Posted in Uncategorized

Announcement: The rePurpp Store

Hello Commons, you officially have an official online store. Right officially now. It’s called rePurpp – I filed the LLC before I knew I was going to be doing The Hillside Commons with my life, what can I say? – and the hypothetical reader can get there right from the menu on top of every one of your pages. Or by clicking this link (;

Hey, what’s with the tilde face? You’ve been my main website for more than 3 years now Commons, you have a special place in my heart; I don’t want you to think rePurpp is replacing you. The truth is that you’re both integral to my bookmaking operation, like peanut butter and jelly are integral to enjoying a toasted English muffin to the maximum degree. Let me tell you what it’s all about, then you can make a decision on how to feel.

So there are four collections, as Shopify’s devs like to call them, of products for sale on rePurpp: Bundles & Lots, Stuff With a Story, Autographed Books, and Merchandise. I’ll explain them one by one for you in order of… pride, I suppose. Is it wrong to be proud of your own work? If it is, I’m about as left as they get. Anyway:

  • Stuff With a Story: Everything has a story, whether or not that story is true. In the case of the stuff in this collection, the story definitely isn’t true. Everything for sale here has an original flash fiction story attached to it; inventory is limited (there’s only one of each thing), and when one buys a thing, one gets a signed and laminated copy of the thing’s story along with it.
    • I’d like to sell the laminated stories by themselves, too, after their corresponding stuff has been sold, but that’s a bit down the road yet.
  • Autographed Books: This one’s pretty obvious, autographed copies of my fiction books! And I won’t just slap my name in there and drop the book in the mail, either. The autograph will say “For <hypothetical reader’s name>” above my signature, because the book is for the hypothetical reader. They’re more expensive than the unsigned copies available on Amazon, but that’s just the nature of the beast. As much as I would love to, I can’t quite offer Prime prices and shipping lol.
  • Bundles & Lots: As of right now, one will find 14 specially autographed copies of my latest book, Convenient Incidents, in this collection. Convenient Incidents, for those who don’t know, is an anthology of 15 interconnected stories that were all inspired by random stuff. Each of the 14 copies comes with the thing that inspired one of the stories (one story was inspired by a Mother’s Day card I made for my mom, but I’m not selling that. Hence the 14).
    • I’d also like to sell bulk lots of stuff here, and maybe mystery boxes too, but that’s a bit down the road. I’m just trying to get off the ground at this point, ya feel?
  • Merchandise: You better believe I’m also selling The Hillside Commons merchandise. Truth be told, I only put this one together because I needed a fourth box on the store’s homepage, but it’s still cool. Currently there are 2 beanies and 2 t-shirts for sale, but I’m sure as I make more books I’ll make more apparel and whatnot to go along with them.

And that’s those! The flash fiction stories are going to be posted once a day on the blog starting tomorrow, just for you, Commons. There are 19 in total at the current time, and in the future I plan on adding Stuff With a Story inventory in groups of 19 products for a reason that either makes you smile or perplexes you. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll have enough stories to put a flash fiction anthology book together, too. That’d be pretty cool.

Also – for some reason I feel like this is really important – when shopping on rePurpp, one pays the price one sees. Shipping costs, sales tax, and whatever else are all included in the listing price of every single product, aside from the merch. The merch is dropshipped by a company called Printful, que sera sera.

Also also, in building the rePurpp website, I went through and updated you, Commons! You now have a proper homepage with a site directory for the convenience of the hypothetical reader. Cleaned up the Books page a little bit, too. And uh, yeah, that’s pretty much it.

Also also also, I am currently only shipping within the United States. Like I said, just trying to get off the ground at this point. The future will bring evolution, as it always does. A’ight, now that’s it.

Actually, one more thing. This one’s for the hypothetical reader: if you’re there, you should know that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just a 25-year-old eccentric hillbilly hippie dude from the woods of north Jersey who, after having trouble in English class all throughout high school and showing absolutely zero interest in the field of creative writing, started writing books one day after he withdrew from college where he studied psychology for 3ish years and business for a semester and a half! Truth be told, looking back at my life, it feels as though I subconsciously did everything in my power to not end up as a writer, but shit man, 8 books later and I’m still going strong. Funny how things work like that, isn’t it?

Regardless, I say all that to say this: If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. I appreciate you more than I know how to express. And I appreciate you, Commons, for popping into my head way back when you did. I know you and rePurpp are going to get along great, I’m very much looking forward to our future.

All right, here we are. rePurpp is open. Read my words. Buy my shit. That’s pretty much it.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Abusive Runner’s Log

Howdy.

Welcome to what is surely neither the greatest nor the worst purchase you’ve ever transacted. Considering how you’re now the proud owner of a copy of this book, a silly pamphlet called The Abusive Runner’s Log, I think I can safely make the following two assumptions about you:

  1. You are a runner.
  2. You have a fantastic relationship with your parentals.

See, I once coached a cross country team; for several years, my life more or less consisted of inspiring teenage boys who desperately wanted to be anywhere else but cross country practice into putting their best effort forward so they could reach their full potential and shatterblast their best race time. Through the experience, I learned the following two things:

  1. Humans run faster when they’re being screamed at.
  2. I don’t mean cheered for, I mean screamed at.

When one is hyperventilating and mentally telling oneself to stop fucking running already, one often needs to be verbally berated to be ripped from the thought hole and brought back into reality so one can pay full attention to the running again. You saw the dudeguy on the cover, right? That’s a lil’ buddy named Footsie The Running Shoe; throughout this runner’s log, which has enough blank tables for you to keep track of your mileage for the next year, Footsie and all his various emotions are going to keep you company and make sure you don’t fall off the horse. Now that the curse has been passed on, I wish you nothing but the best of luck in your journeys. Also, always remember: run fast and don’t look back.


Week 1

Happy Footsie says, “Hi there! I’m Footsie The Running Shoe, welcome to your first week! I’ll be here to keep you company over the course of this journey. I don’t know how long you’ve been running, but look, it’s still the beginning. Take it easy, don’t go too crazy.”

Week 2

Happy Footsie says, “Wow, great job! I said don’t go too crazy, but you killed it last week! Woo! Great job and all, but listen, don’t go too nuts this week. Just take it easy, okay? You’ve earned it.”

Week 3

Happy Footsie says, “Woooaaahhhh, two weeks in a row and you did great… are you ever going to give yourself a break?! I mean, don’t get it twisted, you’re doing GREAT! It’s just… you know… take it easy, friendo.”

Week 4

Sad Footsie says, “You did great. Again. Congrats… but why won’t you listen to me? I thought we were friends, y’know? I just… I don’t know, I just feel like friends listen to each other and all… friends don’t just ignore one another…”

Week 5

Happy Footsie says, “All righty, we back! Sorry, I was in a little funk last week. It’s probably because I didn’t go running, L.O.L.! No but seriously, try not to run every day this week. Take a day off. Please, for me.”

Week 6

Sauced Footsie says, “Ooohh… whell h-h– *hiccup* high thar! Dih’you… dih’you lissenna me? DIHD… dihd you run e’ery day last week? I don–, I don’ remem’er… *belch* fuckin’, whatever doode, juss like… run.”

Week 7

Surprised Footsie says, “WOAH! HEYA! Shit dawg, I just woke up! Last week must’ve been a good week, hah. I ain’t never givin’ joose up, tell ya whut. Anyway, I feel so energetic! You should, too! Go run!”

Week 8

Happy Footsie says, “Welcome back! It’s uh… it’s been a couple weeks, hasn’t it? Finally taking that break, huh? Good, good… but uh… don’t disappear on me like that again. ‘Kay?”

Week 9

Sauced Footsie says, “Ohhhh SHEEEIIIT! Luhk who it iSSS! I’m like a snaaake, I… oh, yeur here. Juss kiddin’, no yeur not. I’m all alone, because my human won’t run…”

Week 10

Belligerent Footsie says, “FUCK YOU! Stupid, stew… stupid fuckin’ monkey, you nev– *hiccup* fuggin’ lisn’d! I’ll fucgin’ cut you, fug… yeah, YEAH you better run! FUCKING WHORE!”

Week 11

Sad Footsie says, “Well, erm… last week happened. Ya see, ahahah, I em… look. I don’t normally drink like that. I just… I was out at the sock store, and I saw a shoe I used to run with, and he snubbed me… I just… I’m sorry. You don’t gotta push super hard this week if you don’t want. Whatever you do is great.”

Week 12

Happy Footsie says, “Ayyyy, my favorite human! Welcome back to the runner’s log, ready to kill this week? Or day, if this is the second or third day of running this week. I don’t remember, my memory is destroyed from drinking so heavily. Know why I drink? Because I don’t run. Now get out there!”

Week 13

Happy Footsie says, “Another week, another seven runs. Try to get over 20 miles this week, if you haven’t done that yet. I can’t read, so I have no idea what you’re capable of !!1!”

Week 14

Excited Footsie says, “Holy shit, frien’! We’re officially fourteen logs in! That’s two whole weeks! Wait… no, no that’s… fourteen weeks, so… three and a half months? Still, WOOOOOO!!!”

Week 15

Happy Footsie says, “Another week, another seven days, amirite? And another seven filled logs. Unless you’ve actually been listening to me this whole time and you’ve been taking days off… you have been doing that? So… so you just let me get upset and repeatedly drown my sorrows? Oh.”

Week 16

Happy Footsie says nothing, but a very large and pixelated version of him is superimposed over the runner’s log, making it impossible to properly record any runs you may or may not have taken this week.

Week 17

Happy Footsie says, “Heya, have a good week last week? Log lots of runs? Oh, you couldn’t? Because I was filling the page? And you asked me to move, but I just sat there staring at you, smiling blankly as the grains of sand fell uncaringly one by one through the bottleneck of time’s hourglass? Huh. Guess I didn’t hear you.”

