The "Zeke" Files

[Guest Jojo Demon]

Hello, my name is Jojo. My friend,Mari, and I are very distressed about a certain matter concerning Shaman King. It seems they had changed the name o our favorite villan character to something very absurd. We may seem obsessed but, really, we have nothing better to do and it made us mad so, her is our letter:


[center]The “Zeke” Files
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Dearly beloved fellow homo sapiens:

We have been dedicated observers of Shaman King for quite some time (approximately three lunar cycles, if we aren’t quite mistaken), and since we have limited access to the subtitled DVDs, we have been watching the Saturday morning version of it. However, it is with great regret that we inform you that a member of our posse has discovered a tragic flaw in the translation. It has come to our attention that the villain of the series, namely Hao, has been renamed. This in itself would not be as appalling had you given him a more…evil name. There are plenty to choose from. We know several, and would be happy to reveal them to you. However, we digress. The fact of the matter is, you did not give him an evil name, or even a normal, halfway decent name. You named him Zeke, which, once you think about it, is not a very appropriate name for an insane, domineering, villainous pyromaniac. Also of note, while Hao…er…ZEKE, had his name changed, Yoh retained his. We don’t believe that we need to express how odd it is that Yoh has a Japanese name while Hao has an English one. So, instead of being the twins Yoh and Hao, the hapless siblings are now Yoh and Zeke. To us, that just sounds a trifle…off. Back to the matter at hand, though: Zeke really isn’t a name that befits a villain. For your benefit, we have written and compiled a list of short stories that further demonstrates what the name “ZEKE” truly implies.

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Our first story starts off in a peaceful, sunlit valley. The ground is completely hidden beneath tall, shining stalks of wheat, which sway gently in the breeze. As the scene slowly turns and moves off in another direction, we can just barely make out an indistinct shape, standing alone amidst the grain. As we zoom in, the shape takes on the form of a decrepit old hovel. The wood from which the hovel is built is obviously ancient, as it is dingy and sagging. The sloppily applied whitewash is flaking off. On the dusty, rotting porch, there sits a spindly rocking chair, which creaks horribly as it moves back and forth. In the chair, there sits a lanky figure dressed in filthy, patched-up coveralls (but no shirt), placidly whittling away at a piece of wood that he holds in his grimy hands. His dirty-blond, unwashed hair has been cut unevenly, leaving numerous vast expanses of his scalp exposed. He wears no shoes, which only serves to display the grime and filth which cakes his feet, in addition to the thick, uneven yellow-and-brown toenails. Then, behind the “door” (which is in bad need of repair), a hulking, shadowed figure appears, looming menacingly as it surveys the scene on the porch. A few more seconds of silence follow, and then the door bursts open and simultaneously falls off its hinges. In the doorway, a surly, bulky, and somewhat hairy woman can be seen. She is around forty-five years old and is dressed in a grease-stained apron. What’s left of her hair is in curlers. Her feet are also bare, showing that she has six toes on one foot. She lets forth an enraged bellow, which startles the man on the porch out of his reverie.

“ZEKE!” hollers the woman. “Yew said yew was gonna take them littl’uns ta’ town this mornin’! Why aren’choo gotten gone yet?:”

“Gee, I’m sorry, Ma,” Zeke says apologetically, scratching his head and causing a few flakes of dead skin to fall from his scalp. “But I reckon yew said yew was gonna take ‘em.”
“I din’t say nuthin’!” bellows Zeke’s wife. “Now yew git yer lazy bum offa that there rockin’ chair and head on into town! I’m gettin’ mighty tired o’ them kids runnin’ around an’ causin’ all sorts o’ trouble! Now go!”

”Yes, Ma,” says Zeke sullenly.

