Corn Man: The Search for Torso

CHAPTER ONE

Barn smells.

That’s the first thing that greeted him in the morning. The subtle aroma of barn smells. Before he yawned. Before he opened his eyes. Before he was even conscious. 

Barn smells. 

It seeped into his dreams and annoyed him into wakefulness. It was not a pleasant alarm clock. That rural melange of dirt and hay and lingering mule crotch. It was, to put it politely, a pungent morning gumbo for the nose.

The presence of these barn smells made sense because he was, in fact, inside of a barn. A barn that he did not like. 

Before rising from bed, he took a brief moment to dislike the barn a little more. Then, he stood with a sigh and scurried across the barn-room floor. 

The barn itself was very much what you’d expect from a barn. Open floor plan. Classic hay pile in the corner. One of those big shovelly forky things hanging on the wall. Truly, without a doubt, the interior of this building was very much peak barn.

This perfect specimen of a barn also had eight wooden stalls for housing a variety of barnfolk (a.k.a. animals). However, these stalls were presently unoccupied. And so, he scurried past the tragically low number of zero barnfolk on his way to the bathroom.

This bathroom was technically not a room at all. It was really more of a nook. Also, it technically had no toilet. It was really more of a bucket situation. Regardless, he entered this bucket nook type area and did his morning business. 

Next to the bucket, a large mirror hung from the wall. He had successfully avoided looking into that depressing reality check for the past three days. Instead, his eyes had wandered to absolutely anywhere else. The floor. The wall. An enthralling patch of emptiness over there in the middle distance. These all caught his eye and diverted his attention. 

However, on this particular day he must have been feeling especially brave - or perhaps especially stupid - because he turned with reluctance to gaze at the reflection within.

Staring back at him was the sad, deflated scowl of a man. His rounded facial structure served as the canvas for two deep-set blue eyes that puffed with the echoes of a poorly slept night. His oval bone structure sharpened gradually at the base to form a fairly strong jaw chisel. However, at present, this masculine chin cowered behind the awkward length of several days beard stubble. 

All things considered, this face on its own was perfectly acceptable. In fact, It might have even passed for attractive if it weren’t for the completely god awful bowl-shaped haircut that surrounded it.

This brown hairstyle was harsh and foolish, and as such matched his demeanor precisely by half. He wished with all his might that he could cut off this unflattering mop and toss it back into the Renaissance era - or, perhaps, a bonfire - where it belonged. Sadly, he neither chose this hairstyle nor could he get rid of it. 

The bowl cut was easily his 4th least favorite part of his appearance. Just edging it out - in the Number Three spot - would have to be the pegleg. The smooth wooden rod served as his right leg from the knee down and added a cruel extra difficulty to his movements.

He gave the pegleg a slight jiggle of contempt before moving on to regard his second most detestable body part. At first glance, his left arm seemed normal enough. However, a quick study revealed the appendage was definitely not right. Or rather, it was right, it was just upside-down and on the wrong side of his body.

Imagine a right arm pulled from its correct location, flipped over and reattached to the left side. The result is a thumb that points down when it should point up and a palm that faces backward when it should face forward.

This is exactly what he had - two right arms placed on opposite sides of the body. It was as if he had been pieced together by a lazy god with nothing more at their disposal than a bag of leftover parts; and to be honest that is not too far from the truth.

Then, there was the big, yellow elephant in the room. The gold medal of this bizarre visual Olympics. It was such a glaring and notable feature that it probably should have been mentioned sooner. For you see, this person standing in the mirror - who woke not a few moments ago and scurried across the barn-room floor before going to the bathroom - was not just a man.

He was a Corn Man.

What is a Corn Man? It is pretty much exactly what it sounds like: a man that is part human and part corn. Or, more precisely, a man who has a corn cob for a torso. This conical corn torso is situated horizontally, with the human arms and legs jutting out sideways in a manner reminiscent of corn cob holders. The head, as one might expect, rests on top in the center of the cob. 

He stood maybe 4-and-a-half feet tall by seven-feet wide with arms outstretched. It was a ridiculous construction. Pathetic. Awkward. Embarrassing. And not at all on trend with the modern ideals of today’s human body standards.

“Lousy wizard,” he grumbled in anger. 

Having seen enough, he turned with a sigh to inspect a Twelve Months of Corn calendar displayed nearby.

Affixed to a wooden post via yellow thumbtack, the calendar hung open to the current month of Corn-tober. Above the grid of dates loomed the unsettling image of a young boy with an overly large smile. This boy’s eyes bulged with delightful anticipation as he stared at an unnaturally large ear of corn. The words “WOW CORN!” were written in Comic Sans next to him.

