching us. And I do mean watching us.

They spread themselves over the office and each one of us had a duck perched on the top shelf of our cubicles. There they were, Mallards. Both male and female. Since we are a diverse company, some of them had a different sexual orientation. You could tell by the way they stared at the other ducks.

At first, it was cute and strange having a duck watching your every move. But then they started exerting their authority. You might start to surf the web while at work, and all of a sudden there would be a loud “QUACK!” and your Personal Duck Coach would have his head tilted to the side and be pointing his bill (or is it a beak?) at your keyboard.

We ignored them at first and just laughed. After all, they’re just ducks! But if you messed up, more ducks would arrive to your cubicle. Soon you would have three or four ducks watching your every move. Ducks wandering around your work area making little quack remarks to each other.

Soon they were following us on breaks. Ducks in the bathroom, tilting their heads and chattering to each other if you took too long. If you took too many pieces of toilet paper there would be a loud “Quack!” and you would see a duck waddling off to his superior duck.

It’s gotten really bad lately. They’re everywhere. They’re reproducing. We’ve been told that’s part of the plan. The quacking is driving us crazy. Last week, Ted lost it and kicked one of the ducks. There was quacking everywhere and they descended upon him in his cubicle. We tried to fight them off of Ted, but they were just too strong. They left his bones there as a reminder to us.

We’re up to four ducks per cube now. They’re always pecking at us and leaving reminders on our work if it’s not good enough. I have to wake up soon.

Out of all the poets in the land, Harvey was definitely one of them. He wrote poems about birds, beasts- anything you could possibly write a poem about. Yes, there was no arguing about it: Harvey Whipenstein was a poet. Not a very good one, but a poet nonetheless. With this brief essay, I hope to explore the history and influences of Harvey Whipenstein, and use it as an excuse for not spending time with wife.

Harvey Whipenstein was born October 7th, 1952 at the age of 23 on an island off the coast of Kansas. He was immediately struck by the beauty of the land around him, as well as struck by his step-father on a daily basis for often times forgetting to cottage the cottage cheese. One day in town, Harvey was introduced to his first poem from a man he met from Nantucket. Naturally, the poem was-

“Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I'm from Nantucket.”

Harvey was immediately struck by these words, and once again by his father. These words inspired him to write his own poem, but sadly he soon discovered that he suffered from the terrible disability of not having any talent.

Then one day pure inspiration came in the unlikely form of a bad pun. As Harvey was taking his morning stroll on a brisk evening in the city park, he stopped by the pond for a moment because he saw a duck that seemed depressed. Harvey approached the duck and said, “What's the matter? Feeling down?” Before he could laugh for hours on end at his own joke, God, who was not a fan, started a major hailstorm just inches above his head.

Inspiration came to Harvey immediately following the coma. He couldn't remember much, but he did remember the duck. He grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled down his first poem-

ODE TO A DUCK
Quack!

Indeed, it was a work of literature so terrible that it got him excommunicated from several religions. Despite the negative feedback, he pushed on with his head held high, which was great for the pursuit of his dream but terrible for his golf game. His next poem came to him after reading Lewis Carroll and Emily d**kinson. It read as follows:

JABBERBODY
I'm a Jabberwock.
Who are you?
Are you a Jabberwock too?
Then there's a brillig of us!
Don't tell- the mome raths will snicker-snack us, you know.

This struck cords with two different groups of people. The people who were familiar with both Carroll and d**kinson were angered at such blatant plagiarization, and those who weren't were angered because it didn't make any damn sense.

And thus, both Harvey Whipenstein poems were written. God finally did the poetry world a favor and ceased him from existing. But, no matter how much we may try to forget him, he will always be remembered as a poet. Except for on Fridays. Then he's remembered as a plumber. No one's quite sure why.

“The friend of my enemy is my enemy. We will crush them all.” Denar stated, fists raised in prideful enthusiasm.