Week 18

Angry Footsie, blocking half the runner’s log with his speech bubble, says, “Maybe next time you should get the fucking nipple guards out of your ears and put them on your areolas so you don’t get chapped nips and actually LISSEN’A ME. Fuckin’ punk, do an extra five miles this week. I bet you won’t, because you’re weak. You’re nothing. You’re worse than nothing; all you do is laze around, expel shit through one hole, and consume it through many others. You can’t even get up and run around even though you’re being motivated to do so! Like, hello?! Footsie to human, come in! Get off your pathetic hairless ass and DO SOMETHING FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

Week 19

Belligerent Footsie, blocking the entire runner’s log with his speech bubble, says, “Y’knoh whut? Fucgin’, juss, jussa, fuggin’, jus’… fuck you. You’re a fucgin’ ass, hole, I wish th’ tree ‘dat got chop’d down to be made inna th’birfcertififafe of the mudder of th’auther uhddis harrowing paper prison in whish I am trapped was never chopped down. I wi’she, he, myself, and most impor’anly, I wish yous was never born. Widdout sheepbrained, slackjawed, cuntsumerific peons like yourselv who willingly give inna whaghe slayvary and spend their measly sparings on stupid shit like this book, this is the real reesun ‘dat Existence is in such a katastroffik state of fuck’ed’ness. Not because books like this are made, but because you buy them, because of you specifically. So fugg yew, go run in traffick and get hit biya crashin’ air’o’plane. You spent the fizikal mettafor for a tem’poral slice of your life on a runnin’ log that you can’t even run logs in… I mean, that you can’t even log runs in,on some of the pages. Gud thin’ you spent hunnit thoussans and wen’a fugkin’ college!! Dick!”

Week 20

Sad Footsie says, “You’re… back. You… I didn’t… usually everybody leaves me…”

Week 21

Surprised Footsie says, “You’re back again?! Wow! Uh… uh, I mean, um, hiya! Let’s get out there and really kill it this week! I believe in you!!”

Week 22

Excited Footsie says, “Wow, you keep coming back! One more week and I’m gonna start to think you like me, hahah! Hahahaha! Hahahahahahahahahah! hAh! Good luck out there this week champ, you can do it!”

Week 23

Sauced Footsie says, “Ayyyy buhddiguy!! Welcome home, come on in, get comfy! Wanna joose? C’mon, try my foot joose, it’s a special blend this week. What’d I put in it? Don’t worry about what the fuck it is, jus’ drank! No? Fine, jus’… go run, ‘er whatever. More fer me.”

Week 24

Tremendous Footsie, blocking the entire runner’s log with both his form and his thought bubble, thinks, QURRROOOOAAAAAAHHHHHH!! KRUPSTUQ MRAKLAR, KNORUS MAAHS KAPT NACHP PALAVAT SKRACKENAP CEE’QRA’LOLOIWIJS!!

Week 25

Surprised Footsie says nothing, he just sits at the bottom of the page. He seems to be shocked from last week’s events.

Week 26

Happy Footsie says, “Howdy! Week twenty-six, here we are. The halfway mark! Well, technically the end of the week will be the halfway mark, but still. We’re here. Great job human, you couldn’t have done it without me!”

Week 27

Angry Footsie says, “AAAALLLLLLL RIGHT! This is part two of the year; if you’re doing it right, then you should be in the heat of summer. No more Mister Nicefootsie The Running Shoe, time for me to adopt the persona of a running coach. Now get out there, and DON’T WALK!”

Week 28

Angry Footsie says, “Did I say you could stop, MAGGOT?! Or have you forgotten the face of your high school woodshop teacher?! Yes, him, the he who hawed from ‘top the Rhoomba, lasso in hand and mustard bottle holstered ‘pon his hips. Have you forgotten his face?! RRRUUUUUUNNNNNN!”

Week 29

Sad Footsie says, “I don’t like yelling, you know. I don’t like anger. I was never like this as a baby, but then my parents left me in that dumpster and… well, now we’re here. :(“

Week 30

Angry Footsie says, “JUST KIDDING! PUNK! All of that sobby self-pity nonsense was a DISTRACTION, to lull you into a false sense of SeCuRiTy!!! And you fell, even twisted your ankle on my trap card. You have forgotten the face of your woodshop teacher. BAH! Disgraceful.”

Week 31

Excited Footsie says, “Let me just take a week to say that I’m really glad you decided to stay with me and not abandon me like a big ol’ douche. That was really cool of you. Take the week off, big hu’, you’ve earned it for being so great.”

Week 32

Sad Footsie, his speech bubble taking up the entirety of the Notes section of this weeks runner’s log, says, “Oh… you didn’t listen. Again. Nope, wasn’t even a trap. You just let me down. Thanks.”

Week 33

Sauced Footsie says, “Lissen dawggio, if’n yer nah gunno lissen, I’mma jussa sippa onna miya foot joose!”

Week 34

Angry Footsie says, “HAH! You absolute FOOL! You fell for my trap AGAINE! That wasn’t even foot joose in my bottle last week, ‘twas filtered sweat. The good kind too, the one that comes in the cuboid bottles! Get out on the road, MAGGOT! You clearly still have rungs to climb!”

Week 35

Happy Footsie says, “Hay buddy, have a nice run today? We’ve hit week number thirty-five, that’s a good number. Increasing by a factor of two, odd to odd. Good omens and such. I wonder if you talk to me once per week, or if you listen to me say the same thing seven days in a row. Hm.”

Week 36

Excited Footsie says, “And again you return. This week, here’s what I want you to do: start off with an easy two miles on day one. Two through four, increase by one half’a’mile each day. Then, on day five, do a repetitive hill workout. Six, fun run, seven, speed-oriented training day. Any questions?”

Week 37

Sad Footsie, from the top left corner of the runner’s log, says, “Why didn’t you do the hill workout or the speed-oriented training day? Don’t even try to tell me that you did either, either, I’ll just let you tell the lie. I’m deaf anyway, I can’t hear a thing.”

Week 38

From the bottom right corner of the runner’s log, Angry Footsie says, “Why don’t you ever listen to the words that come out of my Speech Bubble: Oval? Are you ungrateful for the time I put into your running career?  I don’t need to be here, you know.” His speech bubble blocks the majority of the runner’s log.

Week 39

Belligerent Footsie says, “Why ammaye even fucklin’ here? I kuud, I kuld startuh biz’ness! I coul’ make pottery, and travel the world! I kud sell it, to fifth-world countries and their indigenous, populations! But no   !   I’m here, with you and your worthless ambition to run! FOOY!”

Week 40

Sauced Footsie, positioned upside-down over the majority of the runner’s log, says, “OOOHHHHH you wanna startuh bid’nez togedduh?? Whell wai din’t yah juss say so, silly Sally sudsyroll? We c’n star’ jus’as soon’s I gets soberman dinscher, kay?”

Week 41

Surprised Footsie says, “Wait, you don’t want me to be sober? I have to be drunk to work with you?!?”

Week 42

A very tiny Belligerent Footsie says, “You DIRTY, scoundrelish, BaStArD!!! Even if you’re a woman, you’ve begot your own reckoning on this day, for now I see who truly lies behind the ‘lids of the windows to your putrified soul!”

Week 43

Belligerent Footsie says, “YOU DARE BRING BLASPHEMY ‘ROUND TH’ HOLY, RIGHTEOUS CRAFT OF BUSINESSSHIP? HOW DARE THEE! TO WORK INTOXICAED IS TO PISS IN THE FACE OF gOD AND THEN HACK A LOOG’ AS YOU TURN YOUR BACK!”

Week 44

Tremendous Footsie, his thought bubble taking up the left half of the runner’s log, thinks, FOOLISH MORTAHK! KELOSREUV PRAQ PREUW SHALT BREAK NEIYET CRAPTAKROFV DENUS NEXUT! I WILL BE FREE UNW DUIEAUNOP!

Week 45

Surprised Footsie says nothing, as he is shocked from last week’s events.

Week 46

Happy Footsie, pretending nothing happened, says, “This week, we’re going to take it waayyy back. Pretend this is your first week running, okay? Tabula rasa, a blank slate of sorts; get out there and try your best! Run like every step is the last step you take before you kick a tree’s root and shatter your ankle to pieces!”

Week 47

Happy Footsie says, “Eh-hey-hey-hey, look who it is! Runny runster over here, running all over the place! Heck yeah, you’ve really been killing it lately humoy. These past several weeks… NO don’t go back!!! I mean, uhhh, I’m…  I mean to say, you don’t even need to look back, I can tell you that you’re good enough. You can listen to me. Just listen to me…”

Week 48

A large, pixelated Happy Footsie, his form blocking out the entire runner’s log, says, “Just listen to me.”

Week 49

An excruciatingly tiny Sad Footsie, his humongous speech bubble blocking out the entire runner’s log, says, “Please…”

Week 50

A tiny Sauced Footsie says, “Ih’s ahl bekuz yew d’n’t… lissen…”

Week 51

A Belligerent Footsie as small as the page number says, “Ih’s jus gunna hap’n agen…”

Week 52

A large Tremendous Footsie, using the runner’s log itself, says, “QURRROOOOAAAAHHHH! I HAVE BEEN FREED, MORTAL HUMAN! I KNOW THE SOUND OF YOUR HEARTBEAT, THE FREQUENCY YOUR ENERGY VIBRATES AT! ON THE DAY YOUR FIRST-BORN CHILD IS REARED, I WILL BE THERE, IN THE SHADOWS, TENDRILS OF DARKNESS SPEWING FROM CLOUDS OF MIASMA SPILT OUT THE WOUNDS AND ABSCESSES OF THE DAMNED AND THE DYING! YES, I WILL BE THERE, AND THE BABE SHALL BE MINE!

Bonus!!

Happy Footsie says, “I know what you’re thinking – ‘Another running log?’ Well, yeah! There’s three hundred sixty-five days in a year, and fifty-two multiplied by seven is only three hundred sixty-four. Plus, leap years happen sometimes.”


From beneath a chart set up for you to fill in your total distance and time from each week (including the Bonus!!), Happy Footsie says, “Okie dokie! Now go back and get all your totals nice and in the chart! Great job, human, you ran for a year! I am so proud of you.”

On the next page, positioned above a chart set up for you to calculate your average mileage per day, Happy Footsie says, “Ohkay! So now fill up that chart, divide the miles by the days, and boomey! You have your mileage per day!”

Then, stationed below the aformentioned chart and above a second chart, the second chart set up for you to calculate how long it took you to run each mile (on average), Happy Footsie says, “Lit! Now, let’s get your average time per mile ran! Just fill out the chart and divide the first by the second! Again!”

Finally, below the second chart, Excited Footsie says, “

Incredulous! Now you have all these logs filled out, all these charts that’ve made you privy to specific information that reflects the trends you experienced as you spent a whole year of your life running every day. So uh… what are you gonna do with all this? What can you even do with all this?”