Corn Man lifted a stiff middle finger and quietly shoved it into the boy’s big, dumb face. Then, he picked up a green marker and drew an X through today’s date.

Seven days. According to the Xs on the calendar, he’d been in this barn for seven days. It felt much longer. Those days ran together into a hazy montage of crying and screaming; anger and sadness. 

Seven days ago, he awoke in this barn with this unfamiliar body. In those seven days, he’d experienced all five stages of grief; mourning the loss of a human torso that until recently, he’d scarcely appreciated or complimented. “Way to go, human torso,” he could have said. “You’re looking especially skin-covered today,” he might have preened.

Other than those vague, overarching emotions, he could remember few specifics from the past week. It was as if he had just awoken from a drunken 7-day grief bender. There were moments of clarity, of course. For example, a smashed wooden wheelbarrow lay in shambles near the structure’s front door. It served as a lovely decorative memento for when he’d smashed that wheelbarrow into kindling during the angry portion of his grief journey.

As of this morning, he’d finally settled into the “acceptance” phase of grief. No amount of bargaining or begging would return him to his previous human form. And there was no longer any chance this was all just a horrible dream. He was, in fact, trapped inside this idiotic body and teleported into this idiotic land.

As he pondered this, his eyes flicked to the doorway of the barn. A soft chime notification pinged into his ears, and the hologram of a yellow, hamburger-sized jumping spider appeared in front of him.

“Your journey awaits!” The spider said in an enthusiastic voice. “Are you ready to embark? Is today the day?”

“Shut up, Cobby.” Corn Man grunted.

“You got it!” replied the happy spider.

Corn Man attempted to wave away the arachnid, but Cobby just sat there, staring blankly back at him through his two primary oversized eyes. 

Below those eyes beamed a wide, ever-present smile that curled upward between two shiny downward-hanging corn niblets. These niblets served as his fangs, and quivered slightly when he talked.

Upon seeing this smile, Corn Man’s deep canyon of a frown eroded ever deeper. It was as if his mouth was unconsciously attempting to out-curmudgeon the creature’s perpetual optimism. Oblivious to this onslaught, Cobby responded by waggling his bulbous kernel-covered butt and plucking contentedly at the corn cob webs that served as his seat. 

Objectively, Corn Man could see that this spider was adorable, but he refused to admit it. As of seven days ago, any and all things that resembled corn had officially become worthy of contempt.

This was an unfortunate opinion to have, given that a wizard had very recently transported him into a corn-themed world that was filled with corn-themed things. 

Corn Man tried several more times to wave the spider away, but the hand gesturing interface had long-ago proven to be annoyingly unreliable.

“Ugh you are useless!” he groaned in frustration.

The spider’s chime dinged again. “Incorrect. I have many uses. My name is Cobby. I am the ISP - or Internet Spider Provider - for this barn. While you are here, it is my duty and privilege to help you understand…”

“I know, stop!” Corn Man shouted, attempting to cut off the introduction speech he’d already heard several times before.

“…how and why you have arrived in this distant, foreign dimension,” Cobby continued unabated. “You have entered into a legally binding contract with The Wizard. This contract outlines the requirements necessary to determine final ownership, in perpetuity, of one human male torso (Caucasian). Article One of this contract stipulates the physical appearance and dimensions of one equally usable loaner torso, as well as the…”

The spider droned on, but Corn Man was not listening. He turned away and walked sideways, like a crab, towards a small wooden cabinet against the opposite wall. He’d spent the first two days in the barn awkwardly stumbling around, getting used to his new elongated body shape. Due to the spread-eagle nature of his legs, he’d eventually concluded that scurrying side-to-side was the easiest way to get around.

He reached into the cabinet and pulled out a can of Corn Hug brand canned corn. The label for the can featured a photo of a man embracing a human-sized ear of corn. Clasping the man’s back was a disembodied third hand, suggesting a second person had been digitally removed (poorly) and replaced with the now-embraced corn image. The remaining man bore a similarly unsettling smile as the Corn-tober boy featured on the calendar. A tagline on the can of corn read “That warm corn feeling.”

Corn Man used a handheld can opener to remove the lid. Then, he tilted his head back and sipped slowly on the watery kernels. The cabinet was filled with these cans of Corn Hug, and they were all he had eaten in the past seven days.

Surprisingly, Corn Man had not grown tired of this repetitive meal. In fact, he found he’d grown to enjoy the familiar corn taste a bit more each day; much as a coffee aficionado becomes enamored and comforted by a favorite morning brew.

Across the room, Cobby was finishing up his extended legal diatribe. “…if said torso is not located and taken into possession within 3 months of arriving in Corn Land, then the original torso owner forfeits all rights to future ownership. These rights transfer irrevocably to The Wizard, at which point the opposing party shall remain in his or her replacement corn-shaped body for the duration of his or her lifespan. For additional informational, please refer to the available FAQ-”

“OKAY COBBY! I GET IT!” Corn Man spewed through a mouthful of corn. 