“But sir.” Little said in a small squeaky voice, “I hate to remind you that the Triflonary forces are four times as great as our own. If we begin attacking them while attacking the flure we will be stretched far to thin. We will be destroyed.”

“Not if we surprise the Triflonary forces.” Denar yelled, making Little cover his ears as he was only a few inches away. “Not if we destroy them before they can threaten us!”

“B-b-but how sir.” Little rubbed his fingers together worriedly. “They are too strong.”

“Nonsense! We will watch them. We will find their weakness!” Denar knocked over his glass of wine in his excitement. Little dried him off quickly with his handkerchief. They were both distracted from this action as a small brown duck waddled through the room.

“Flank.” The duck honked as it sauntered away. “Flank! Flank!”

“They… Have no weaknesses.” Little muttered in slight confusion as he watched the ducks tail feathers disappear out the door.

“We will find it. Never fear!” Denar’s voice rang out, though he too looked quite distracted by the duck’s crossing. “Everyone has a weakness.” Pulling his eyes from the door he returned to the map spread out on the table. “Attacking them from the front would be difficult but we would never get enough forces to the rear without notice.” He growled as he thumped on the table.

“Flank!” The duck honked as it looked back in the door. “Flank! Flank!”

“What is that thing doing here?” Denar roared, “I can’t think with all that noise!”

“I believe it is a duck sir.” Little offered kindly.

“I don’t care what it is Little! I want it out of here.” Denar stated impatiently. Little looked at the duck, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Now!” The loud command made Little jump.

“Shoo.” Little waved his hands to rush the duck out.

“Flank!” It replied angrily snapping at Little’s hand. “Flank.” It took a step closer to Little, who backed up a pace. “Flank, flank!”

“Stop playing with the thing and help me plan.” Denar waved Little over. Quickly Little retreated from the duck to stand next to Denar at the table. “We will have to go with a frontal assault. There is no other option.”

“Flank!” The duck fluttered up on the table to honk at Denar.

“Get out!” Denar roared.

“Flank!” The duck countered, stepping closer to Denar who backed away but he was not quick enough to stop the duck from biting his nose.
-

That night over dinner Little and Denar were continuing the conversation regarding their upcoming campaign when Little was distracted by his meal.

“Wow. This is really good.” Little muttered as he took another bite. “What is it?”

“Farced Duck!” Denar replied with a victorious grin.

“Splendid.” Little grinned, taking another huge, lusty bite. “Now tell me again about the frontal assault…”

Morning rose with a sledge hammer banging in my head. It felt like shards of glass piercing what was left of my self esteem. The only case I had in the last two weeks was last night. A case of Corona, that is. Business was slow and my wallet looked like a stale pancake. I passed out at my desk again.

My secretary had walked two days ago. It’s a funny thing how not receiving a paycheck can effect your attitude. It’s not like I needed her. My phone hadn’t rung in weeks. Most likely because the phone company shut it off. Money. I love it. But just like the women of my life, it wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

Audrey blew in the door like a derailed locomotive, chugging smoke and making noise as she careened around my office looking for a place to crash. Her body yelled, “Hello, Big Boy. Take a look.” Her eyes said, “I’ll kill ya if I get the chance.”

I notice that her low cut red dress revealed a doctor’s blotched work before I saw the duck. She was clutching the duck like a football and the defense was after her. I took a gander at them both before I said my first words for the day.

“Hey, what are you doing with the pig?”

She stabbed me with those blue daggers in her skull and replied, “It’s not a pig, it’s a duck!”

I looked her over slowly before I retorted, “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to the duck.”

“Very funny, flatfoot. Do you wanna job or not?”

All I wanted was another beer, but it takes money and my tab was maxed at Joe’s these days.

“Sure, what’s with the stupid duck?”

“Hey, be careful how you talk to my future husband!”

“Husband? You’re goin’ to marry a duck?”