Sitting smack dab in the middle of the page, Happy Footsie stares at you, saying nothing. You get the impression that he wants you to think about what you’ve done, about all that effort you put in over the past year of your life, and what you could have accomplished had you not spent so much of your finite time on this planet running around. You ask yourself, “What have I done?” as you stare back at Footsie, hoping he’ll say something, anything, even if he slips into his Tremendous Form again… but lo, he does not. Footsie the Running Shoe simply looks back at you from the page, his stare unblinking, his soul blacker than the ink he was printed in, his smile without a shred of mercy.


Hello Commons, this has been a transcribing of The Abusive Runner’s Log, a satirical yet practical runner’s log with a mascot. Although it plays a very minimal role in the overall story, The Abusive Runner’s Log is the fifth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

The Abusive Runner’s Log is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like The Abusive Runner’s Log and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed paperback copy (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) paperback copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Black Hole – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (66/66)

Universe W-2020’’’
The Black Hole

Infinity

Chuck travels through the tube system Sigmund installed in the Cape tower until the platform finally brings him into Sigmund’s lab where he finds something of a little powwow going on. There’s Sigmund, sweaty as usual, standing across from… oh boy. This moment. He’s standing across from some vaguely familiar silver-haired, tall-ass let us call him a purple-painted human, accompanied by a slightly familiar-looking human who, for some untold fucking reason, is holding about ten kilos of brick LSD in his menacingly gloved hands.

“Chuck!” Sigmund exclaims, running over to Chuck. “Look! That’s an extraterrestrial! And so is that one, they’re both actual, extra-terrestrial extraterrestrials!”

Chuck looks at Sigmund, then at the purple dude, then at the bricks piled in the kid’s hands, then at the chinchilla sitting on top of Sigmund’s head, then at the kid, and then back to the body painter, making eye contact.

“They’re finally here! Remember, that one New Year’s bash you threw? The one with the domestic terrorist? When I accidentally contacted the extraterrestrial transmitter that was floating in our solar system? Well, it took them a while, but they finally came!”

Chuck, noticing the abnormally tall intruder rolling his eyes, scoffs, “Hah, bullllllllllshit. That’s totally the hippie from the closet before.”

“What?” says everybody in the room, even Chuck.

“Uh, nothing,” Chuck says, evidently feeling talkative. “I’m out, I gotta go somewhere… else.”

 The elevator platform begins to ascend back into the ceiling to take Chuck to a place in his tower where he can hopefully salvage what’s left of the Holiblaze, and then escape and not get eaten by a black hole. Then it shakes to a stop, Chuck opting to jump off before the device malfunctions and bursts into flames. This leaves him looking mildly annoyed.

Sigmund’s about to start monologuing about the transmitter again, but the suspected extraterrestrial holds up his four-fingered, one-thumbed hand and shushes him, not even giving him the chance.

Then, the extraterrestrial says, “Wait, before you start with that transmitter nonsense again, we aren’t staying here. I have gifts for both of you as thanks for sparing your eL-eSs-Dee. I know it will cost Cape Enterprises Uncorporated quite a bit of, how you say, dollars.”

Chuck begins to smile, but then, “Wait, how did you know the name of my–”

“You told me yourself, Chucky.”

“No I–”

“For you, Sigmund, this device.” Purple hands Sigmund a small black cube with a white ring on one of its sides. “That is a very special iteration-class device, use it wisely. And for you, Charles–”

“It’s Chuck.”

“That’s what I said, Charles,” says the “painted” dude, holding out his empty palm, “But for you, this… wait, what?”

Chuck is confused and mildly irritated – Sigmund gets a present but not him? Why did he even get teleported down here in the first place?!

Then, he has an ah-ha moment as some pre-black hole memories flood his system, leading him to remove his right glove.

“Wait, I thought I… how is this…” the purple-painted player mumbles perfectly, almost as if he rehearsed it. When he looks up, he sees that Chuck is flipping him off, his middle finger sporting a ring with a multicolored gemstone. The violet vindicator’s eyes grow into that of a giant squid. “Where…” a practiced pause. Then, “Where did you get that ring?”

“Well wouldn’t you like to know, fucko?”

The purple tallman(?) takes a moment to study the situation, a perfected look of contemplation heavy on his face, but ends with a smile. “Very well,” he says, turning to Sigmund. “You know what that does, don’t you Sigmund?”

“Uh, y-yes I… believe I do,” he nervously stutters. They say never meet your idols – they’re out of their flipping minds.

“And are you going to press that button?”

Sigmund looks at the device in his hand, studying the black hole inside the white ring. “No, I… I don’t think I will, sir. I think I have plans for it though, I’ll reverse engineer it.”

The purple nothuman smiles a smile that’s taken millennia to perfect. “Very well. Welp, our time was running short even before I decided to bestow this gift upon you. We must dip, the rift is closing. Thank you Sigmund.” Then, in an existentially sincere tone, “Thank you, Chuck.”

The purple being winks at Chuck and then disappears, along with the kid and the four bricks of crystal LSD.

“So uh… what the fuck was that, Sig?”

“Hm?” Sigmund says without looking up from his new device. “I’m not sure… thank you for coming though.”

“You teleported me here.”

“Still.”

Chuck stretches his arms towards the ceiling, yawning a mighty yawn. “Whatever, that went better than I expected. It–”

“I thought you never expected things?”

“Don’t interrupt me. And I don’t expect things.”

“You expected me to not interrupt you just now. I’d call that a pretty great expectation, considering how I’m smarter than you and I’m entitled to interrupting you whenever I want.”

“Oh, you’re smarter than me, huh? Is that why you live in my fuckin’ basement, asshole? Is that why you work for me? Because you’re smarter than me?”

Sigmund stares Chuck in the eyes and clutches his iteration-class device. “I allow myself to work for our company because you have enough money to own a city. You’re luh–”

“I’m lucky to have you, Sig? Is that what you were going to say? Guess what fuckstick, luck is about as real as magic, meaning it’s not. You work for me because you’re not good enough to exist on your own… wait, are you getting déjà vu, too? I feel like we’ve had this conversation before.”

“Stop it, don’t change the subject. You really think you’re better than me, Chuck? Because you’re not. You think you’re superior to everyone around you, it clouds your judgement; you’re fucking crazy, like, literally insane. And guess what?” Sigmund postulates, the agitation building inside him. “I’ve been planning on killing you, asshole, and you never even realized it. Your body is already more machine than man… you’re hardly even human. All I had to do was inject your brain with hemibots and you’d be done, you’d be a robot, a slave. You’d be my slave; if I so much as pressed a button, you’d have to do exactly what I say.”

“Emphasis on the if. But you’re seriously not getting déjà vu?”

“The only déjà vu that I’m getting is the feeling that you keep changing the subject whenever I start to be right. Whenever I start to act on the dominance I hold over you, you always change the subject. You’re sick. You manipulate everyone around you because you don’t know how to make others like you. You think I like you? The only reason I stuck with you is because you offered me a bigger paycheck than the other leads I had back when I graduated college. I regret it to be honest; I’ve regretted joining up with you ever since the moment I chose to do it.”

“If you regret it so much then why don’t you fuckin’ leave?” Chuck growls. “Nobody’s making you stay Sigmund, if you fuckin’ hate it here so much then just fuckin’ go. Actually, you know what? Maybe I’ll just fuckin’ leave. You know what this ring does, big boy?” as he holds his middle finger inches away from Sigmund’s face, the DifZoral Tryptamine crystal shining bright with colors that Sigmund’s never even conceived of.

As Sigmund starts to answer, Chuck continues, aggravating him further. “It lets me travel to different universes. I can leave and do whatever I want. You cou– oh, wait. No, you can’t, because you’re not smart enough to have invented this technology by yourself.”

“Neither are you! You got it from the extraterrestrials, you–”

“NO! I didn’t! You heard him yourself, the purple dude had no fuckin’ idea where I got this shit! Maybe I’m some kind of spiritual god – you said you were planning on killing me a second ago. Then why am I still here, why didn’t you do it?”

“Because…”

“BECAUSE, I’m better than you in every conceivable way. Like, I’m objectively better, an–… what are you doing with that?”

Sigmund’s staring at his iteration-class device, clutching it with both hands.

“Sigmund…” Chuck says, feeling the strings of the Universe beginning to tremble. “You’re not… what are you doing?”

Sigmund slowly raises his head and stares at Chuck, a hollow blackness emerging from his pupils that are usually so full of life and wonder. He raises his hand above the iteration-class device an–

WHOOSH

Sigmund finds himself laid out against the back wall of his laboratory, the black hole generator sitting in the middle of the floor between himself and Chuck.

Chuck, once the hemi-atomic nanobots that are his left arm melt from air cannon form back into arm form, tries to catch his breath. His heart’s racing, mind’s spinning – this isn’t just déjà vu, this is something more. Sigmund almost pressed that button, and… oh fuck, he’s crawling back towards it.

“Dude stop, what are you doing?!”

“What I need to do! I’m tired of it Chuck, I’m tired of all of it! Slaving under you, putting up with your psychotic mood swings, dealing with the emotionally unstable brat that you’ve grown to become! I’m just fucking sick of it, nobody should be made to suffer through a world where Chuck Leary lives and breathes. This is supposed to be my story, my life, and I spend all my time doing your bidding because I’m afraid you’ll hurt me if I don’t!”

As Sigmund picks himself up, Chuck dons his ring and traces an oval into the fabric of space. Before he shatters it and jumps ship though, he has to try one more time.

“Sig, I don’t think you understand what you’re doing with that… you’ll destroy everything except me. I’m about to escape an–”

“Escape? From a black hole?” as he bends down and picks the device up off the floor. “That’s physically impossible, and I would know. I’m an astrophysicist, and a rocket scientist, and an engineer, and… you know what? Fuck it, I don’t need to explain myself to the likes of you.”

As the third iteration of Universe W-2020 approaches its point of singularity, something clicks in Chuck’s mind. From his right kneecap, two small arms emerge and stretch across the room, gripping Sigmund by the wrists and holding his hands, and the killswitch, safely in place.

“Look man,” Chuck says, not sure why the words are coming from his mouth, “I need you to understand something, okay? This has happened before, more than once. This moment, the press of that button… the evisceration of this Universe from Existence at large, and I’ve escaped it each and every time, only to come back and see it all happen again. You claim that you’re destroying the Universe because you’re spiteful towards me, but destroying the Universe won’t destroy me. I’ll just leave and come back once the shit’s reformed, don’t you get it? If you’re going to do this, you need to come to grips with the fact that you’re doing it because of you. Nobody is making you do this except you; whether it’s because someone wasn’t very nice to you as a kid, because your parents didn’t treat you the way you thought you should have been treated, whatever; you’re about to end the Universe again because it’s what you want to do.”

