The
Problem of The Interfering Fiction
A story by Cory Kutschker
(Still in process, very much not finished)
Somewhere, where two metal staircases wound
almost endlessly upwards and stacks of books cast long, dim shadows upon a
dusty and rough floor, there sat a man named Jack. He was writing a novel. And
by the crumpled and ripped bits of paper that lay around him, he could tell
that he was failing. His fingers ached from typing on the cold steel keys of
the typewriter that he had recovered from the dumpster. His back protested from
being hunched over for several hours and his bum was in agony from being
presented with uncomfortable ridges on an overturned milk crate. He had several
ideas regarding his introduction; this included a verbose narrator that was
currently describing his misery, but figured that somebody had undoubtedly
written that already. He even searched the floor for that particular ball of
paper to amuse what he presumed was a male narrator. However, he still
did not have interest in the exhausting effort it would take to write a boring
and pretentious story exploring reality and the merits of choice, so he
resisted. Suddenly, he had an idea. He started typing out an outrageous and
comedic introduction regarding a man and his pet poodle, when the bell rang.
Jack was startled. He did not think that his place was outfitted with a
doorbell and also pondered how amazing it was that in his universe a doorbell
had magically appeared. He was also equally amazed that somebody would even
consider coming to his door. Nevertheless, he got up, picked out some boogers
from his nose, slicked back his hair, and proceeded towards the door. He opened
the door, but only a crack. Through the thin sliver, he saw the superbly lithe
figure of Samantha, his landlord, who had been spending the majority of the
month working up the nerve to evict Jack. Inside, Jack was conflicted. He was
remarkably attracted to her and yet suspected that she was not here on a social
call.
“Hello?” he answered timidly.
“H-hi” Samantha faltered.
“What do you want?” Jack replied. He regretted
being so rude and tried smiling, thereby revealing two rows of absurdly crooked
teeth coated by a sheen of plaque. Samantha curled her lip, reminded herself to
be professional, and formed her mouth to resemble something like a smile. She
tented her fingers together and gained her composure.
“I have not received the last three month’s rent
from you so I…you are being evicted.”
“What?” Jack threw the door open wafting his
putrid body odour and revealing the fact that he only had a bathrobe, which was
far too short. It thereby revealed his two grotesquely hairy legs and barely
covered the fact that he only had a skimpy pair of white underwear beneath the
robe. Professional, Samantha thought
to herself and took a step back away from the door frame, baring her teeth as a
supposed smile.
“I expect you to be vacated by the end of the
day tomorrow.” With that she turned, winced, walked down the stairs and nearly
tripped over a large squeaky toy that was placed there by some predilection of
the narrator who had far too much time on his hands and enjoyed watching his
characters squirm. In fact, he enjoyed it so much that in 5 seconds, which is the time it ought to take to read
this significantly long sentence, when Jack stepped back to his reading
station, he stepped on some rather sharp thumbtacks and banged his head upon a
bookshelf and fell headlong into his typewriter. Jack got up. He took a seat
upon his milk carton and angrily began typing.
This is
a story about an author who took bizarre and sadistic satisfaction from his
characters suffering. Every day he would sit down on the keyboard possibly at
his desk or even at his kitchen table, which doubled as a collection area for
important papers and other rubbish. At the far right quadrant of the table he
had two plant pots which had two shoots of bamboo each and a few sprouts of
ivy, which he loved dearly. He often wondered how the bamboo, in the larger of
the two, always started to turn yellow at the top. This was a frequent
distraction from his writing as he would often stretch and turn his gaze that
way; also, perhaps if he was a little thirsty, he would take a small swig of
egg nog from the glass to his right, as it was the season for that sort of
thing.
There
is no real explanation for the poor treatment of his characters. Some had
attested it to poor sleep patterns. Others suggested that it may have been some
sort of psychological issue, like he was lashing out due to boredom, or that he
was deeply frustrated with some decision in his life. But whatever the cause,
he showed no sign of relenting his unfortunate pleasures.