“That’s the ticket Bozo! He’s a millionaire. If you owned a TV you’d recognize him from the Looney Duck show.”

I had to admit, he did look familiar. Just thinkin’ of a duck havin’ more money than me was sickening. I realized now that I was lookin’ at Lester, the Looney Duck. He’s a talkin’ duck!

Lester turned to me and said, “Hey wiseass, all you gotta do is get me to Vegas so I can annul my first marriage. I got two tickets here and I need a delivery boy. You in?”

I was about to say yes when two goons busted down the door. The red-head clutched Lester closer to silicon valley.

Goon number one blurted out, “Stand aside, Bozo, or you’re going to get hurt.” It seems that everyone thought I was a clown these days.

Goon two’s eyes widened when he saw Lester. All of a sudden he yelled out, “DUCK!” and swung a baseball bat.

I saw stars as Goon #1 grabbed Lester and ran. Goon two looked at me on the floor as he left.

He merely said, “I told you to duck!”

Norway, 1884. The National Theatre, backstage. HENRIK IBSEN, a playwright, is pacing. His beard looks like a poodle mauling at his face.

IBSEN: Tonight, “The Wild Duck” opens. Tonight, theater as we know it is changed. By the light of my words, society shall observe its follies, repent, understand the deep conflicts tearing at the fabric of our very existence.

Enter SVEN, a stagehand, HELGA, an obese actress, and JOHANN, a drunk actor with a gorilla costume.

SVEN: Dude. Mr. Ibsen. I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is I saved a ton of money with Geiko. The bad news is that we lost the duck.

IBSEN: The duck?

SVEN: Yes, sir, THE duck. The wild duck. After which the play is named. The big plot device. The McGuffin. It symbolized innocence.

IBSEN: I know what it symbolized, I wrote the damned thing! What do you mean we lost it? How did we lose it?

HELGA: Henrik, dear, if I may intervene, it really is a trifle, nothing to get bent out of shape over, such a tiny, unappetizing, stringy little wild duck. Barely enough meat on it. I’m sure the play’s better off without it.

IBSEN: You ate my duck!

HELGA: Eating is such a strong word. I prefer to think that it’s nested inside my stomach, where it will soon blossom into a wonderful swan.

IBSEN: Helga, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so, you are a deeply disturbing person. What are we going to do now?

JOHANN: Let’s party!
IBSEN: All right, Johann, I don’t know how else to tell you this: you remember six months ago, how you auditioned for the role of the little girl in this play?

JOHANN:Yes?

IBSEN:And you know how you didn’t get the part?

JOHANN:Yes?

IBSEN: And remember how I personally kicked you out of this theatre?

JOHANN: Your point is…

IBSEN: What the heck are you doing in here?

JOHANN:Well, I was just passing by and I heard there was an opening, on account of Led Zeppelin here eating the wild duck.

IBSEN: Yes, Johann, but it’s an opening for another wild duck.

JOHANN: At least let me audition for it! I have a monologue prepared!(he produces a piece of paper.) Quack quack. Affleck. Quack quack. (yelling) Quaaaaaack!!! Quaaacccck!!!

SVEN:Should we kick him out, Mr. Ibsen? Again?

IBSEN: Hold on a second, Sven! Johann, what’s that you’re carrying?

JOHANN: It’s a bottle of vodka. Oh no, wait, it’s a gorilla suit. At least I hope it’s a suit. It would be interesting if it wasn’t.

(Ibsen grabs the gorilla suit.)
IBSEN: Where did you get this?

JOHANN: It’s actually a really funny story, involving an Australian midget, a prostitute, and a trained zebra.

IBSEN: Johann, you’ve saved us! With just a small rewrite, my play shall go on!

HELGA: That gorilla suit there looks a little dangerous and juicy, perhaps we should lock it in my dressing room for observation. I’m going to need some ketchup too.

IBSEN: Sven, keep her the heck away from the suit!