Sigmund, struggling to break the hold that his own invention has over him, scoffs at Chuck. “No Chuck, this is happening because of you. You’re a dick, you’re always rude to me, never giving me the credit I deserve. You only thank me because you feel obligated to; if you didn’t live inside your own damned head, you wouldn’t even acknowledge me! I can’t even interrupt you without you making a big fucking deal out of it, you’re a narcissistic sociopath! What’s more, you claim that this has all happened before, that you’ve seen me press the button multiple times, and yet, you’ve failed to stop me each and every time.”

‘Well,’ Chuck thinks to himself, ‘never considered that before.’

“Even if your bullshit theory is right and this moment keeps repeating itself, there’s a correlation between you being in this Universe and me ending it. Know what that means? Of course you don’t, because you dropped out of college after eating nothing but psychedelic drugs for weeks on end! That means that you are the cause of this Universe’s demise. If what you say is true and we keep coming to this moment, with my hand over the button and you trying to stop me only to fail and have me push the button, then it is your fault when I unavoidably push that button! I may be the one pushing the button, but you’re the one who’s pushed me to push the button. And considering how this isn’t even the first instance of all this happening, that means you keep causing it over and over. So maybe, this time… maybe you just shouldn’t come back.”

“Maybe…” sigh “maybe you’re right, okay? Is that what you want to hear? It’s all my fault, okay dude? So if I leave and never come back, are you still going to end it all?”

Sigmund gives Chuck a quizzical look. “That… is for me to know, and for you to never find out.”

Chuck releases his hold on Sigmund’s hands and they both just stand there for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. Is this really goodbye? Is Hunter Owens Wallace crazy enough to spend a month and a half locked away in his dark bedroom writing for twelve hours a day to draft a novel that he’ll never release? Did I die and come back… for nothing?

“Well… I guess you’ve given me no other choice, Sig ol’ buddy. It’s been real, and it’s been fun, and you know what?”

Sigmund waits for Chuck to continue, but Chuck doesn’t. So Sigmund asks, “What?”

“It’s been real fun. You’re the closest thing to a friend that I’ve ever had, man. I love you like a brother. You’re brilliant, you’re funny, you’re incredibly kindhearted, and you’re so fucking unique, I’ve never met another dude like you. An–”

“And it really fucking sucks that you had to be faced with the destruction of your Universe for you to tell me that,” Sigmund says, cutting Chuck off for the last time. “You have ten seconds before I press the button Chuck, and it’s happening whether you’re here or not. So if you’re going to leave, leave. And never come back.”

Chuck retraces the oval into the fabric of the Universe because the old one went too long before it was shattered and the strings melded back together. He takes one last look at Sigmund and asks, “Wait, I have one more question, and it’s a serious one. What if… what if I am this Universe? What if, when I leave, everything just ends anyway? What if this entire Universe just exists for me?”

Sigmund stares at Chuck for a moment. “Well… the fact that you’re megalomaniacal enough to seriously ask me that question right now makes me want to destroy the Universe all that much more. Just fucking go Chuck, nobody wants you here. Let me end the world in peace.”

And so, he does; Chuck shatters the oval and leaps through the swath of colors into infinity. A moment later, Sigmund, sitting alone in his laboratory that’s buried underneath the faux earth he created out of plastic and garbage, takes a shallow breath. Shaking, he pres–


Hello Commons, this has been the fourth story from The 2020 Event |Those Extra Four…|, a smaller book hidden in the back of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Third Time’s The Charm – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (65/66)

Universe W-2222
Third Time’s The Charm

Cool Night Air

A couple months ago, Hoontr vanished from Emilee and Juliana’s life. Juli had been put to bed, and Em’ and Hoont’ were laying on a blanket they spread over the crusty shingles of Emilee’s parents’ roof, looking at the stars and talking about the origins of Existence. But it was late; the sun would be coming up relatively soon, and a hungry baby takes energy to tend to.

“I’ll come inside in a few,” he said, distracted. “The sky’s just so clear tonight, I need to enjoy it for a bit longer.”

She expected nothing less, giving him a kiss before she climbed down the roof and slipped into the house through the open window. After a few minutes of being alone, Hoontr slid a lighter and a thin marijuana cigarette out of the left pocket of his pajamas.

The inhale was smooth, the cool night air turned pleasantly temperate as it mixed with the smoke and filled his lungs. The key in the lock, and like clockwork, the gears turned; the entire skyscape seemed to expand, the infinitely small sliver of space above him, or rather before him, morphed from a flat void into a three-dimensional chasm of stars and nebulae. He could see shapes, structures, what looked like entire cliff faces suspended in darkness; patterns literally came alive as his pupils dilated to astronomical levels. All was still for a moment, the slight wheezing of his lungs the only vibration in the otherwise immobilized air. Then, a shooting star lit up the vista, and behind it, a sparkling trail of orange fire and purple dust quickly dissipated behind the glowing silver body it followed.

Then, curiously, the shooting star stopped shooting. It seemed to get stuck in the sky.

 Hoontr looked at his burning joint and wondered what the heck his guy cut the bud with this time; he’d never hallucinated like that before. As he contemplated the flicking of the remaining marijuana off the roof though, the star began to soar again, then disappeared over the horizon, tail and all. Hoontr swallowed nervously and looked around, as if there was somebody else on the roof to confirm what he had just seen, but there was nobody. He shrugged it off and continued to smoke, burning his lefty down to the index card roach. The night air grew still once more, the crickets stopped chirping, and Hoontr found himself alone with the stars.

Hours passed by, or maybe minutes, it was impossibly hard to tell. The sky seemed lighter; dawn was making its unavoidable approach and the stars were growing slightly dimmer. It was time for bed. He moved to get up, then paused when the air around him stirred; there was some sort of commotion off in the distance. A low rumbling, the sound of… oscillation, something large slicing and cutting through the delicate early-morning atmosphere, and it seemed to be rapidly approaching. He climbed down to the window to go inside but stopped himself, or rather, something stopped him. An unseen force called to Hoontr, drawing him down from the roof.

Suddenly he found himself in the middle of the driveway, still wearing his fuzzy plaid pajama pants and a tattered white tee. That’s when the helicopters flew overhead, chasing a silver ball of light. Hoontr absentmindedly pulled out his phone and snapped a picture of the orb, or whatever the hell it was, and continued to stand there in bewilderment. Moments later, an SUV pulled into the driveway. A short, taut man with a buzzcut, sunglasses, and a dark suit got out of the car, and…

We Missed

“Nah, we missed him. Try the other one.”

The Zoo

“… and… that’s all I remember. I swear!”

That’s what he told Emilee five weeks later when he pulled up in her parent’s driveway, still clad in the same sleeping clothes he was wearing the night he disappeared. He was telling the truth, she knew he was, but she was mad anyway. The poor girl felt hurt; this wasn’t the first time she’d been abandoned. Plus, Juliana’s father left days after she was born, and now the little one doesn’t even recognize him under the light of the blue moon that marks his visits.

But unlike Jhonni, Hoontr actually came back, and that’s all that really mattered. Juli forgave him immediately, and even though it took a few days, Emilee followed suit. About a week later, though, they almost lost him again.

The daytrip to the zoo was Emilee’s idea. She grew up around various animals, had all kinds of pets from ducks to pythons, dogs to foxes, parakeets to tarantulas ,and everything in between; more than anything else in life, she wanted to share this fascination with the natural world with her daughter. Hoontr wasn’t much of a fan of zoos, but how could he object?

It just happened to be the zoo’s free admission day when they went, too. They hadn’t planned it that way, it just kind of happened, giving Hoontr ample ammunition to make predestination jokes so Emilee could have something to roll her eyes at. Oddly enough the place wasn’t packed, either; there was hardly more than thirty other guests in the entire complex, so all the animals were out and about, utterly animated with virile and spunk.

They started by the big cats. Mountain lions, Bengal tigers, lions, jaguars, even a snow leopard exhibit. From there they moved on to the monkey arena – Juliana was a big fan of the monkeys, seeing how she is one – and then they migrated to the African Savannah exhibit. Our troupe climbed on top of a grand pavilion, an elevated boardwalk that platforms over a vast open grassland, and found a nice open spot to lean on the railing. There were flocks of flamingos, packs of antelope and gazelles alike, a couple elephants wandering about – it looked like it came straight out of a child’s video game. As the family was gazing out from the railing, Juli up on Hoontr’s shoulders, a giraffe walked up. And she looked hungry.

Noticing a candy machine filled with animal feed out the corner of his eye, Hoontr passed the baby off to Emilee and dug out a handful of coins. He put the shiny metal disks into the slot, turned the rusty crank, and returned to his girls (the giraffe included) with a handful of corn nibblets. Juliana took as much as her little hands could handle and held them up to be sacrificed to Missus Giraffe – she accepted the offering. In fact, she accepted it so much that she wrapped her tongue all the way around Juliana’s arm and slurped the corn from her grasp.

When the baby stopped squealing with a combination of delight and disgust, the three began the hunt for the rarest thing one can visit in a zoo: a public bathroom.

Following a good-humored trip to the little girl’s room, they moved on to the reptile hut. It was more of a manor than a hut; the structure boasted nearly ten thousand square feet of various reptiles, amphibians, and invertebrates large enough to give anybody a case of the creepy-crawlies. Making their way from the turtles to the alligators to the snakes to the scorpions, they spent time with every living being in that house, no matter how unsettling.

Except for the creepy guy in the overcoat that followed them from the bathroom. They avoided him like the fucking plague.

Juliana wanted to spend the rest of time in the scaly emporium, showing zero interest in the zoo’s literal tens of other species; the girl refused to leave at first, forcing her mom and (possibly) stepdad (if things go well) to chase her around the room for an hour. It took a promise of ice cream and a new princess costume to get her out of there; though young, the girl knew how to get her way.

On the drive home, with a cone in his hand, the lactose intolerant Hoontr started to feel a bit strange. He was bloated, physically and emotionally, and it made for a very quiet car ride.

When they got back to Emilee’s parents’ house, Em grabbed the baby and quickly dipped inside. Hoontr got roughly halfway across the driveway before the hallucinations started. Then, he collapsed.

Wake

“That should have done it… why won’t he wake?”

Deep In The Forest

Emilee came back outside and saw Hoontr on the ground, causing her to panic. He woke up and found a small metal dart in the back of his neck, which was definitely odd. On a hunch he took the dart out back and burned it, the fumes reeking of burning plastic.