Jack yawned, he had not slept for at least 48 hours
and had visible bags underneath his eyes. So, as much as he despised stopping
in the midst of a good stream of writing, Jack trudged up one of the staircases
and collapsed onto his cot exhausted and stressed, unsure of how he would
manage to find a place to stay. But somehow despite all these difficulties Jack
fell asleep.
Samantha was rethinking her eviction of Jack.
Was she perhaps too harsh? After all, Jack had come to her looking for a cheap
place to stay. Would she find another tenant more forthcoming than him? It was
unlikely that someone who had a steady job would consider living in such a
squalor. Immediately, Samantha was struck with an idea. Perhaps, if she could
use the space to gather some other kind of income then she could retract her eviction
and assuage her pleading conscience. But in what way could she use that room?
Another brute idea struck her hard nearly causing a headache. She could turn it
into a used bookstore! It was such a perfect and obvious idea that she wondered
why she had not thought of it before. She had owned the building for 3 years
already and Jack had only taken up that room in the last year. The stacks and
stacks of old smelly books had come with the place and she had no time to do
anything about it. Jack did not mind it and he had informed her of his career
aspirations of being an author. Of course, she did not believe that he would
reach that goal. Yet because of her conscience she gave him the room in its
wretched condition. She shivered at her encounter with him earlier. His
appearance was crude and uncomely. He did have a bathroom on the second level
at the back. It was complete with a shower, toilet, sink and mirror. So there
clearly was no cause for his gross lack of personal hygiene. How would Samantha
operate such a business with a man that had no concept of soap or a toothbrush?
Is there a way to kindly inform him of his appearance? Samantha shrank in
anticipation of another blow from an idea, but nothing came. Another thought
came to her while she slowly relaxed. Why was it that inspiration came so violently?
It was truly odd that such a thing should change so drastically at such a turn
in her life. Samantha shook off the thought and got ready for bed.
After she had dragged a brush through her hair
and brushed her teeth, she climbed into bed. She would have missed the book
that had suddenly appeared on her night stand if it had not fallen over with a
loud thwack! The loud noise caused Samantha to let out a little shriek and a
small giggle over being so easily startled. Samantha picked up the book. It was
titled, “How to Kindly Suggest the Necessity of Personal Hygiene, and other
timely suggestions by interfering narrators.” What an odd title, she thought to herself. Calmly, she opened to
the title page and looked for the author. Stranger
and stranger, the author was simply named as, “The Council of Interfering
Narrators.” Shaking her head in dismay, she turned to the first chapter and
started reading the first sentence, “Starting a used book store can be tricky.”
Incredibly relevant, Samantha
thought. She continued on, “And it will be trickier, if your tenant, Jack,
parades around in a bathrobe without showering or brushing his teeth.” Samantha
screamed and threw the book across the room, where it
lay open and face down, its pages splayed out. “Evil demon book!” She cried
out. She did not sleep until two hours later. She also left her lamp on for the
first time in her adult life for an irrational fear of that book later
scuttling up onto her lap while she was sleeping. Unfortunately, this last bit
of narration was not done silently and caused Samantha to have a deep and
undulating shiver. Her subconscious was so affected that her dreams started to
grow several pairs of segmented legs and crawl around in her head. And in her
sleep she balled up into a fetal position until daybreak.
Jack was also dreaming. But, unlike
Samantha, he was dreaming of an empty and dirty alley that tormented him.
Anything that was familiar neglected him. The books that were such a part of
his life marched past on the sidewalk. Not a single book wobbled down the alley
to see him forlorn and tired. Not a single one took pity. And not a single one
took a side glance as they wobbled by. He just sat there, watched, and
whimpered. He even got up to look around for his faithful friend the
typewriter, but it was nowhere to be found. It was not even in the dumpster,
where he expected to find it. He was absolutely and completely alone.
Samantha was the first to wake up.
