Mark's Ark

Chapter 1

Cut to 100 years later. Thank God -metaphorically - for the powers invested in my by literary devices. Noah and Mark have a few more creases on their face but at 580 and 300, the Yacht (it's a Jewish name, promise) brothers were not the old men you'd expect them to be. Noah, more proper out of the two, had a short buzz cut and he'd toughened up a bit by working on a building a huge boat for the last 100 years. Mark was skinny, with disheveled and dark black hair, a patchy beard across his face. His eyes pushed out of his face a bit, giving him a constantly amazed look. A spry pair they were.

Noah's had three kids by now, two of them married, Japheth and Shem. The third one, Ham, was a moron, so Noah's hopes for his marriage were low enough to be satisfied with a goat. Not an ugly, goat-like woman. An actual goat.

Mark was still single and 'living the life', but he was just waiting for the right girl to come along. Someone that shared his passion for Mythocryptozoology, amongst other things.

The house was torn to a wreck. Half of it had been reutilized and turned into material for the enormous monstrosity of a boat being built behind it. Thankfully, they lived deep into the boring suburbs and people, in their apathy, either didn't notice, or didn't care as to what the neighbors did. Mark had frequently asked his brother what he was doing, to which Noah replied, 'Not much, just liking boats a lot.' He received a similar answer when Mark asked him about the enormous farm he'd set up where animals from all over were coming to stay.

The boat, wooden of course, was covered in a special substance from top to bottom. Noah had started proper construction not 50 years ago, so by his estimates Mark assumed he'd be done with this newfound hobby in about 40 or 50 more. Mark kept on having breakfast, reading Creatures of the Pagan World, that broke records for lengthiest subscription magazine, and wondering when he'd meet the right girl.

Eight years down the road now. Mark's dumbfounded by all the people Noah's hired. He disowned and sold his son, Ham, the moron, to be able to afford materials and wages. He's also rented out most of the house and the family - wife, kids, and their wives - has been sleeping in the Ark. Yes, Noah had taken to calling it the Ark and Mark couldn't find it more pretentious.

Mark was restless and packing. Not that he had a place in the Ark, he wouldn't want one either. But this morning Noah, with a strange look on his face, guilt perhaps, came to Mark and granted him a ticket, travel included to the Pagan Land of Monsters (later to be known as Australia). Mark had jumped like it'd suddenly become Christmas, or the Rite of the Sun God. He'd heard of this fabled land but as time passed he'd deemed it just wishful thinking by part of the Mythocryptozoologist Community, who were actually pretty weird and tended to live in basements.

Until today he thought the study of this science as a hobby, part of him thought there were no mythical animals, maybe not now, maybe not ever. Just pigs and donkeys and semi-interesting marsupials. But this made it real, this made it all real. The gods, the animals, the stories behind them.

So he packed and left, leaving behind the Ark, the Farm, the dysfunctional Yacht family. He could not thank Noah enough, but in some level he felt Noah wasn't proud of his actions. He said goodbye to Noah and Em (she disliked being called Emzara) and to the kids, whom he considered pricks, and their wives, pricks as well, and their kids, who were actually kind of nice.

So he took to port, looking forward to the two-year ride ahead of him towards the Pagan Land. He found his vessel, a old ship made of a thin-looking wood, but it held with such unbecoming grace that made it look the sturdiest out of all. He walked up, noticing the scratches of the names on the hull. One started with a weird S, the next with a G. The last one had apparently been tried a few times. Now it was only named 'Her.'

As he walked up a giant, rotund man greeted him. It wasn't much of a greeting, his eyes looked old and tired, a scar running from his cheek to his neck. Mark didn't bother to ask anything but his name. 'You can call me Mr. Frey', he said, retiring to his quarters.

Mark, never having been on a boat, and never having left the suburb where the Almighty happened to drop by a lot, considered this moment a magical opportunity. He stood at the edge, overlooking the waters, arms fully extended towards the sunset and screamed at the top of his lungs:

" I'm on a boat, motherfucker."