The
Problem of The Interfering Fiction
A story by Cory Kutschker
(Still in process, very much not finished)
Somewhere, two metal staircases wound upwards
and large stacks of books cast long, dim shadows upon a dusty, rough floor. It
was here where a man named Jack sat. He was writing a novel. By the crumpled
and ripped bits of paper that lay around him, you could tell 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 an outrageous and comedic introduction regarding a man and his pet
poodle, when the bell rang.
Jack was startled. He did not think his place
was outfitted with a doorbell and pondered how amazing it was, in his universe,
that a doorbell had magically appeared. He was equally amazed 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 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, he was conflicted. He was
remarkably attracted to her and yet suspected she was not here on a social call.
“Hello?” he said timidly.
“H-hi” Samantha faltered.
“What do you want?” He replied. He regretted
being so rude and tried smiling, thereby displayed 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 months 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 exposed his two grotesquely hairy legs, and barely
covered the fact he only had a skimpy pair of white underwear beneath. Professional, Samantha thought, 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.” She said. 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 five 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, banged his head
upon a bookshelf, and fell headlong into his typewriter. Jack got up. He took a
seat upon his milk carton, and while pounding the keys with anger, began a
story.
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 it may have been some sort
of psychological issue, as though he was lashing out due to boredom, or he was
deeply frustrated with some decision in his life. 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. He was exhausted and stressed, unsure of
how he would manage to find a place to stay. However, despite all these
difficulties, Jack fell asleep.
Samantha was rethinking the eviction. 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. An
idea struck Samantha brutely. 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 three 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 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 so crude and uncomely.
She thought. 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? Was 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 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. 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.
She was now definitely disturbed and did not sleep for two hours. In fact, she 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 the fetal position until daybreak.
Jack was dreaming. The dream was of an
empty and dirty alley that tormented him. anything that was familiar had left
and 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. All that he could
recall was somebody smashing his typewriter against the wall. It was so vivid
he 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. 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 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 curiously 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 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 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. Jack did not notice, but his
reflection did. It curled its lip and silently gagged. This reaction 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, closed 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 walked no more than 8 meters 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.
Chapter Three
Fools At The Table
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, she observed 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 5000 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?”
queried 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.”
Chapter Four
The Visitor
While LSD doped men were manipulating Jack into their fantastical
plans, Samantha was cleaning. Jack had kept the place somewhere in the
dimension between a pigsty and an immaculate paradise covered in dust. The
doorbell rang. Samantha was slightly startled and somewhat shocked that anybody
was visiting here at all. Nevertheless, she walked across the entry towards the
door. Upon opening it she noticed a remarkably well dressed gentleman with a
fine tailored suit with coat tails and a stove pipe hat resting on his head. He
had a weathered face adorned with a pair of spectacles resting over a thin nose,
which protruded over a well kept bristling moustache.
“Good afternoon Madam. I am Sir Reginald esquire, a humble servant
of the author known as Cory Kutschker, at your service!” He said, bowing with a
flourish of his hat holding hand. Samantha, stood there with the left side of
her face twitching into an entranced smile and her cheeks burning with a light
shade of rose. She let a light giggle bubble out.
“Um…I…Ummm…Hello, how may I help you?” She managed.
“Madam, it is I who am here to help you.” Said Reginald.
“Um…What with?”
“My dear, first, Jack is in some trouble. Second, we must work on
turning this place into a fine establishment, a purveyor of books. Third, there
is the matter of that thing, which Jack has not had the courage to discuss with
you. And the final matter, which will be difficult to digest. Is there some
place where we may discuss these matters?”
Samantha
thought for a second.
“There
is a coffee shop nearby.” She urged. “We could discuss it there.”
“Very
well madam, lead the way.”
In a vaguely timed matter of twenty
and some minutes, they had arrived at the coffee shop, ordered their drinks
(two cappuccinos, if you care to know), and sat down sipping them.
“So,
what sort of trouble is Jack in?” Samantha started, as she curled her hair
around her finger.
“The
direst sort.” Reginald explained. “Some delusional and unsavoury men have
convinced themselves, through acute doses of LSD, that they can transmit a
consciousness into the headquarters of the Council
of Interfering Narrators.” Samantha straightened up in surprise upon
hearing the name of the familiar philanthropic agency.
“Of course, this is absurd nonsense. No one is capable of such a
feat. But, this foolishness is what makes them so injurious. Jack unfortunately
got snared into this by the cunning of their young leader, Jacob.” Reginald’s
face suddenly fell downcast. “Unfortunately, I feel somewhat responsible for
Jake’s dilemma. I was careless, madam, truly careless. Despite being a master
of stealth and mischievous skills like lock picking, Jacob must be as
mischievous and impish to boot! Before I had dropped off that meager amount of
money onto that table, Jacob must have purloined one of the wads of cash from
my pocket to promote his own aims. I suppose he must have been hiding in one
the alleys nearby. I can only guess what sort of object that they would
Macgyver to accomplish their goals.”