She expected that the foolishness of a book being so personal must have been a
hallucination, a mere outcry of her conscience. She was wrong. As she looked up
past the foot of the bed, she could see the book sitting up, leaning against
the wall, its title facing her. It was not a figment of her imagination, nor
was it a hallucination. It sat there almost amused, staring her down, daring
her to open its pages again. It turned into an hour long staring contest, a
match of wits. Oh for goodness sakes! Samantha
thought as she broke her gaze from the book. This is absurd, I am afraid of a book. Yet, as she walked towards the book there was
a small amount of trepidation in her. Her hands shook as she reached out to
pick it up.
Jack woke up screaming, “Don’t do
it!” No, he was not thinking about Samantha nor did he have some sort of
precognition or narrative omniscience. It was a nightmare. And all that he could recall of it was somebody
smashing his typewriter against the wall. It was so vivid that Jack felt the
urgent need to assure himself that his only real valuable possession was still
intact and indeed remained where he left it. And so, greatly relieved to find
it there, Jack let out a hefty sigh of relief and proceeded to sit down for
more typing.
The
author in this story, who shall be called William, was writing a story
containing two major characters, Jack and Samantha. Jack was a superbly
delightful and enchanting individual, once you got to know him. And Samantha
was a beautiful and stunning piece of work who enjoyed braiding her hair. While
these two wonderful characters were indeed simple people seeking out simple
pleasures, William seemed to have no other meaningful activity than the unfortunate
puppet mastery of their worlds. In fact, he was so enthralled by his child like
mastery of them, it was almost as though he had no sense of plot altogether.
Jack was distracted by the dull
noise of a grainy surface sliding and then the dull noise of several hard
objects hitting the floor above him. In curiosity, he leapt up from his seat
and ambled up the metal stairs. A stack of books had fallen over and was now
scattered along the floor. He should have considered himself lucky as one
particularly ragged copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
lay teetering at the edge underneath the guard rail and was threatening to
fall precisely on the location where he so previously sat. Jack picked up the
hardcover. He had not read many of the classics and perhaps this one would give
him some hints on character development. So, stacking some books together five
high and two squared, Jack sat down on his makeshift seat and began reading,
relishing what he supposed to be the last day that he would have in his place.
Samantha picked up the book. Nothing
happened. She checked to see if there was a table of contents, which to her
disappointment was non-existent. Samantha started fanning the pages and noted
something odd. A kind of old style animation played out with every page that
flipped past. It started with several arrows pointing to a five bullet point
list and grew more demanding as she drew closer to the end. It read like this:
You—Really—Ought—To—Read—This—It—Is—Exceptionally—Important!
Very well, she thought. She flipped
to the second page and began reading the first point.
Jack had nearly finished reading the
second chapter when a sudden whooshing sound exuded from downstairs near the
front door and was quickly followed by a sharp thud. Jack did not like damaging
books so he carefully placed his index finger where he stopped and held the
book closed with his thumb and middle finger. He then proceeded down the stairs,
grabbed a fragment of an old story to use as a bookmark, and then placed the
book carefully on his milk carton. He then went to investigate what had caused
the noise.
The first thing he noticed was that there
was now a pneumatic tube mail system installed by his front door. The second
thing he noticed was a large tube roughly two inches in diameter and two feet
in length lying on the floor. Jack picked it up and popped off the lid. Inside,
he encountered a rolled up piece of paper that was addressed to him.
Dear Jack:
As a member of the
council of interfering narrators, I am writing this letter to you on behalf of
a cherished and troubled character.
Below,
you shall find a set of instructions that are numbered so you shall not err in
following them. Please do each of these specifically in order and to the letter
so that our little story may proceed.
1.
Take this and the tube that you
hold in your right hand up to the bathroom on the second floor at the back.
Jack
was both struck by the specificity of the instruction and felt that his privacy
was violated. Yet he followed the first instruction and clambered up the stairs
and walked into the bathroom, where his reflection greeted him and blinked
expectantly. Jack was horrendously creeped out but continued on to the next
instruction.
2.