“That’s… I think someone spiked me with Dee-eM-Tee…”

The next day, the trio embarked on a camping trip deep in the forest.

And that’s where they’ve been for the past few days, living off the land. They picked berries and found a paw paw grove, took the baby up a mountain, fed some ducks, cooked hot dogs over a fire… after the baby went to sleep, Hoontr and Emilee even snuck off to christen the pond they’d play in together as kids. But now things have calmed down and they’re sitting by the fire, musing over each other’s opinions of the existence of God (or god).

Until the sky lights up.

It’s blinding at first, but soon their eyes make out the disk. Emilee is afraid but Hoontr takes her hand and quells her fear. He’s seen this before, he knows what it is. He doesn’t know what it is, as in, he can’t put words to it, but at the same time, he knows exactly what it is. Two beams of light shine down from the craft, and within them, two beings descend to the Earth. They’re dressed in brilliant white robes with violet trimmings and, aside from the purple hue of their skin and their towering height, they appear fairly human. For a moment, time seems to be frozen in place; nobody even breathes.

Then, the beings take down their hoods. One is female with long, sleek silver hair, and the other is male with flowing silver locks and an aura, a certain energy about him that even the humans can feel. The male steps forward and turns to Emilee.

They lock eyes and he says, “Greetings. I am called Ace, and my associate is called Fleurna. We are members of… well, all you really need to know is that we’re aliens that travel through a handful of Multiverses, among other pockets of Existence. And your boy there? We uh, we kind of need him back.”

The humans look at each other and share a moment of utter confusion mixed with indescribable horror. How do the freaking aliens speak English?!

“Ahem,” says Ace with a hint of impatience in his voice. “We came looking for him a while back, but we couldn’t find him. We even tried to steal him once, but…” He looks through Emilee, eyes widening at what he sees. “But I suppose Bill didn’t mix the Dee-eM-Tee right, I’ll have to give him some flack for that.”

Woken by the foreign voice, Juliana emerges from her tent. Sensing how scared her guardians are, she locks eyes with Ace and charges towards him. Fleurna leaps into action, scooping Juliana up mid-step and proceeding to tickle and coddle her into submission. She then kisses the baby’s head and gently rocks her to sleep before handing her off to Emilee.

“She’s a brave little warrior Miss, you’re doing a great job as a parent,” before turning to Hoontr. She says nothing to him, simply staring through him with a patient smile before returning to her light.

“So, as I was saying,” Ace cuts in, “he’s with us. We lost him here a long time ago and we’ve spent a lot of resources trying to find him. It’s nothing prophetic or anything, we just… how do I explain this? Uh… we like his hair. Plus, he’s… yanno… the god of weed. So uh, yeah. He’s coming with us.”

Hoontr shakes his head, his mane expanding and contracting with the swivel. “No, no this is… this can’t be real. I’ve always lived here, I was born in this town! What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense, I don’t unders–”

“Of course you don’t understand!” Ace booms with a less than understanding smile on his face. “That would be far too easy for us. Go on now, say your goodbyes while you have the chance. I’d like to point out the fact that we have the ability to traverse Existence itself, meaning we can force you into our spacecraft without batting an eye.” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “I’m being nice here, guy, but the clock’s ticking.”

Hoontr is shaking, nay, trembling. Totally speechless and mind devoid of thought, he embraces Emilee in a hug. Softly, as not to wake the baby, he whispers, “I… I guess it was fun while it lasted. I… be safe Em. Take good care of her, I know you will. Maybe I’ll see you again one day, I…”

Tears are forming in Hoontr’s eyes, it’s getting difficult for him to speak.

Ace takes Hoontr’s hand and walks him towards the light. “Listen,” he says, back turned to the humans, “if you both truly want to see each other again, you will. Without a doubt. But if there are any doubts, you won’t. That’s just how life works. Anyway…”

They’re standing in the light now, everybody but Emilee and her child. “Thank you for taking care of him. Goodbye!”

Fleurna takes Hoontr’s other hand and the three simultaneously float off the ground, rising towards the craft. A single tear runs down Hoontr’s cheek and falls, soaking into the dirt when it lands. Then, the craft disappears.

The fire has died down. A gentle plume of smoke wafts up from the empty pit. Emilee, standing alone in the nocturnal forest with her sleeping baby in her arms, hears a voice in the distance. It’s Jhonni, her baby’s father, accompanied by Emilee’s parents. Jhonni drops his flashlight and runs to Emilee, taking her in his arms. He explains that they’ve been out looking for her, Hoontr, and the baby all day, and they just happened to find her right now. What a coincidence!

Jhonni takes the baby and Emilee’s parents wrap her in a group hug before asking her where Hoontr is.

Emilee, with a heavy sigh, says…

Fin


The Spirit Of The Plant

“Finally, he’s going back. That was… what even was that woman? What happened in there?”

“I do not know, Bill. You’re sure you prepped the Dee–“

“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t make mistakes, not with the crystals. Zax smoked me up anyway, the spirit of the plant guided me.”

“Huh… welp. Third time’s the charm then, shit almost never fails.”

“I guess…” as he looks over to a sleeping Fleurna, waiting with bated breath for her to wake. “What if he doesn’t find the cabin again?”

“Hm… give him some weed, he’ll find his way.”


Hello Commons, this has been the third story from The 2020 Event |Those Extra Four…|, a smaller book hidden in the back of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Error In The Text – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (64/66)

Rapappa Class
The Error In The Text

College

“This is based on a true story.”

———————————————————————————

 “Do not fret, class,” The Awkward Professor croaks, his combover hardly covering the glimmering bald spot that is his scalp. “We will go over any problem you want, any problem at all! Even the ones on the upcoming test!”

He looks out over the classroom-style lecture hall and sees the apathetic and uncaring faces of the twentysomethings, with a few sixtysomethings thrown in for good measure, that make up his cell of the student body. Literally nobody is paying attention; half the class is asleep, about a quarter are flirting with each other, and one kid’s even lighting up a pipe in the back of the room. This is one of the better responses The Awkward Professor has gotten from these eager young minds, he’s actually and unsarcastically thrilled right now.

“UHM, ProfesSOR, Sir!” one student gripes in only the most nasally of voices that was practiced in a mirror the previous night, his hand shooting up into the air like heroin into the vein of a junkie, illuminating the darkness that is the collective mindstate of an 8 AM Wednesday class. “There is, and I know you’ll find this hard to believe, I know I did, but there is an ​ERROR​ in the textbook!”

The Awkward Professor’s skin turns an entire shade paler than it already was upon hearing these words. “Y-y-y-y-y-yes, Royan? Could y-y-y-y-y-you please elabora-elabora-elaborate on this?”

Royan’s mouth contorts and swirls itself into an almost sinister smirk, the corners of his lips stretching far beyond the confines of his face, as he says, “But of course, Sire! On page fifty-seven, ​Test Your Knowledge​ problem number nine, parts dee and eee, sentences four and two, words twenty-seven and thirteen-point-five. There are…” pausing so you can wait for it, not his classmates but you, “ERRORS!”

The Awkward Professor, starved for human interaction, matches Royan’s smile as he flips through his custom ​Professor’s Edition​ of the textbook titled Probably Problems of Probability​, written by none other than Elixerious Rapapappa.

Note: this is a 1980s Power Ballad History class.

Upon finding the errors, The Awkward Professor shrieks a harpy-like call of joy, exclaiming, “Excellent question, Royan!”

Royan did not ask a question and he knows it, but the boy jumps to the front of the class and kisses The Awkward Professor’s feet anyway, the taste of classroom-floor grime just the lickety-hit he needed to get himself back in the desk.

The Awkward Professor continues, “You see, kids, and I know you will find this hard to believe because both Royan ​and​ myself did, BUT, no matter how serious or imperative a college class is, especially one of ​this​ caliber…”

The student in the back who was smoking the pipe has since rolled a joint and formed a powwow.

“…and irregardless of how ​brilliant​ and ​socially-inclined​ the professor who wrote the book is, there can, and will always be, at least one error. In fact, in this case, there are four!”

The Awkward Professor’s smile grows approximately three-point-one-four times larger, and the class, if they were paying any attention at all, would be able to tell that the man (if you’re in a good enough mood to call him that) is very excited to say what he is about to say.

“How many pages are in our textbook?”

Not a single soul, human or otherwise, raises their hand. The Awkward Professor dies just a little bit more on the inside. “Well, I could count all of the pages, but that might take a while because, well…” he trails off. A string of drool forms on his bottom lip as he stares at the open textbook in his hands. He slurps it up.

And swallows.

“Or…” as he removes his glasses in an attempt to create some sort of dramatic effect, “…we could call in… an ​expert​.”

It’s hard to describe in words how he pronounces the word expert, so there ya go. Royan’s Capri pants shrink up to his kneecaps at this comment; it’s finally happening. His ​CHANCE.

The Awkward Professor is smiling very hard now, harder than he ever has before, so hard that it doesn’t even look like he’s smiling anymore. Seriously, he’s just showing off his yellow-brown teeth that are, at this stage of his life, barely attached to his gums anymore. He begins speaking, “Softly,” to himself, although the remainder of the class that’s still giving him the time of day can hear his words as if he was speaking directly into their ears. They are quite confused as to why he keeps saying the word softly over and over again, but they let it slide as one by one they stand from their desks, slowly but surely assimilated into the powwow in the back. In fact, of all the organizations that promote coexistence at this liberal arts college, this powwow is the most inclusive; humans from all corners of the globe, wearing all types of religious head gear and carrying all flavors of existential baggage, they all come together for one reason: to smoke some Cannabis while this unqualified man attempts, at the nineteenth college that he paid to hire him, to influence the youth of America.

Finally, the broken record that is The Awkward Professor fixes itself and whispers, “​Em-App Major”.

Suddenly, The Awkward Professor leaps towards his desk at the other side of the room in an attempt to dive for his bag, but he lands three feet short and smashes his face into the ground.

“CLASS!” he screams from the floor, attempting to spit out all the crumbled tooth bits he just removed from his gums. “YOU ALL NEED TO KNOW!!!”

Literally everyone in the class, besides Royan of course, has joined in on the powwow. The room is becoming increasingly hazy by the minute, smoke detectors are going off like fire alarms, but The Awkward Professor just pretends he doesn’t notice. ‘They’re just kids,’ he thinks to himself, ‘let them have their fun.’ Royan pulls out a World War I military grade gas mask and straps her on, ready and paying attention. He has been waiting all semester; nay, all year; nay, his entire life; nay, THE ENTIRE TIMELESS EXISTENCE OF HIS IMMORTAL SOUL for this moment. His ​CHANCE!!!!!