To say that King Achmel was a reasonable man was like saying that Michael Jordan was a terrific baseball player.

“WHERE IS MY DUCK?!” He bellowed, his voice echoing across the vast throne room and through the marble-walled hallways that led to it. Or from it, depending on whether you were being summoned or being sent to your execution.

Seated on his throne, he rapped his staff twice against the white tiled floor. It made the fat on the underside of his arms jiggle, triggering a process that would eventually cause ripples to spread all across his body like a pebble creating waves in a pond – if that pond just happened to be filled with bacon fat. The effect, if you were unfortunate enough to see it, was hypnotic.

The vizier, a thin man in a ratty robe, cautiously approached the throne. Unlike most viziers, he had no desire to control the king and rule the land with a puppet monarchy. Frankly, the only reason he was a vizier at all was because viziers ran in his family (usually from angry mobs who had learned of their evil schemes). So viziering was the only occupation he had any practical knowledge of, although his school guidance counselor had suggested jobs more in keeping with his personality, such as accountant or mannequin.

“Sire”, he began meekly. “We are in the middle of the desert. There are no ducks to be found for hundreds of miles.”

He saw the ripples start to flow across the king’s body and averted his eyes. Must not look, he thought. Too terrible to look at. Yet… so difficult to turn away.

The king shouted even louder this time. “I care not for your geography lessons! A duck I have demanded, and a duck I shall have!”

“But sire,” said the vizier, still averting his eyes. “Why the sudden desire for a duck?”

“A king does not need reasons! A king has but to make demands, and those demands must be met!”

“Did somebody call for Bahmet?”

Bahmet, the court jester, bounded into the room, his jester’s hat squeaking as he moved. While jesters in conventional kingdoms had bells on their hats, metal was a luxury in this desert kingdom. So Bahmet had to make do with tying small rats to the points of his floppy hat that would squeak as they bounced against his head. The occasional bites on the cheek were an unwelcome occupational hazard, but a jester needed his sound effects to be funny!

“Actually, the king said ‘be met’…” the vizier began before being shoved out of the way by the jester.
Bahmet smiled broadly at the king. “If your majesty wants a duck, Bahmet has a duck for you!”

The king’s demeanor brightened appreciably. “Really? Where?”

This demeanor was immediately darkened when the contents of a cream pie made contact with his face.

“DUCK!” Bahmet grinned. But the smile gradually vanished as the pie tin slid down the king’s face and into his broad lap. Bahmet immediately realized his error.

“Oh. Oh, I should have yelled… and THEN thrown.”

And that was the problem with on-the-job training in this kind of environment, Bahmet thought while the rats squeaked against his head as he ran out of the room being chased by two of the king’s largest guards. You never had a chance to learn from your mistakes.

I was walking through downtown one breezy afternoon. As I passed Kwan’s Chicken, the sweet smell of his special Peking Duck grasped me by my urges and dragged me inside. Upon entering the restaurant, while reaching inside my jacket for my wallet, I was surprised to see that some thug was holding up Kwan! The villain was armed to the teeth. He was holding an Uzi in one hand, a shotgun in the other hand and an automatic rifle in the other hand. When he saw me reaching in my pocket he pulled out a knife with his other hand and threw it at me. As I instinctively tried to catch it, the blade sliced my hand off and bounced on the floor. I then picked up the knife with my other hand and threw it back at the criminal. It struck him in the chest, sending him to the floor in a growing pool of blood. By this time, Kwan had vanished. I went to the back and grabbed a piece of duck. After retrieving my hand I thought about how to handle the situation. So I ran out the door.

Walking down the street, devouring the crispy duck with my hand in my pocket, I saw a silver 911. Since I just killed a man, I decided that stealing a Porche, in retrospect, was not a bad thing to do. After realizing that I couldn’t drive stick shift, I released the hand brake and started pushing. Three miles down the street, I was too tired to push the car any longer, so I ran in front of it and started pulling. As it was getting dark, I remembered that mom was making duck tonight, so I reluctantly abandoned the beautiful vehicle and went home.