Samantha furrowed her brows. “How would Jacob know about the Council of Interfering Narrators?” She
asked.
“The CIN’s agents are not
particularly careful about disposing or extinguishing evidence of their existence.
They are careless. They think that anyone would be considered moonstruck or
rascally for claiming such a thing to exist. If it would be alright with you,
madam, I would like to solve this problem first before we discuss the other
matters.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Asked Samantha.
“Who?”
“Jacob.”
“No, not off hand.”
An
awkward silence grew as they sat nursing their cappuccinos. Samantha continued
curling her hair around her finger. Reginald sat with a straight posture,
looking slightly left at the list of beverages on the café wall. His hands lay
folded on his lap. It was that list, actually, that gave him a bright epiphany.
“I
could go on ACID!” Exclaimed Reginald with an energetic smile.
“I
beg your pardon?!” Questioned Samantha, alarmed.
A.C.I.D, or the Actual Characters
Involved Directory, was created by the unaffiliated (and recently dissolved) Band
of Concerned Moderators for Controlling Antagonists, or the BCMCA for short
(Many of the former members of this society are active agents within the CIN).
It is a 5000-page directory containing just over 12,000 literary antagonists
and their associated addresses and/or locations. It is the only directory that
has a trained AI to constantly monitor the movements of known antagonists.
Therefore, it is constantly in flux. There is currently only one individual who
has been given access, and that is Sir Reginald Esquire.
Of course, Samantha did not know
this. She began to wonder, really, just how much could she trust this man,
while looking around nervously. Reginald dug his hand into the inside of his
jacket and pulled out what appeared to be a large flat monitor with a keyboard.
Upon turning it on, it exuded a low screech, somewhat similar to that uttered
by an old 90’s modem. Once he inserted his credentials, he began typing in his
query. The device gave a single beep in response. Reginald furrowed his brow.
“I have found his address.” He
declared.
Samantha
leaned in to listen.
“He lives in 879 Acacia Alley.” He
grinned. “It appears that he lives in his mother’s basement. Typical.”
“Okay, that is great.” Started
Samantha, “but how will we stop him? Or how do we convince Jake of Jacob’s ill
intentions?”
“Aye, there’s the rub.” Stated
Reginald, wagging his finger. “Perhaps together, with some brainstorming, we
can come up with a solution.”
Jacob threw the switch. All the
lights went out. From upstairs, a perfectly endearing and elderly voice rang
out.
“Jacob? Would you check the breaker
box for me? The power seems to be acting up again.”
“Yes, mother!” Jacob responded.
Jake
sat there, perfectly awkward. If you asked him for his thoughts about the
current circumstances, he would have twiddled his thumbs, sighed, and muttered
some expression of mystery that there was no large fort, erected in the corner
that was built entirely out of cardboard boxes and draped sheets standing in
the corner.”
After Jacob had reset the breaker,
he addressed the group saying that they might as well join him upstairs as his
mother was likely baking and would interrupt without regard once finished. His
group did not need asking twice. They stood up promptly and began walking up
the stairs. Jacob motioned for Jake to follow before he went up. Jake stood up
to follow, knocking over the half glass of water onto the floor. Jake stood for
a second staring at what he had done, but then shrugged, and carried the empty
glass up with him.
*****
It was in those same shared minutes
that Samantha and her companion were standing at Jacob’s door awkwardly,
wondering exactly how to approach the household of the prime antagonist. Obviously,
it is perfectly uncouth to just barge in. It is also marvellously naïve to
expect welcome if you come with intent to overthrow the household.
“We
should knock I suppose” proposed Reginald, as he gave three sharp raps on the
door. From inside a shuffling could be heard, followed by the bang of what
possibly could have been an oven door closing, and at last a loud exclamation
(clearly voiced by an elderly lady), “Hold on!”
The
door in a few moments was slowly opened wafting a friendly scent of oatmeal
raisin cookies. The lady who opened it was indeed an elderly lady who was
approximately five feet two inches tall and was wrinkled like a raisin.
“Hello?”
she said squinting her eyes.
“Hello
madam” started Reginald. “We are here because we believe our friend Jake is
here with your son.”
“Just
a second, let me put my glasses on.” She muttered as she shakily took hold of
the spectacles dangling from its arms on a fine silver chain necklace and put them
on.
The
very second she did, her eyes widened and she broke into a wide toothless smile.
“Oh
my such wonderful guests! Come in!” She exclaimed joyfully.
“Are
you sure Madam? We don’t want to be a bother” Reginald interjected.
“Oh,
don’t be ridiculous!” she scoffed and waved away the thought.
“Jacob
dear! We have company!” She yelled in the direction of the dining room as she
ushered them in. It could not have been more awkward. For, as they walked in to
the dining room, all eyes were on Samantha and Reginald. One of the men even
had his hand mid-reach for the plate of cookies, but now hovered in the air
frozen.