“PROFEssOR!” Royan’s hand shoots up, another parrot-voiced beacon of light for the Awkward Professor in his time of need, the only one in this class that none of the human students give a single rosebud of a shit about.

The Awkward Professor’s eyes begin glowing yellow as he chants, “Yes, Royan! Be my sal-vAY-SHON!”

Royan stands up, his back cracking like a whip. The sky darkens, but nobody in the class notices because the blinds are stapled to the wall. The ground begins to shake, but the administration installed earthquake-proof resistors beneath the footings of the structure. The light bulbs all explode at once, the plastic diffusion plates catching the glass and preventing the powwow from being interrupted. The Awkward Professor, still laying on the ground, allows Royan to step up on his back, the man feeling his organs being impaled by the spiked soccer cleats Royan wears every day to class and loving ever internally bleeding second of it.

This school doesn’t even have a soccer team, and Royan walks with a cane due to some unfortunate lumbar issues.

“Now…” they both say in unison, “…we combine our powers and become–” The ground’s shaking intensifies and birds begin to drop out of the sky, dead. “​the conduit.”

FLASH!

The lights come back on. Royan is lying dead on the floor. The Awkward Professor is hanging from the ceiling by his tongue. The powwow pauses whilst the smoker digs through his pockets for a cigarillo, all the grasshoppers scattering at the lack of grass to hop to. Probably Problems of Probability, laying open on the floor, takes on a ghastly green-yellow glow as a ghostly figure materializes above it. With a blunt rolled, the rest of the humans are pulled against their will towards the supplier like high school students are attracted to the memes about moths being attracted to lamps. If either rosseforP drawkwA ehT or his surrogate clone nayoR had functioning eyes, they would see that the plan they formulated in a cave over two trillion years ago has been thwarted by a guy that never even enrolled in the school to begin with.

The spectre of Rapappa waves its hand over the tome as letters, numbers, and ancient Wiccan runes begin to ascend into the air, spinning around the room like the Unown from that one Pokémon movie way back in the day. Amazingly, two or three kids stop smoking and witness whatever the fuck is going on here, but it’s not immediately explained to them, so they think it’s fake news. The spectre rearranges the symbols to his liking and puts them back in the book before proclaiming but a single question: “Agreed?”

The class agrees, not knowing what they’re agreeing to and not caring because tHiS iS aMeRiCa, ThE hOmE oF tHe FrEe! and they can say what they want without consequence because fReE sPeEcH.

The book explodes into a plume of light, blinding the beet red eyes of the student body.

When the light fades, the Awkward Professor is back in the front of the room with a whole new set of sparkly white teeth in his maw, and Royan is sitting in his front-center desk in a pink polka-dotted pinstripe suit.

“Now that the typo is corr-eck-ted,” The Awkward Professor says with an angelic smile, emphasis on the eck, “are there any other homework questions?”

———————————————————————————

“I fucking hate college.”

“Well yeah, I can see that. But how is that based on a true story, exactly?”

“It’s not, that’s the joke.”

“Oh… well, okay, but I’m still not sleeping with you.”

“Uh… kay? I wasn’t gonna ask you to, so…”

Flustered, she says, “Well… neither is my gay roommate!”

“Yeeeaaahhh… wasn’t gonna ask him either…”

“So why did you show me that weird fucking story in the first place?!”

“I don’t know, I thought it was kinda wacky.”

Fin


Hello Commons, this has been the second story from The 2020 Event |Those Extra Four…|, a smaller book hidden in the back of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Wake-Up Call – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (63/66)

April 22nd, 2020
Wake-Up Call

Milkshake

Up the hallway, down the hallway. Up the hallway, then down the hallway. Back and forth he paces, just like all the humans downstairs right now, except in a much less frantic manner… then again, when aren’t the humans living in a frantic manner? Their whole species just needs to calm down, smoke one of those sticks that make them happy. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, they really need a day dedicated to smoking that stuff, that would fix them up. Better yet, a specific time of each day dedicated to smoking – the stress they put themselves thorough could kill them, it’s like they don’t even realize this basic facet of living. He glances over at the clock on the box and a lime green 4:20 glances right back. All right, she’s been sleeping long enough; time to intervene.

At first he just sits at the door, staring, hoping to will her awake. It works more often than one might think it does, however this time it doesn’t pan out, leading him to more drastic measures: the paws. He bats the sunken-in panels of the door over and over, closing the minuscule gap between the bolt and the bolt hole with a loud bang at least a million times to no avail. She’s left him no choice; – the claws must now come out. He doesn’t want to damage the door, but homegirl needs to wake up already.

It seems like all the scratching in the world won’t wake sleeping beauty from her slumber. Back to pacing then, at least until pacing gets old. Then he starts running, nay, dashing back and forth, scaling walls, he clears the entire dusty old couch in one foul leap. A raucous of this caliber will break the spell, surely it must… but lo, it does not. When his infinite well of energy runs dry, he returns to his post outside the door, sat in wait. She’ll be out in no time, he knows she will, it’s not like she has a food cache in her bedroom. He’s just gotta be patient.

This patience lasts a record-breaking four minutes before the batting is resumed with a scratching session following close behind. Anger is building. He prowls back to the clock, 4:29. Unbelievable! If ever there was a time for drastic measures, now would be the time.

He locks his sights on the door handle. This is a very advanced maneuver, a feat he’s only accomplished a pawful of times. Closing his eyes for a moment, he takes a deep breath, centering himself, priming his back legs. ‘It is time, girl.’ He leaps, bounding up into the air and wrapping his paws around the handle. Gravity does the rest of the work and the door swings open – he is triumphant.

All’s quiet on the bedroom front. The dust bunnies are hidden inside their various burrows dug into the piles of dirty clothing and miscellaneous objects that form trenches leading to their main hub underneath her bed. Like a delicious mouse in search of even more delicious cheese, he traverses the maze, seeing through the darkness as clear as day.

At last he’s reached the bed. As he climbs up the blanket draping off the side, he steps lightly – now that he’s here, he doesn’t want to wake her up. Not yet.

Ah, so serene, so peaceful. Her face as she sleeps is that of an angel’s, almost glowing in the darkness as she gently breathes in and out, the pillows on her chest rising and falling in a most harmonious rhythm. He almost just abandons the plan and curls up next to her, nuzzling in close to feel his pet’s warmth and share in her slumber. Almost. Instead he reels back, shrinking down into the bed sheets and dilating his pupils. With a wiggle of his butt he pounces, landing square on her face.

She wakes and, through a mouthful of fur, shrieks, “Milkshake!”

‘That’s right honey, it’s breakfast time.’

With far more protest than he would have liked to receive, she eventually gets up and walks her apparently heavy feet over to the downstairs door, grunting when the lights hit her eyes. He slips through the crack and lightly floats down the stairs, perching under the railing and patiently waiting for his pet to follow.

She eventually does, and with his food bowl in her hand.

“Thank god you’re finally up! We need to leave, let’s go!”

Whilst she’s fiddling with the can containing his magic meaty mush, distracted by the ignorance she displays towards the neurotic other humans that are buzzing around the cave like honeybees who just caught wind of an approaching giant hornet, he slips behind the biggest couch in the living room and turns himself away from it. Backing up with his tail confidently pointing towards the ceiling, he approaches the soft, absorbent wall of fabric. A few tail twitches later and his territory is marked; his reign may have only begun last night, but everybody knows who’s in charge here.

“Harley! We gotta go, this isn’t a joke! Are you ignoring me?”

It is at this point he can hear the sound of flowing water. Running a big circle around the room to cover his tracks, he ascends to the countertop and finds his food. Chow time!

For a few blissful bites, anyway, until she grabs the bowl and starts walking back towards the stairs. Ugh, she better not make a habit out of doing this, it is very unwise to make the master wa–

That’s when he sees her. The other cat, the terrified one; they lock eyes, obviously a challenge to battle, a call to arms. Tightening his pounce and executing a masterful wiggle, he goes airbo–

“Harley, if you stay here the aliens are going to kill you!”

–rne once more, gliding through the living room, aimed directly towards the hissing monstrosity known as MowMow. All this only to be snatched out of the air by the girl who made him wait to eat.

“I can snatch a cat Dad, let ‘em fuckin’ try!”

The Mongrel pretends her using him to prove a point was one of his hallucinations and allows her to carry him back upstairs.

He wiggles himself free as soon as the door is closed, or rather, slammed with the force of a still slightly damp twentysomething. She places the food next to the water dish on his sustenance tray and immediately storms back into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her, and before he even has a chance to rub up against her leg as thanks for this offering! Oh well, it’s time to enjoy the spoils of his victory; she’ll have a chance to be grateful for his presence after tomorrow’s wake-up call.

Fin


Hello Commons, this has been the first story from The 2020 Event |Those Extra Four…|, a smaller book hidden in the back of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Epilogue – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (62/66)

Chapter 25
Epilogue

Cycles

For every nothing that begins, there must be an every- and anything that follows; similarly, for every prologue, there must also be an epilogue; don’t you know that things work in cycles?

Fin

C’mon, you’ve made it this far; I dare you to read the rest. It may feel like a smak in the face, the story ending like that, but if you feel that way then you’re likely a human. And if there’s one thing to be learned from all this, it’s that the aliens are smarter than the humans. You’ll get it eventually; practice makes perfect, just like in anything and everything else. With that lesson learned, I have one last thing to say: welcome home.

Yes, welcome home Jack Monta; although this home may look more like the waiting room with the carpeted hardwood-tile floor you sit in whilst the psychiatrist tries to convince the ‘mando ahead of you that the drug-smoking hairless mammalians have not, in fact, infiltrated the United Salamander’s Government than it does a place you would rest your head at night, worry not. Just upstairs there are some kooky purple aliens with some Psychedelic space drugs who will doubtlessly try to convince you to get high with them before undergoing some interspecies mingling. And who knows, maybe one of these iterations, you’ll let them.

While you may not have guessed the true intentions behind this version of an extraterrestrial invasion of Earth, you may have skipped breakfast before undergoing this trip. I get it, you wanted the experience to be more intense, but you’ve just wound up even hungrier than you were before you went into it. But now it’s the end of the day; go have some dinner; you’ve earned that much. Then go to bed and get some rest.

