Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Jackie Chan Angel

By Wol-vriey


You’re stopped on Sunset Boulevard by an angel who looks like Jackie Chan.

“Ninja Turtles?” he says, which means: “Dude, where’s your damn license and registration?” His wings flap angrily behind him like they’re beating you up.

You look for your papers, but then realize both that you’ve forgotten them at home and that you’re driving your wife’s car instead of yours.

You call your wife. The phone rings in the purse of one of three middle-aged women draped in the stars and stripes a few feet away.

The woman answers her phone: “Yes hon?”

She’s not your wife, but it occurs to you that she’ll do for now. “I need you to talk to the cops dear.”

You put the phone on speaker.

“Ninja Turtles?” Jackie Chan Angel says.

“It’s because the thanksgiving turkey was overdone,” the stars-and-stripes woman replies.

You somehow know her response has gotten you into big trouble.

Jackie Chan Angel arrests you. Unable to fit his wings into your car, he pulls them off and glues them onto the hood. They make fantastic hood ornaments.

He gets in. The three stars-and-stripes draped women walk over and climb into your car also.

“Hi dear,” you say to the one you’re borrowing as wife for the moment.

“Shut up and drive,” Jackie Chan Angel says, breaking off a chunk of hamburger from your headrest and sharing it with the ladies in the back.


At the traffic lights near the police station, you hit a speed bump and your car melts down into a metallic ocean.

The three stars-and-stripes women take to the sky, transforming into jets launching from the deck of the aircraft carrier the USS Jackie Chan.

They circle overhead, dive-bombing you with stars and stripes which illuminate the night skies of your presidential inauguration.

“I pledge to uphold the constitution of the United States of America . . . !” you cry to the faceless fish multitudes rendered homeless when the sea metallized and gasping out their last breaths on its silver surface. “. . . one of the priorities of my administration will be to provide low cost aquariums for all . . . free plankton for elementary schools of fish . . .”

All the fish stare back at you, rendered speechless by the legislative loopholes stuck in their throats.

Your troubles are only just beginning. The jet-women launch again from the USS Jackie Chan.

“Get that damn traitor!” one screams.

You consider your lack of political clout. Shit! If you can’t be president of the USA, you can at least get away.

You turn and flee, running with all your might to escape, but your legs run heavy, as if they’re dreaming.

The choking fish regard you in horror, knowing if you can’t escape this mess you’ve made of things, no-one can.

“We’re all gonna fry!” one manages to gasp.

The fish flops violently and dies, its last words ringing horribly in your ears.

In desperation, you call your wife, your real wife this time, and finally get through to her.

“Ninja . . .”

“There’s too much stuffing in the turkey!” she interrupts you angrily.

You know this means you’re going to die a coward’s death in a foreign country. Maybe Cuba.

You sight her--your real wife--on the deck of the USS Jackie Chan. She’s dressed in an admiral’s uniform, over which she’s wearing an apron and pink oven gloves, and carrying a roast photograph of you.

The three middle-aged women-jets now swoop in for the final assault--exploding stars and stripes splash the molten flow all round you.

Then you sight Jackie Chan Angel’s wings fluttering over the silver water a short distance away. You jump and grab the wing’s feet with your teeth, not caring that they’re bloodstained.

The wings try to shake you off, but you cling on.

“The turkey’s in the oven!” you sign with your hands.

The angel wings understand this to mean ‘hit warp speed for Chinese Heaven’. They soar off into the inauguration night, with you literally holding on for dear life.

Below you, the three middle-aged women peck the surface of the ocean for Abraham Lincoln clones. Then they start arguing over which of them will be Secretary of State in the new administration.

The homeless fish take refuge in their shadows, glad to be unnoticed and uneaten.

“Be home in time for dinner dear!” Admiral Real Wife yells, waving from the deck of USS Jackie Chan.


Jackie Chan Angel’s wings beat powerfully, pulling you up closer and closer to Chinese Heaven.

Once there you will pray to Chinese God and after transcending yourself, return to Earth to save the fish trusting in you for deliverance.

But you’re getting vertiginous.

Thankfully, you don’t wake up. You pray you never will.

The End


Bio: Wol-vriey is Nigerian and quite tall. He currently resides in a state of uneasy stalemate with his threatening-to-thin-beyond-redemption hair, and believes there actually are things that go bump in the night. Wol-vriey recycles the ridiculous into reasonable reality for the reader.

His WEIRRRD philosophy? WEIRRRD = Warp/Write Everything into Realistic Ridiculous Readable Distorted Dream Dimension Descriptions.

A free PDF of his WEIRRRD book “Invasion Of The Ass Chickens” can be downloaded from his blog:

He’s also the agent provocateur behind the band Rocksurface (

1 comment:

  1. My brain melted just a bit when I read this. Nice work.