“Great! Glad I could help! Can I assist you with anything else?” replied Cobby.

“Um, sure,” Corn Man responded. “Can you do me a favor and please go to hell?”

“I wish I could help with that. Unfortunately, my security protocols prohibit me from leaving the interior perimeter of this barn-”

“GO AWAY COBBY!” 

“Okay, see you next time!” Cobby intoned before disappearing into the ether.

“Finally,” Corn Man muttered, relieved, at last, to be left alone with his comforting Corn Hug. As he slurped down the bottom half of the can, his mind ran back through the bullet points of this legal contract. 

Outside this barn was a vast, unfurling corn maze (officially spelled “Corn Maize” according to Cobby). If he found the exit, he would win back his human torso and be allowed to leave this godforsaken corn realm. Corn Man had three months to do so. Or rather, he now had three months minus seven days to do so.

Thinking over the past week, Corn Man realized three months was a peculiar amount of time. It is just long enough to feel both very close and very far away. Somehow, there was no urgency in a time limit that loomed so distant in the future. A one-week deadline to retrieve a torso screamed for action. A three-month deadline, apparently, allowed for some procrastination.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” Corn Man had kept telling himself. No one in their right mind, after all, is given a school project with such an extended timeline and begins working on it the very first day. That’s just stupid. 

Besides, the last many days had not been a total waste. There were a lot of big emotions that needed sorting out…and a new body that needed getting used to…and a wheelbarrow that needed to be hurled into a wall and smashed to bits.

It was all important work; just a part of his process. Better to get his bearings than rush out and immediately get lost or killed.

He had to admit he was feeling a little better today. His brain had stabilized and he’d finally accepted his fate. Perhaps today was the day to actually venture into the maize. He could leave right now, even. Or, maybe this afternoon.

As he pondered this, his mind flashed back to the drone footage Cobby had shown him on a previous day. It had started with an overhead view of the barn. Then, slowly, the footage zoomed up and outward, revealing a contorting and seemingly endless maze of corn. As the barn receded into a tiny dot, the Corn Maize grew larger and larger. It spread out in all directions, completely encircling his present location. 

The dizzying maize paths twisted and coiled into oblivion, colliding and folding in on each other like a feasting entanglement of 10,000 Ouroboros snakes.

“On second thought, I’d better start tomorrow,” he concluded. Just one more day of wallowing should do it.

Wallowing was a useful pastime, after all. There’s nothing like a good wallow to properly reset your central nervous system. It was important to remain calm in stressful situations, and wallowing was a solid low-stress activity. 

Pigs wallowed all the time, after all. And, of all the barnfolk, they seemed the most content. “Happy as a pig in slop,” the saying goes. And more than likely, those pigs were also in a pinnacle mental headspace to embark on a grueling and arduous quest that would require all or most of their pig strength and cunning.

“The smart thing to do is more wallowing,” he decided. “Best to do what the pigs do.”

And so it was decided; he would wallow for another day at least. However, as he skulked pathetically back in the direction of his bed, a loud “CRACK!” shook the walls and knocked him off his foot.

“WHAT TH-“ he yelped as the barn-rattling noises continued to ring out. “COBBY! WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

The spider dutifully blipped into existence, “A loud noise is detected.” 

“NOT HELPFUL!” Corn Man screamed, making his way to the lone barn window. A quick peek outside revealed nothing but corn stalks swaying in the morning breeze. Another CRACK rang out. He pushed his head outside and looked left along the side of the barn. Still nothing. Then right. CRAAACK! Corn Man turned his head just in time to see a man swinging a mighty axe into the side of the barn. 

“VILE STRUCTURE!” the man bellowed. “RETURN TO HELL!” 

“HEY!” Corn Man squealed, but the axe man either did not hear or did not care. 

“DIE YOU WRETCHED THING!”

Another axe blow hit the exterior wall. The man’s shirtless upper body rippled with muscles. His bald head glistened with sweat. He had no eyebrows and wore only the tattered remains of decaying black shorts. His trance-like eyes were an eerie milky yellow color. He heaved the axe down once more, this time piercing fully through the wall with a shattering rebound of splinters. 

“HEY! STOP!” Corn Man requested again. 

“TOWER OF SIN!“ the man shrieked. “YOU SHALL DIE BY MY HAND!”

Corn Man ducked back down behind the window. “COBBY! REPORT! WHO IS THAT?” 

“Searching the Web now!” replied the spider.

“WHO AM I!?” the assailant responded from outside.