Look into the mirror and say the
following statements (Be sure to enunciate clearly):
“Beach teeth”
“Cheese clean”
“Leech peal”
Jack
felt that these instructions were unremorsefully absurd and failed to see what
would be accomplished by uttering such foolish things. His reflection felt
otherwise and gestured for him to say the words. So Jack reluctantly
entertained the idea and started saying each of the quoted statements carefully
and eloquently, baring his snaggled teeth at every double e and homophonic
“ea”. The light reflected grotesquely off the coat of plaque but Jack did not
notice, but his reflection did. It curled its lip and silently gagged. This
reaction is what got Jack’s attention. “What are you looking so sickly for?”
Jack demanded, shouting at the pane of glass. His reflection, looking somewhat
cross, pointed sharply at its and his teeth.
There are seldom many things that can
cause such a sudden shame or embarrassment as one’s appearance and or poor
personal hygiene. And Jack nearly fainted once he became aware of just how
terrible condition his teeth were in. Samantha
must hate me Jack thought. He stood hunched over the sink for several
minutes shaking. His hands were gripping the sides of the basin. His reflection
was not willing to allow him to wallow in self-pity. In fact, it grew so
impatient and agitated that it started to shake the mirror vigorously. Jack
wearily looked up. His reflection was vehemently pointing to the objects beside
him. The mailing tube lay on the top of the toilet tank and the letter was just
below on the lid. Jack picked up the letter and continued to the third
instruction:
3.
Inside the tube you will find
the following items:
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Soap
Shampoo
Take each item out and
place them in their respective places. The toothbrush and toothpaste can be at
the sink. The soap and shampoo can be placed somewhere in the vicinity of the
bathtub, perhaps on the shelves that are just below the showerhead.
Jack
picked up the tube and placed each item accordingly then proceeded to the rest
of the instructions, which most definitely included brushing/flossing his teeth
and taking a long, hot shower (soap and shampoo included).
Chapter 2
The Bank
Mr. Varnelle looked like a rat. He had a terrible overbite, which did not help
his customers avoid staring at his rectangular and long front-row teeth. He had
a long and thin nose on which a pair of spectacles rested precariously. And it
did not help his image at all that he had a natural tendency to slick back his
hair, which exposed his large forehead.
It was this countenance that Samantha stared at for five minutes,
mouth agape.
“eesh
there shomething I can help yew with mishesh? He questioned her with his
eyebrows raised.
“Yyess,
I would like a loan to start a business.”
“ewwwkay,
do yew have appropriate collateral?”
“Yes,
I-I think so, maybe?”
Mr.
Varnelle stared at her incredulously over his glasses.
“Car?”
“No.”
“Property?”
“No, er yes.”
“What property do you have?”
“A couple apartment blocks in downtown
core.”
“And what kind of business dew yew want to
start?”
“A used book store.”
“No.”
“No
what?” Samantha demanded.
“Your
loan is rejected.”
“But
I need that money!”
To this, Mr. Varnelle sat up straight with an expressionless face
and said, “I am dearly sorry miss, but perhaps you should write a letter to the
council of interfering narrators.” As he said this, he withdrew a white
business card from his front pocket and extended it towards her, which she
grabbed quickly. Samantha stared in disbelief towards what seemed like a
complete shift in character and an unbelievable, clear display of omniscient
knowledge, which was absurd. She managed a half-smile, which only somewhat
masked her horror, and slowly backed out of Mr. Varnelle’s office. As she walked down the street, Samantha took
a look at the business card in her hand. It had a simple format. It read:
The
Council of Interfering Narrators
Are you a suffering character? Is life too
unfair?
Write us a letter, and we will know about
it!