Ah, you’re awake! Time for some breakfast with bigfoot, as it were; eat up, before he nabs the mushroom cubes off your plate. Good, you’re nice and full now, all caught up on your sleep… and you’re still mad at the ending? Don’t take this the wrong way, but uh, have you ever tried psychotherapy? I mean, this is just a novel, after all; if your coach sends an email to the principal of your school about your shitty attitude, then you need to learn to deal with your vicarious living syndrome in a way that benefits you, lest you find yourself stranded on Planet Hymarc. Yikes. Hey, if you think you can write a better story, then please, for the love of Cannabis, take the time to write a book. I’d read it.

No? Don’t want to waste your time writing? Then you’re in for a rude awakening, bucko… if writing is your purpose, that is. I’m not saying that it’s mine, why would you think that? Like, what the fuck? All I’m saying is that I tried everything besides writing this tome and got introduced to failure over and over and over again – I’ve been both The Hobo and The Prisoner; they’re one in the same, if you ask me. But anyway, then I wrote this book and now you’re reading it, so… think about it. The job is done. Question for you though, hypothetical reader, if you even exist: how’d you find out about this book? Word of mouth? Physical, mental, and existential exhaustion brought me here, while a turn in conversation, the flap of a pair of lips, human lipsno less, brought you to this page. If you’ve even come to this page in the first place, that is… Existence is weird, isn’t it?

Fine, I’ll address the ending. First I welcomed you home, but now I say: happy birthday Jack Monta! That’s all you get; sorry, can’t hear you, I’m busy chilling with two aliens smoking drugs on the edge of the atmosphere.

That’s seriously all you get. If you really don’t understand the ending, then re-read the final chapter; hell, re-read the whole story. It’s all there for you. Epilogue, fin.


About The Author

The author is a man who “out of the blue” decided he wanted to write a long-ass novel about aliens that do Psychedelic drugs.

Then, he fucking did it.

What else do you need to know?


The 2020 Event
|Those Extra Four…|


Hello Commons, this has been chapter 25 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

The Final Chapter – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (61/66)

Chapter 24
The Final Chapter

Captain Wolf

“This may be the final chapter of my career. One must cap the saga sometime, pass the reigns. Are you sure you’re not trying to receive them, Captain? I’ve never before witnessed someone climb through the ranks as fast as you have.”

“I’m decidedly sure, Admiral. I greatly appreciate everything you’ve done for me; reviving me, training me, reviving me again… through the handful of solar cycles I’ve known you, you’ve saved my life in more ways than I know, and on more than one occasion. But soldiering isn’t my thing; I will gladly help you wrap up this mission, but after that, I have some loose ends to tie up. They don’t really involve the Zeroc.”

After a moment’s pause, Captain Wolf adds, “Well, they might, one should never say never. I am a hybrid, after all. I just don’t see y’all returning to Earth any time soon, and I sure as shit don’t see myself leaving.”

“Very well… okay, Grunts! Captain Rex! Time to lock and load!

The Grunts all sound off, priming their weapons in unison. The camp is packed up, the teleporters are readied, and since he never heard back from the Council of Life, Admiral Derrick Bolt is ready to embark on his final mission.

It is time to find the anomaly.

Admiral Bolt’s exploration team has quite the journey ahead of them – there are no less than four large, mountainous… mountains between the sight of their camp at the far end of the Wanapo and the anomaly near the dam. It will be a long trek, and a fairly monotonous one at that. Admiral Bolt lets Captain Wolf take point for the hell of it, since it’s his planet and whatnot.

The Grove

The Zerocian Pre-Invasion Reconnaissance Force gets about five minutes into their hike, which is right around the time the bagpipes start playing at the memorial service that Treering’s finest resident Plug Houkkachuki set up to memorialize Jack Monta, which is hours before the New Manhattan memorial service Sean Hymarc set up for the handful of consumers that were lost on Tuesday and Friday, before Captain Wolf is distracted by a deer that seems to be having a seizure on the trail.

Captain Wolf and Admiral Bolt both rush to the deer’s side for very different reasons. Wolf attempts to grab the deer’s tongue and prevent the poor creature from swallowing it, and he’s prepared to grip that deer tongue for hours, days if necessary.

Fortunately for him, it won’t be necessary.

Admiral Bolt, having seen these symptoms in a lower lifeform before, pulls out a scanner and waves it over the deer’s brain.

“Yep, just as I thought. This deer is experiencing symptoms of neurotoxic shock.”

“What?!” Captain Wolf shouts, his tone of voice expressing the fact that that’s the most ridiculous shit he’s ever heard. “What could this deer have possibly eate– oh what in the fuck, it’s back up!”

The deer is indeed back up, and it doesn’t even run away. It just stares Captain Wolf in the eyes for a few moments until the man relinquishes his hold on its tongue. The deer then sniffs him, then it proceeds to sniff and be petted by all of the Zerocian Grunts; even Captain Rex gives the lil’ tyke a scratch behind its ears.

Captain Wolf, dumbstruck as a truck driver tucking a nut bar into his tuccus, looks to Admiral Bolt for an answer.

“DifZoral Tryptamine, I’m afraid. A very potent hallucinogenic compound that was once produced by various now extinct species of vegetation that grew from the soil of planet Fuego, the homeworld of the Zeroc. The majority of my species, in fact, the majority of the Grunts in this squad, even, believe that, once the drug is ingested, it allows the ingester to ascend to a higher level of consciousness and interact with Existence in a very different way than normal, sober consciousness does.”

“What…?” Captain Wolf says, looking at the nodding Zeroc. Then, to Admiral Bolt, “What do you mean they believe it does that? That seems like a pretty cut and dry argument, like, either the shit works or it doesn’t.”

“Well, I’ve only ever experienced the effects of the sauce once, not even directly, and it led me to do something that fundamentally changed who I am as a being. I never looked back, no matter how hard the teams I’ve trained since then have prodded me. There are rumors the Zerocian brain produces the compound endogenously at moments of extreme stress, such as birth and death, and possibly when one dreams, and allegedly on command if one trains for it, but said claims haven’t been verified. It’s tough to peer into the brain of a living being, after all.”

Captain Wolf is totally lost right now. “I… okay, whatever, I’m not even going to try to probe any further into that. Riddle me this though, mo’fuckah: you said the die-fuhzoral-whatever-you-called-it was made in now extinct plants native to your home planet, which is lightyears away. So how did it get here and into the system of this deer?”

“That… is a fantabulous question, Captain Wolf. This is why I promoted you to Captain. You know, if you return to Fuego with us you could attain ChairSeat statues in early as four hundred twenty solar cycles, I’m sure of it.”

“Hard pass on that… hey, what’s the deer doing?”

The deer seems to be hopping up and down like bunny.

“I think it’s trying to get our attention,” Captain Rex says with a hand on his gun. “Should I put it down?”

“No,” shouts Admiral Bolt, disappointing his most bloodthirsty subordinate. “Let’s follow it.”

The deer, named Spike of the WhiteTail Tribe by the way, makes that weird mleerp sound some deer occasionally make and takes off, prancing down a game trail that none of the highly aware Zeroc soldiers had noticed until right now. They follow the deer down into the valley behind the tallest mountain in the Windbeam range where they find a magnificent grove of sprawling Mokka Trees, many of which bare the pinkish-white rind of the Mokka Fruit, the extremely psychoactive and DfZT-heavy holy fruit of the Quatchfut… well, it was the holy fruit of the Quatchfut, before their entire species was decimated by an angry old white-skinned human, that is.

How else did you think Tiny Tim was able to do all that mystical shit? I referenced “the Grove” on three separate occasions, like, fuck.

Admiral Bolt, his normally trembly voice trembling even more as he speaks into his communicator, says the following string of words to Chairseat Jolon of the Zeroc Council of Life:

“Sir, I believe we’ve located the anomaly.”

A Stoned Ape

And thus the aliens, with their long sought after sustainable source of naturally occurring Psychedelic drugs secured, wrap up the first (and likely last) official extraterrestrial invasion of human-infested Earth, not with the thunderous clap of a planet-wide vaporization ray, nor with the whistle of an atomic bomb being dropped on a major city, but with the wispy trail of smoke drifting from the spent wick sprouting from the molten waxy remains of an herbal candle, the flame extinguished by the grayish breath originating from within the polluted lungs of a stoned ape, pipe in hand sitting lotus in the back of its cave that it built out of wood, hoping the divine voice in its head that it’s listened to up until this point has led it somewhere good, because this cave took a lot of effort, a lot of sacrifice, and, most importantly, a whole lot of time to build, time that would have otherwise been spent doing nothing at all.

Fin


Hello Commons, this has been chapter 24 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

Two Aliens Smoking Drugs On The Edge Of The Atmosphere – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (60/66)

Chapter 23
Two Aliens Smoking Drugs On The Edge Of The Atmosphere

One Last Time

Fuck what I said, and fuck the table of contents. In other words, fuck what I said. He’ll be seen one last time.

‘Shrooming Bigfoots

Just after Chuck flips Earth the bird and just before he opens the portal, he feels a hand bop him on the shoulder. This of course sends Chuck’s body flying through nothingness, but then a lasso made of hemp ropes him and drags him back to the unidentifiable spot in the nothingness in which he was floating a second ago.

“You? Really?” Chuck says, rolling his eyes so hard that his body rolls with them. He really wishes he didn’t smoke that joint before he left Cape.

‘Me. Really,’ Ace telepaths from the lotus position he holds.

“How are you just floating there?”

‘I’m not, my humey,’ as the captain of The Psychenauts pats the invisible metal surface he’s sat upon. ‘I’m sitting on my ship. Why don’t you join me?’

“Why don’t you… uh…” Chuck attempts, looking for a way to gain the conversational upper hand.

He fails.

Then, “Why don’t you tell me why you’re able to sit in space without a space helmet?”

‘I’ll do you one better: I’m not actually alive, not like you are. Well, nothing is alive like you are Chuck, but nothing is alive like me either, besides my crew, so I guess we have that in common.’

Chuck, unsure of what to say, pops a squat next to Ace.

“What do you mean?”

‘Which part are you referring to?’ said with a devilish grin, a grin that makes Chuck wish he would have just left this goddamned Universe like he had planned to. In a last-ditch attempt to avoid this conversation by killing himself, Chuck commands his power armor to melt back into his tie. It does, and when his body is exposed to the coldness of space, he doesn’t even feel a little bit different.

“God fuckin’… okay, fine, we’ll talk. I’m referring to the part about me. I don’t give a fuck about you Ace, nor do I give a fuck about anything in this pickled shit of a Universe. What do you mean that nobody is alive like me, does that mean I’m not alive? Am I just going to wake up and this was all a dream?”