A vicious fist pummeled through the side of the barn. The man’s face careened ominously into the room. His sneer clenched further. His eyes grew wilder.

“I AM THE RECKONING!” he answered, pulling away chunks of the splintered wood. 

“I AM THE DISCIPLE!” he decreed, reaching a shoulder inside to clutch wildly at the empty air. 

“I AM THE BARN HARMER!” he crescendoed before ripping his arm back through the hole. Without pause, the belligerent screams and axe sounds resumed outside.

Cobby’s voice rang out, “Web search complete: THE BARN HARMER. A religious zealot who hates barns. The last surviving member of a nomadic tribe, he blames the global shift to agrarianism for the fall of his clan. The barn is a symbol of this hatred.”

“THAT IS THE STUPIDEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD,” Corn Man shouted as he grabbed the shovelly forky thing off the wall and ran outside. From the doorway, his aggressor stood a good 30 paces away. 

“HEY, IDIOT! STOP!” he cried. “THAT’S MY BARN!” 

The Barn Harmer froze mid-swing. “YOUR BARN?!” he fumed, dropping his malicious gaze to the dirt. “WRETCHED ARCHITECT,” he whispered. Slowly, he turned the axe and pointed it at Corn Man.

“TRANSGRESSOR!” he shouted. “YOUR CREATION SHALL BURN!” 

The Barn Harmer raised the axe skyward. His bulging eyes followed, staring maniacally into to the open expanse of cloudless morning sky. “Lord grant me your light!” 

Overhead, a distant roar of thunder cracked. For a few brief seconds, the axe glowed with a sizzling halo of lightning. In that moment, he heaved the charged weapon into the side of the barn. Sparks flew as it connected, causing the splintered gash of wood to burst into flames.

Before Corn Man could process what he had just witnessed, the Barn Harmer turned and walked straight for him.

“HERETIC! BUILDER OF SIN!” the lunatic called out, breaking into a predatory trot.

“WHOA! Hey! Now wait!” Corn Man yelped immediately petrified by the direct threat to his own personal safety. 

“I WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN,” seethed the Barn Harmer. His pace quickened. He was now 20 steps away.

Corn Man clumsily raised his shovel fork, brandishing it in a pathetic show of aggression.

“STOP! Please. OR I WILL HURT YOU,” he lied.

“EARTH DEFILER!” accused the Barn Harmer. Now 10 steps away, he broke into a full sprint. 

“Crap! Stop…STOP!” Corn Man cried out, as he held his makeshift weapon up and prepared for impact.

“DIE SINNER!” shouted the sweaty, hulking man as he closed the gap. “YOUR JUDGMENT HATH COME!”

“AHHHhhhh!” screamed Corn Man.

The Barn Harmer leapt high into the air. In one swift motion, he swatted the shovel fork out of Corn Man’s hands and raised his axe overhead.

“AHHHhhhh!” screamed Corn Man some more.

Both the axe and attacker flung downward. Unarmed, Corn Man somehow managed to instinctively counter with the impressive maneuver of: he just closed his eyes really hard. Unsurprisingly, this defense was not enough. 

“THUNK!” the axe connected with its target. Corn Man opened his eyes to see the sharp metal blade lodged several inches deep into the center of his corn torso.

He screamed in shock. 

The Barn Harmer screamed in fury. 

These two dissonant screams filled the air, rising up and mingling with the smoke that billowed from the now-massive barn fire.

Simultaneously, the two combatants lifted their emotional gazes from the axe. With faces mere inches apart, still screaming, their unblinking eyes met. And then, inexplicably: 

POP!

The Barn Harmer disappeared. Gone. Vanished into thin air.

It happened so immediately and unexpectedly, that Corn Man continued screaming at nothing and no one for a good ten seconds. Eventually, his brain came to understand the deadly threat had somehow dissipated. Then, confused, he fell silent. 

He looked quickly to the left and right for his attacker, but the psychotic man was no where to be found. Then, he looked down. There, lying on the ground, was a small packaged toy.

Corn Man bent down and picked it up. It was an action figure. The odd, human-like character had a weird haircut and an even weirder body shape. It looked cheap and poorly constructed. The figure was maybe 4.5-and-a-half inches tall by 7-inches wide with arms outstretched. 

His jaw dropped as he fully absorbed what he was holding. The words on the box read “You Are Now Corn Man.” 

It was him. It was a Corn Man action figure.

Bewildered, he stared at the box. 

Then, he looked down at the axe sticking out of his chest. There was no blood and he felt no pain.

Then, he looked up at the barn. It was now completely engulfed in flames. 

After a moment, he looked back down at the action figure. Then, quietly, almost imperceptibly, he managed to summarize a million thoughts and emotions by whispering three short words:

“What the shuck?”