Samantha was driving home. Her mind was distracted to say the
least. All her thoughts were circulating
around the last 24 hours and the bizarre things that had transpired. Am I going
crazy? Samantha thought to herself. Should I be consulting a psychologist? I
should think that he or she would undoubtedly call me crazy. In fact, Samantha
was tremendously uneasy about being declared crazy and did everything in her
being to avoid it. In the meantime, Samantha was significantly unaware that the
once green light had shifted from amber to red and that a license plate reading
UR2 CL0S had stopped abruptly. She pushed hard on the brakes but was too late
as her car slid and crunched into the back end of the car ahead. Now Samantha
should consider herself lucky, for the figure behind the wheel of the car was
not ill tempered and dealt mercifully in regard to the unfortunate fender
bender. Yet, while they exchanged information, Samantha was even more unsettled
by this, another financial setback.
Samantha made it the rest of the way home and began pacing the
hallway muttering to herself, Should I? If I do write this letter, is that
like giving in? Do I officially become crazy? Let’s just say that you are
testing it out. Great, now you are speaking collectively. Samantha sighed,
shook her head ashamedly, sat down at her desk, and began writing.
To The Council of Interfering Narrators:
If you do truly exist, you will know that I am growing increasingly
anxious and paranoid and feel as though that I am going crazy. If you do truly
exist, you will know the financial concerns I have. And, if you truly exist you
will know that I am looking to you to amend this current situation.
Sincerely,
Samantha
Templeton
Not a moment later, the doorbell
rang. Samantha stood up and went to the door and opened it, suspicious of what
may be on the other side. On her doorstep was a mild mannered postal worker who
simply nodded at her and held out an envelope bearing her name and address in
exquisite cursive writing, which she took slowly with disbelief. The postman
walked away without a word. Samantha walked back inside, closing the door,
behind her, went to her bedroom and opened the letter slowly, while sitting
down on her bed. She began reading.
Dear
Samantha Templeton,
Thank-you
for contacting us! First of all, be assured that you are not crazy and that we
do exist. We, The Council of Interfering Narrators, would be pleased to help
you in any manner possible and are exceptionally aware of your financial
predicament.
Our
longstanding policy with a character’s financial matters has undergone changes
over the years. It is no longer acceptable to use the “death of a loved one” trope
to solve financial troubles. Nor is it acceptable for a mysterious stranger to
come along with an envelope of money. You do not know anyone who has a drug
trade, neither do you have ways of gaining money by illicit means. This is
simply not that type of story.
All
we can say is wait and your financial crisis shall be absolved. All of us at
The Council of Interfering Narrators would like to wish you well and a happily
ever after.
Sincerely,
The
prestigious secretary of narration affairs
Upon
finishing reading the letter, Samantha sighed and took a nap.
Jack was sitting in a dentist chair.
How he was going to pay he didn’t know. All he knew was that at a whim he went
in to their office and found that there was an opening at the present time. There
was not a great deal to look at on the wall, so he found himself looking at the
various torturous tools at the dentist’s disposal. Jack wasn’t even sure with
all these tools and any method available that his old picket fence teeth would
be fixable. Certainly he would need orthodontics. This would make the economic
outlook just that much more bleak. Just then, he gave a defiant glare at the
ceiling as though some maligning narrator was audibly causing him grief. It was
then that the dentist walked in. “Hello!” He greeted in a remarkably
pretentious jovial manner.
Wait;
Hold on just a moment. I just received a letter from the Council of Interfering
Narrators.
It
says:
Dear
Author/Narrator,
Thank-you
for your continued work on this story. It is an exceptional story with
harrowing circumstances.
We
have been reviewing the last paragraph and it has fallen short of our
expectations. It is not in accordance with our policies.
1.
Section A 56.7 A character may
not be placed in a situation where he or she is unable to pay within his or her
means if they are in full knowledge of there inability of doing so and walking
into said situation.
2.
Section A 56.9 If a situation
is remedial for the cause of the character, a sufficient explanation must be
given for sudden means of payment of the aforementioned situation. (See our
manual for Acceptable Tropes: Finding
Money)
Thank-you for your
attention in this matter!
Sincerely,
Rose Parcemthin
Chief of the Department
of Author affairs
Very
well, I have amended that last paragraph. Here is the new one.
