Firstly:
Like I need more than this to inspire an entire WORLD into existence
Now, I noticed this while watching a classic Steve Blackman bout on an old wrestling DVD and the inherent potential in the concept presented almost immediately. Clark The Forklift. He (Clark the Forklift) is a forklift, right? But also, in addition to being a forklift, he’s alive. The possibilities, the possibilities. He could get into all the kinds of situations a forklift gets into (moving things, being driven) but, from the vantage point of sentience, offer a hitherto unexplored perspective. Immediately my mind raced, and within the year I’d concocted the first of Clark’s adventures, presented to you in instalments beginning now. Read forth, my humans…
Clark The Forklift woke, as he always did, screaming. The wet trace of nightmare hung about his frontal lobe as he noticed his Sony MegaThirtyBird was ringing on the highest volume and had conspired with his subconscious for the rudest of awakenings.
“The president. Must be huge, to call at this hour.” It was 4 a.m., forklift time, and Clark thad work in a pair of hours. Fuck. He didn’t need this.
The rising sun, as twice cursed by Clark the Forklift
“Fuck”, he thought. He silenced the ringing as he picked up the receiver, somehow.
“Carl”, said the crumbly man of at least sixty, “it’s the president for you.”
“It’s Clark, Stewart. Clark. Look, just put him on, willya, I’ve got a hot date with a cold pillow and I don’t have time for these bureaucratic introductions.” Clark was at least a little annoyed, and moreso. That cheese had cost him most of a good night’s sleep and now the country’s most elected man was fixing to screw the rest of it.
“Sir, you’re through”. Stewart, the presidential aide and also good buddy, handed the olive green White House Phone to his good buddy and president, The President, who began to speak and said he thus:
“Clark, we need you, your country needs you, and most importantly, I, The President, needs you. Something’s gone down at the American Airport and we need something…else…moved. Now son, this something happens to be of particular size and weight and requires the talents of someone like yourself…” The President was cut off as Clark The Forklift yawned. You cannot imagine just what that looks like.
Clark, troubled but dignified in late-summer's orange...
“Cut the bullshit, The President. Just tell me where you need me and when, and what’s it’s costing you. There’s work needs doing here in Guadalajara Mexico, and I can’t cut and run for any less than a mil.”
“We’ll give you fifteen and a fresh coat of paint upon successful completion of the job, Clark.” Clark wasn’t so sure about the paint – late-summer’s orange suited him just fine – but the fifteenening of his fee was not to be sniffed at, had he a nose, which he did not have.
“Fifteen it is, sir. So like I said…where and when?” By this stage the sun had begin to rise. Silently, Clark cursed its expressionless, burning face for being so Goddamn happy to be up so Goddamn early. “Fuck”, he not silently also cursed.
“Pardon me son?”
“Forget it, suit-man. Just give me my Gog gamn girections.” When Clark was agitated he took on the cadence of a dummy. Given his self-awareness as a living vehicle, he’d just put it down to one of Gog’s little mysteries. Getting his priorities right was something he’d prioritised.
“Stewart will give you the details. I appreciate it… little brother.” With that, President The Forklift handed the phone back to his assistant, whispering “try and get his name right, for my sake.”
“Yes sir”, replied the lackey. “Clark…you got a pen and paper?”
To Be Continued…