Mom already had dinner on the table when I arrived. I wondered where the plates were. She franticly asked what had happened. I told her about Kwan’s Chicken, how the thug sliced my hand off, how I killed him and how I stole some duck. My mother was furious.

“I’m furious!” She screamed. “You stole a piece of duck?” She sent me to my room without any dinner.

The next morning I was surprised to see that there was a hand on the end of my wrist! My dismembered hand that I had placed upon my nightstand had vanished. I did not know where it went, or where my new one came from.

After getting dressed, I walked back to Kwan’s Chicken. As I went inside, I noticed that the blood stains which were on the counter and floor were gone. I asked Kwan about the robbery.

“Wobbewy?” Asked Kwan. “Thew haven’t been any wobbewies this hor month.” I was thoroughly confused. Was I slipping in and out of a tear in the space-time continuum? I had to find out. I walked over to the payphone to call my Uncle Zeek, a Physics professor at the community college. I had no idea at the time, but that conversation was the beginning of our great adventure with Kwan’s inter-dimensional Peking Duck.

“Hi, Kevin. I just finished my gym class and thought I’d drop by.”

“Oh hi, Janine, I was just sitting the bath, thinking about doughnuts …”

“Actually, you still have a rubber duck wedged under your left … pec.”

“Oh, thanks. Those things get into the weirdest places. Anyway, have you ever seen them make doughnuts? When I was able to walk, I used to go down to Krispy Kreme first thing in the morning and watch them. They take this circle of dough that’s got sugar, starch and lard in it - it’s all done by machine - and then they set it adrift in this big tub full of boiling lard. It sits there and boils in that oil for a while, then this machine flips it over to boil the other side.”

“Ugh. That sounds like a heart attack waiting to happen.”

“Naah, it’s actually really healthy. Lard is just hog fat, so it’s all pretty natural. Then when it’s cooked they add this really sweet glaze. Or if they’re making jelly doughnuts, they inject this thick, sugary jam into each one of them. Buy them when they’re warm, that’s the key. Then you can eat a dozen, easy, without taking a break. They are absolutely yummy, my friend.”

“Kevin, did you just do your laundry? I think that’s a sock stuck to your arm, isn’t it?”

“Whoa, that’s no sock, it’s another duck! I lose more ducks that way.”

“Listen, Kevin, I hate to be the one dipping your doughnut in battery acid, but you seem to be putting on a few pounds, and I kinda think Krispy Kreme might be the culprit.”

“No way, Janine, it’s just a snack food. You just have to take it easy, and it’s no problem. Everything in moderation, that's the key. Listen, I haven’t been out for a while. Why don’t we go down to Krispy Kreme for a few doughnuts and we can talk to Jake? He’s the head cook there, and he’ll tell you the same thing. Really.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t mind getting out as well. Can you make it down to the loading dock by yourself?”

“No problem, I pay the four guys next door $100 a month to give me a hand when I need it. Let me just throw on a kaftan.”

“Okay, I’ll bring the forklift around. See you at the dock 3 in 20 minutes.”

“Great. See you there.”

As the sun’s first rays shone down on the town of Peace and Quietville, it seemed like just another normal day. The birds were chirping; the milkmen and paperboys were delivering; numerous people were hitting the snooze buttons on their alarm clocks for a chance at ten more minutes of sleep. All in all, it was an average town full of average people with average lives.

At least until we look closer at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Mundane, and their son Anthony. Here it is worth noting that in the town of Peace and Quietville, it is tradition that once people are married, they legally change their names to “Mr.” (for the man, naturally) and “Mrs.”. This behavior had taken a bit of adjustment at first, but in the end had proven invaluable. There were much fewer instances of being embarrassed about forgetting someone’s name in social settings, and no confusion over who was married and who wasn’t. It also often stymied polltakers, telemarketers and e-mail spammers, which was a bonus.