Jack was fussing over his appearance. He had tucked in his shirt,
cleaned up his beard, and tied back his hair. He even practiced smiling.
Although it often faltered once it revealed his awkward teeth. He had typed out
a resume, which was short. But Jack maintained a fragile hope of getting a job.
He was not even quite certain where to look or what he even wanted to do. Every
career choice seemed ambivalent. Would he have to give up on his dreams of
becoming an author? He had mailed a publishing company 5 weeks ago and there
was still no answer from them. No matter,
he thought. He would first get a real job and maybe even a haircut. And so,
with one more stare into the mirror, Jack walked downstairs and out onto the
sidewalk. He had taken no more than one step before five stringy armed hippies
surrounded him.
“You have to come with
us dude” said one that was wearing purple-tinted tea shades.
“Why…why would I come
with you?” said Jack awkwardly.
“Because we’ve got to
show you the light dude” said another sporting a vivid purple bandana.
“You’re behind on
payments, aren’t you Jack?” Jack spun around. Standing before was much younger
and stockier man with long straight hair and austere complexion.
“How do you know my
name?”
“We know a lot of
things Jack. Aren’t you curious as to the odd things that have been happening
in the last 24 hours?
“Yeees…but.”
“You see this wad of
cash? The man asked while fanning a thick bundle of bills. Jack nodded.
“We have money. In fact,
your rent is already taken care of.”
“Okay” Jack assented.
The young man nodded, and they guided him down an alley.
A half hour later, Samantha was at Jack’s door. She knocked on his
door several times, waiting several minutes in between. Eventually she gave in
and fumbled through her bunch of keys and found the one for Jack’s place. Upon
walking in, was an odd thing. Standing in the middle of the entry way was a
small round table. Upon it was a small but surmountable stack of bills and a
note in front. It read:
For
the months of rent and a bit extra.
Samantha stood for a few minutes
extraordinarily flummoxed, and her mouth agape. In fact, if it weren’t for the
author causing a book to drop and land with a loud bang, she would have stood
there indefinitely. So, after she sorted herself out. She picked up one of the
stacks which easily amounted to 500 or more dollars and dropped it into her
purse. Looking up, she noticed that the floor was clean. Gaining even more
curiosity, she wandered upstairs and looked into the bathroom. The first thing
she noticed was how the bathroom was far cleaner than when she initially rented
the place. The second thing she noticed was a folded piece of paper resting on
the left edge of the sink. Upon unfolding the paper, she gasped. She was not
the only person addressed by this “Council of Interfering Narrators”. However,
she was uncertain as to whether this was a great comfort or that this held
perhaps an unsettling implication that was just evading her understanding.
Another stream of thoughts came to her. How had Jack come up with that amount
of money? And where is he?
The only significant source of light
in the basement was a dim incandescent dangling by its wires. Jack could make
out an assortment of odd equipment for extraordinarily dubious purposes.
Everywhere was a mess of wires, monitors, keyboards, and crude metallic
structures that appeared as bizarre head instruments. Whether they were to be
worn willingly, Jack did not know.
The five men sat across from him at
a small table. Nothing was said en route to this abysmal basement; neither was
anything said for the next five minutes. They just stared at him. It was the
young man who started speaking.
“What
do you know about your writing Jack?”
It
was a simple question, but Jack found it disturbing to say the least. How did
he know his name? And how did he know about his writing? Jack smiled weakly and
asked,
“Could
I have some water?”
The
young man motioned at one of the men. Who stood up and proceeded upstairs and
came down with a tall glass of water 3 minutes later, which was placed on the
table and slid over to Jack who drank half and set it down. The young man
continued.
“Darrel
here...” The young man motioned towards the man with the tea shades.
“….
Was the one responsible for your rent being taken care of.” Darrel half-grinned
and nodded towards Jack who slowly nodded in return.
“In
fact…” He nodded to Darrel who moved and sat down in front of a dormant laptop
and started typing.
“Give
him some straight teeth.”