[center]Well, that there’s the end of the first story, y’all.
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This one is yet another “sunny day” story. We start off at a bus stop. The filthy yellow vehicle has just pulled up, and dozens of squealing, chattering teenyboppers, all dressed in identical clothing and spouting the same “Gangsta’” talk, pile onto the bus. The doors close, and the bus is just about to leave, when suddenly, one can hear a frenzied scratching at the door, interspersed with occasional high-pitched wheezing. The bus driver, rolling her eyes, slides open the door, revealing a pasty, scrawny-looking boy, who is standing and wheezing in front of the bus. He climbs the stairs of the bus as slowly as humanly possible, his oversized, dirt-encrusted shoes flapping on his feet as he walks. He wears pants that are too short, exposing his mismatched socks. Attached to his pants are red suspenders, which clash horribly with his purple shirt. His face is very pale; the only things that lend color to it are four bright red blemishes that dot his forehead. His pale, mousy hair has been almost completely hacked off, save for a rattail which hangs down the back of his scrawny neck. As he boards the bus, puffing and panting, he proclaims, in a shrill, nasal voice, “HI EVERYBODY!” and a collective shudder runs through the other students.

One brave soul in the back utters: “Oh no, it’s ZEKE.”

“We thought you died,” pipes up another one, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.

“Nope,” Zeke squeaks, oblivious to his peers’ hostility. “The asthma attack put me in the hospital, but it turned out not to be fatal after all. How ‘bout that?”

Everyone groans.

*Hack* *Wheeze* The End *Snort*

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This story also starts off on a sunny day, although this time, we appear to be at a state fair. Scores of fat blobs with small stubby limbs are swarming all over the area, clutching hotdogs and cotton candy and jeering at one another, trying to find out which one is the fattest blob of them all. Unbeknownst to them, however, no matter how much they scarf, chomp, devour, ingest, stuff, gulp, and otherwise indulge themselves with rich fatty foods, they will never achieve the rank of the absolute fattest. For, surely, no one in the entire fairground, perhaps not even in the entire state, can compare with HIM. Who is this HIM we speak of? Who, you may wonder, is this imposing, magnificent, gargantuan mass of flesh? We shall soon find out. The view shifts to a gigantic table, laden with pies. There are three colossal stacks of pies lined up in a row, each one disappearing at a rapid rate. There are numerous spectators watching the event and cheering. The stack of pies in the middle is vanishing the most rapidly, and, as the pies decrease in number, we can see that behind them is a mammoth creature wearing a bib and an immense, grease-stained shirt from “Pete’s Pork Palace.” Despite the enormity of the shirt, it only manages to cover about half of his massive girth. His flabby neck and multiple chins quiver as he shoves more and more pies into his wide mouth. His puffy cheeks expand, much like those of a chipmunk, in order to accommodate the vast amounts of food contained within. His beady, piggish blue eyes, which are unusually close together, stare greedily at the pastries before him. The crowd, which is chanting his name, eggs him on still further. One by one, ten by ten, twenty by twenty, the pies disappear, until the middle stack has completely vanished, and empty pie tins litter the tabletop. The gluttonous behemoth triumphantly slams his bloated, chubby fist onto the table, snapping the wood in two. He then rips off his filthy bib, waving it above his head in victory, while the onlookers pump their fists and wave their hats, still chanting the victor’s name: “ZEKE! ZEKE! ZEKE! ZEKE! ZEKE!”

[center]The *burp* End
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Well, there you have it. Though you probably won’t be reading this, we just thought you’d like to know about the negative connotation of the name “Zeke.” So, even though many might not mind, please consider remedying the situation, for the sake of every Hao fan in existence at this time. If you don’t, we will continue to send you bizarre emails like the one above. “Zeke the Donkey” is one that comes to mind. We hope that this message has opened your eyes to the horror and utter rubbish that is Zeke. Thanks for your time!

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[right]-Sincerely yours,
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[right]Mari and Jojo
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All we really wanted to do was complain bu we decided that we wanted to give them some horrible stories to hant them.:laugh: :blowup: :fart:

[Charles]

I really don't know exactly what this is nor can I find a point to it. You're complaining about an anime to an anonymous audience by writing a letter composed of short stories. So what?

You're all over the place here. Do you want the stories to be critiqued? Do you want to talk about the anime? I suggest organizing your ideas in a more presentable and clear form. If you want to write short stories, use the Literature forum. If you want to talk about the anime, discuss it in the appropriate place in Anime Lounge.

I admire your attempt to be unique, but this thread has an identity crisis and the barrage of information mashed together doesn?t constitute a legible discussion.