We find Mr. Mundane reading the newspaper at the living room table as Anthony enters the scene. Mrs. Mundane is off preparing breakfast or some other duties that prevent her from having any lines in this scene. Anthony sits down, and without a pause, asks “Dad? Do you think that a person can do whatever they can dream of, as long as they put their mind to it?”

Mr. Mundane, after reading his daily horoscope, replied, “That’s what your grandfather always says. And I can see it being true.”

“Well, I think I have decided on my future career.” Anthony paused for effect, as Mr. Mundane turned to the out-of-town sports scores. “I want to become a duck.”

Mr. Mundane actually peered down over the top of the paper at this announcement, debating if this was more important than the 5-day forecast. He decided he’d have to risk it, and set the paper down. “Well, that’s an interesting thought. What led you to this decision?”

“Well, I was watching some ducks down at Serene Pond. It seemed like an enjoyable life, eating bread crumbs and flying around the city every day.”

“Could be. You realize that you would have to learn how to swim and fly and speak Quack-ese and possibly other things, though.”

Anthony grew a slightly dejected look. “I guess so.”

Mr. Mundane, hating to discourage his son, quickly added, “Though they say if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it must be a duck. Maybe you could work on just that.”

Anthony smiled again. “Thanks, Dad! Maybe I’ll go see if Grandpa knows anything about it; he occasionally goes to feed the ducks.”

“A good idea.” Mr. Mundane agreed, realizing he hadn’t even begun to read the comics yet.

(Coming soon: Chapter 2 – Anthony and Grandpa at Serene Pond)

Looked out the bedroom window to find there was a foot of fresh snow covering the yard. I was flabbergasted since it was the middle of June. Bewildered I did my morning stretch to the ceiling and made my way to the bathroom. Upon reaching the toilet I was startled to find a peculiar duck sitting upon the lid. I rubbed my eyes more then twice and the creature remained. It was blue and orange and brown and yellow and sat silent on my porcelain god. My bladder was screaming, I didn’t know what to do. Should I ask it to move, should I nudge it aside?
I did neither, instead I ran outside. The front door was the closest so out the front I went, oddly no snow. Upon reaching the yard I noticed that the whole world had new definitions. My first concern was relieving my bladder. The last tap came and I looked up and around with amazement. The sky was now a multiple of colors, flowing from red to green to yellow and more. It looked like a river in the sky. There were swirling patterns gracefully waltzing to the horizon. All the trees were strangely upside down shooting their roots in to the air and when I broke my silence in bewilderment the words came out backwards. The sun was rising in the west. Scanning about this odd new world I realized I wasn’t alone. Several of my neighbors all stood in their yards gazing as I must have, totally confused.

I ran over to Bill Stevens, my neighbor to the left, which was now right. Everything flowed in slow motion. It felt like an hour had past as I covered the 30 feet to where he stood and there was no sound. I felt as though I was underwater. I spoke to Bill and again everything came out backwards, yet he was able to understand me. I pinched his arm, to make sure this wasn’t a dream. He said it felt like a millions worms rushing to head. I told him to punch me in the stomach, he did knocking me to the ground. My body felt as though it had turned into a swarm of butterflies dancing in a tornado. The grass below me looked and felt like play dough run through a meat grinder.

I was starting to get frightened. I darted at the pace of a snail back to my house. Upon reaching the front door I was startled to find an Orangutan sitting on the door mat. “What the hell is going on,” I screamed. And oddly the Orangutan replied, “Nedrag eht ni s’ti.”

To the garden. I ran around the side of the house through the gate to the backyard. The garden that had been full of tomatoes, zucchini, corn was now sprouting small children from the soil. Their faces were covered in a grayish blue film. In the middle of the flowering babies stood the tiny humanlike creature I would come to know as Crete.