This is a further amendment to
Jack’s appearance by the author’s expressed consent allowing Jack to have
straight teeth. As he sat in front of the group of men Jack began to feel an
odd movement in his gums as though something was shifting. The young man held
up a mirror revealing an otherworldly and fantastic image. Jack’s teeth were
indeed straightening as well as reshaping. And then the pain hit. He clamped
his hands over his mouth as he howled in dire agony.
It should be noted here, that while
the author would indeed make an excellent dentist, his supreme success would be
equally met with an almost expected resentment for his nonexistent use of
novocaine. After the pain subsided, Jack collected himself and coolly asked,
“So,
what is your name? Why are you doing this? I mean—are you guys Scientologists?”
Jack
gestured towards the odd devices. Although, Jack knew perfectly well that these
men were not, in fact, Scientologists. Even though these men were
technologically savvy and unbelievably bonkers, he knew that they were
unaffiliated and unhinged in an entirely other part of their brain. The young
man was silent for a couple seconds. He and the others then began hooting and
hollering in an absurd display of raucous laughter, uttering indiscernible bits
like:
“H’
sai’ sci.” and “Li’ To’ Cru’.”
Noticing
Jack’s unamused countenance, they settled down and wiped the tears from their
eyes.
The
young man began:
“My
name is Jacob. And no…” Jacob chuckled, “We are not Scientologists as you say. We are a special interest group that
wishes to help characters, like yourself, to get what they want.”
“And
just what is it that you think I want?” Queried Jack.
“Happiness,
isn’t that what everyone wants?”
“So,
how is it that you are able to do, that?”
“Ah.”
Jacob raised his eyebrows. “That.”
“A
while back Daryl discovered an extra-planar differential in the substance of,
well, everything!”
“It’s
crazy, man!” Daryl interjected. “We can totally change stuff just by writing
about it!”
Daryl
stared at Jack wide eyed with his left eyelid flickering at random intervals.
Little did Jack
know, all these men had, at alternate times, taken gargantuan amounts of LSD
and were all complete idiots. Of course, he knew about the introduction to the
story he wrote about the author effecting his misery. However, he had simply
thought that he was writing a story. How was he to know that his description of
the author’s living room table was accurate right down to the last bamboo
plant? This is obviously absurd. After all, he had gotten the author’s name
wrong hadn’t he? It’s there at the top of the first page: The Problem of The Interfering Fiction, A story by Cory Kutschker.
It should be noted that characters cannot hold
some god-like omniscience over the author’s reality. Unless, by some fanciful
madness the author wishes it; but where is the merit in that? I digress.
Jack was blissfully ignorant of this fact as well as their idiocy. And
given that he was just witness to an almost immediate overhaul of his teeth, he
was quite confident in their testimony. In fact, he was so confident that he
said this:
“So,
what can I do?”
The
men exchanged excited glances.
“Alright.”
Said Jacob, “Have you been in contact with The
Council of Interfering Narrators?”
“Yes.”
Said Jack, “They were remarkably helpful in getting my life straightened out.”
“Do
not trust them.” Jacob’s complexion hardened. “They are a malevolent
corporation that exists solely as a mechanism of control. We don’t know how
long they have existed. But, what we do know, is that ever since they have
existed they have exerted control over minor and side characters such as
ourselves all to serve the needs of major characters such as yourself and that
marvelous creature Samantha, whom you are undoubtedly head over heels in love
with. So, while I am sure that you are conflicted, certainly you must see that
we suffer undeservedly for your sake?”
Jake thought about this for a while.
Jacob’s argument was indeed poignant and difficult to contend with. And Jake
was sincerely sympathetic with the struggles of his new found acquaintances. However,
there were a large number of questions raised by his conscious mind, such as:
What, that he still hasn’t completely answered, does this have to do with me? How
is it that he has so much knowledge about myself? And how does he know about my
feelings for Samantha?
There were, as well, some unfathomable questions in his sub-consciousness,
which the author inserted to give a sort of existential narrative dread. But
those questions were far too terrifying. In response, his sub-consciousness
deftly picked up a corner of a rug, located in the nexus of his mind, and swept
them underneath. Now, no matter how adept a butler Jake’s mind may be, there
was still a small line of dust leading to the corner of the carpet. I was told
that the forensic department of The Council
of Interfering Narrators is performing an investigation on this matter.
Jacob, who was
watching him, was growing anxious.
“So,
what is your decision?” Jacob asked, carefully masking his anxiety.
“Well,
you haven’t really answered my question. What can I do?”
“We
need you to dimension-shift over to the headquarters of The Council of Interfering Narrators.”
“How?”
Jacob motioned to Darryl who then
stood up and glided over to the side of the room where all the peculiar devices
were. Picking up the piece of headgear (and a small laptop), that Jake had
noticed earlier, Darryl brought it back to the table.
“We
need you to put this on, and Darryl will write you in.”
I want to break from this dialogue to
further comment on this Special Interest
Group. I, the narrator, have brought in an official from the Council of Interfering Narrators.
Charles, I would like to ask you a couple questions regarding these gentlemen’s
incredulous ideas of character self-empowerment and ascension to the level of
imagination moderation.
“Go
ahead.”
Are
these men actually capable of ascending Jake to your headquarters?
“No
Mr. Kutschker, they are not. They are
incredibly frivolous. And, to be perfectly candid, I find this whole story
preposterous.”
Ha-ha! Yes, well, it is not your
story is it? So, to carry on, if these men are, “complete idiots” as mentioned
earlier, how is it that large stacks of money appeared in Jack’s lodgings?
“That
I do not know. We suspect that there may be another character yet to be
introduced.”
Great,
thanks Charles! Now back to our dialogue where there are some intriguing
developments. Let’s watch and see!
“You
want me to put that on?” Jack asked, looking at the incredulous and crude
headgear sitting on the table.
“It
is safe.” Replied Darryl. “I calibrated the circuits myself.”
“How
does it work?”
“Well,
a program, of my devising, accepts a command from the laptop in the form of
narrative. Narrative, by the way, is the programming language of this world. The commands are interpreted by that
machine over there.” Darryl motioned towards a beastly machine standing in the
corner. “The main computer takes the narrative and decrypts it first into
machine code, and then into an electrical signal which is sent to the
transporter, that helmet thing on the table. The transporter then activates a
chip that transforms consciousness into an electrical signal, creating a dual
booted partition, one of which is then relayed back to the main computer. That
signal is then transmitted into the ethereal nexus and finally, into the
headquarters of the Council of
Interfering Narrators.”
“Have
you tested it?”
“Yes,
we tested it on Ricky last week.”
“And
where is he?” Asked Jack, looking around.
“That
iiis meee” slurred Ricky, who was wearing a pair of dark tea shades that hid
his crossed eyes.
“Why
does he talk like that?” Asked Jack.
“I
believe the man is lagging.” Replied Darryl. “Please remember that he is
running two copies of consciousness. One is local and the other in some
ethereal nexus.”
“Ricky”
said Jack.
“Yeeeeesss?”
“Don’t
strain yourself. What is it like?”
Ricky’s response came slow and
laborious. I do not wish you, the reader, to endure such a long and arduous
task of reading his monologue, so I have summarized it like this: “It is groovy,
Jack. There are colors everywhere and the workers do not follow a linear manner
of transportation. There are vague things like lines that give a sort of
direction to departments. At the center of it is the grand council chamber.
Only one thing holds visible form at a particular time. It is as though it only
exists if you are giving it conscious attention.”
Of course, all these things were
perfectly fictitious, a mere product of Ricky’s LSD fizzled brain. This was
coupled with the hundred volts that rewired some circuits in the deep sectors
that affect his optic cortex. But Jack was unduly and naively ignorant of these
facts. It only took two spoken letters “ok” and a mild gesticulation to have
the crude headgear passed to him from across the table. In a few minutes it was
fastened to his head, and Darryl was at the switch saying, “Bon voyage.”
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