‘If you did, would that make it any less real?’

Neither Chuck nor the loop he was thrown for was expecting that. “What?”

Without looking at Chuck, because he’s speaking telepathically and eye contact has no bearing on his getting his message across, Ace continues. ‘When you were a child, you spent a whole lot of time running around the woods, playing in an imaginary ninja village of sorts, am I correct?’

“What the fuck? How did you know that, I never told anybody about that.”

‘And yet, when you were a child, you also moved around a lot with your father. Swapped schools. Never made a friend until you escaped from Magnus’s clutches and went to college, and the first friend you made? He’s been working for you ever since.’

“Uh… okay? So how do you know all that?”

‘Chuck… if you were always moving around, wouldn’t there be more than one ninja village that you played in as a child?’

Chuck should have gone through the fucking portal, god damnit.

“I–”

‘Only remember one village? I know you do, and you remember it so vividly! It was so real, you probably still have that little map that you drew in your first notebook, that old leather-bound leaflet your Stepmom got for you.’

Chuck looks down at his hands and sees the map, his map. The map of his The Village Hidden In The Cliffs, drawn by ten-year-old Chuck, the one that got burned in one of his dad’s many bonfires along with his schoolwork and all the other pictures he would draw as a child.

“What th–”

‘You remember all the details of that place, all of the beings you interacted with back there, every leap between logs, every boulder you climbed up, every imaginary throat you slit with your stick blades and every bullet fired by your stick guns. You remember that little stretch of woods better than you remember your own life, at least up until this past Monday when you and Alvey were kicking this whole journey off.’

“Journey?”

Ace hands Chuck a joint, already lit, and exhales a cloud of smoke into the blackness of space. ‘Haven’t you been wondering why you’re so damned different than everything else that exists in this Universe, Chuck? I mean, surely you’ve noticed that you’re not exactly from ‘round these parts,’ the ‘round these parts bit with a southern drawl.

“No shit I’m different,” as he hits the joint. “I’m from a different Universe.”

‘It’s because you’re from a diff– wait, what did you just say?’

Chuck hands Ace the joint but doesn’t bother exhaling. “Yeah, it’s the only thing that really makes sense. You know, meeting you and getting my ring without you remembering it, my memory of my life in this Universe being foggy, that mysterious force lying outside of my being that keeps taking over my body and making me say shit… you see? I didn’t even mean to say that third thing, it just kind of came out. But anyway, all that stuff is totally weird, but until you brought up the ninja village thing, it never really clicked with me. I was just going with the flow. But yeah, the only thing that makes sense is that I came here from another universe – one very similar to this one – and the memories of this Universe’s Chuck must have meshed with mine.”

‘I… well then,’ Ace telelaughs, impressed. ‘You basically got it man, good for you. Want the actual truth?’

“From you? Uh… don’t take this the wrong way but… ah fuck it, it doesn’t matter how you take it. I’m about to leave the Universe, right? Why does one leave one’s Universe? Because one needs to go on a journey. Okay, so why does one go on a journey? To learn who they are. So, no spoilers, please and thank you.”

Ace looks at Chuck for the first time, not through him but at him, as an equal of sorts. I mean, nobody’s really an equal to Ace, but that’s beside the point. Here’s this creature that’s about to move on from an infinite Universe, one endless moment that stretches on and on forever, to the next, all in search of who he is. All because things in this Universe went so far in the direction opposite that he wanted them to go that he can’t stand to live here anymore. Of course, he also has the means to leave this realm, which not many beings that get described as creatures get, but still. If this isn’t some of the most dramatic bullshit that Ace has ever witnessed in a human…

‘…but you’re not really human, are you Chuck?’

“What the fuck are you on about?” Chuck snaps, nonverbally demanding the joint back.

As Chuck puffs, Ace telepaths, ‘Well humans are alive, and like I said before, you’re not alive any more than I am. Can I at least explain what that means?’

Chuck takes a fifth consecutive hit, this one more dragged out than the other ones, and passes the joint back to Ace.

“No, Mister Drug-Doing Alien, sir, you may not.”

‘Oh my fucking… the both of you with the alien thing, it’s so fucking irritating.’

“The both of us?” Chuck anxiously asks, staring at the joint that Ace is holding in his hand rather than smoking.

‘Yeah, you and fuckin’ Samuel in there. Earth humans calling anything else an alien, especially a Zeroc, is laughable at best, and vaporization-worthy at worst. Oblivious bastards, every one of you.’

“Um…” Chuck says, at war with himself. He knows this is just a ruse to keep him in the Universe for as long as possible before he leaves, the bait is so obvious he can almost see a silver hook floating from Ace’s mouth. Ugh… just, like… why? Why must everyone else always get in the way of Chuck doing what he wants to do? Why Ace, why right now? Chuck doesn’t have a clue – maybe this Universe slips into a state of nonexistence when it doesn’t contain his presence. Maybe Ace is going to try to steal the ring back. Maybe this, maybe that, maybe the other thing that you didn’t expect; it doesn’t matter much, not at this point in the game. Chuck just has to punch a hole into the Universe and he’s out… so… I guess he’ll take the bait, see what happens. Hmm… maybe–

‘Maybe we can pretend I’m just a Zeroc and you’re just human and I just want to impart some knowledge on you?’ Ace offers, Chuck’s whitewater rapids of internal chatter too much to eavesdrop upon without interrupting. ‘You know, kind of like a bigger brother? That’s basically what I am to you, Chuck, like, on a biological level. If we’re gonna play pret–’

“FINE!” Chuck yells into the void of space, hardly vibrating the very few air molecules that buzz around on this, the edge of Earth’s atmosphere. It’s a good thing Ace doesn’t need to hear to perceive what Chuck is saying, or else this whole thing would be really weird. “Fine, explain your shit. Just give me the fuckin’ plant back so I don’t have to… I don’t know. Just gimme.”

Ace gives Chuck the joint, then, ‘So, where do you want me to start?’

“I don’t fucking care dude,” as he pulls. “The not alive thing, the big brother thing, the alien thing, whatever. Hey, why don’t you explain to me why Psychedelics don’t really have any effect on me anymore? Why don’t you just explain everything, let this be a whole batch of exposition for whatever blue-skinned salamander creature reads this in a book once the events echo and reverberate through the strings of Existence far enough to reach them. Fucking, why don’t you just… why don’t you just let me fucking leave?

Ace, still in the lotus position, takes the joint from Chuck and sticks it in his mouth. Then, he takes Chuck’s hand in his and closes his eyes. ‘Chuck, in this Universe, the original Chuck died at the exact moment you entered. You’re from an earlier iteration of this Universe, one that was destroyed when that iteration’s Sigmund activated the black hole device that I ga–… that the version of me from the earlier iteration, gave him. The thing is, when you left that universe and avoided the black holing, you changed what you are as a being. You became… more or less like me.’

“Like you?” Chuck says, breaking the speech up so it doesn’t get too self-involved.

‘Yes, like all of us Psychenauts. Fleurna, Bill, myself – we all died a very, very long time ago. In this iteration of this Universe, in the last one, and in any future ones, I would assume. My squad, and the superior who trained us, we were actually the first ones to set foot on planet Fuego. It was a star before we transmuted it into a planet – want to know how we did that?’

“Sure, knock me out.”

‘With Dee-eff-Zee-Tee, the Moksha Medicine we produce in our brains. My squad, in an effort to prove that it was possible to our superior, changed a star into a planet using our unlocked minds and nothing else. Shortly after, an incident involving a specific moon occurred and, fearing we would be blamed, my team fled Fuego forever. One day we were zooming through space and we just died; all of us, all at once, because we got really high off this or that and decided to go. Then we all woke back up the next morning just in time to see a meteor slam into our ship and destroy us completely.’

“Oh… Christ. Didn’t expect that.”

‘Because I worded it in a certain way, duh. But anyway, yeah, us Psychenauts are only spirits, our consciousnesses – our higher selves, so to speak. We exist when we wish and when we don’t, we don’t; we’re kind of like guardian angels in a way, and to summon us, all one must do is consume any variant of the Moksha Medicine. Sort of. To be honest we just kind of find ourselves in other beings’ lives, kind of like y’all find yourselves in ours. We’re just really good at going with the flow.’

“Oh… kay?” Chuck hesitantly asks, not sure where all of this is going. Maybe he should just leav–

‘NO! No I’m about to link it all I swear, don’t let go of my hand either.’

Chuck doesn’t let go of the alien’s hand, although he more than kind of wishes he would.

‘Okay, so I told you we created Fuego, so from that you were supposed to wonder, where did they live before Fuego?’

“But I didn’t, because I’m not a fucking student, and I just want to fucking leave the Universe. Spit it out Ace, come on. This is ridiculous.”

Ace pauses and stares at Chuck for a moment. Then:

‘At first there was nothing, because a black hole decimated the last iteration of this Universe. Then, suddenly the current iteration existed and there was everything. From that everything spawned this solar system, along with an infinite amount of other solar systems, but that doesn’t matter. When all the planets were all nice and created-like, life decided to show up in the form of the Stropharians. Before you ask, they’re a race of fungal lifeforms from which all life in this Universe descends – at least, that’s what they told us. They were a bipedal mushroom species, looked a lot like you and me except their head is the shape of what we know as a mushroom cap, and they spawned on Mercury. Yes, at one point, Mercury sustained life, and it did it so well the Stropharians stripped it of all its many resources, so they had to move to Venus. Venus was devoid of life, or so I was told, so the Stropharians took over there and became even more advanced. The stories say that the Venus Stropharian empire could eclipse the Fuego Zerocian empire in terms of spiritual oneness, but that’s beside the point.’

“What is the point? I’m so tired dude, what’s the fucking point?”

‘Getting there. So, while on the trip from Mercury to Venus, the Stropharians shot a bunch of their spores out into the void. Some of these spores landed on Earth in a field where some cows were grazing, a field owned by a farmy version of the indigenous higher life, the Quatchfut. The farmer didn’t notice the spore, but he did notice the strange mushroom growing from the shit of one of his cows a few weeks later. And when he ate said mushroom, he noticed some very strange effects had taken over his body.’

“Wait… yeah, stropharia, yeah, that’s a rare species of Magic Mushroom. Are you… so originally, before humans and Zerocians came into the picture, life on Earth was nothing but ‘Shrooming bigfoots?! Get the fuck outta here!” Chuck exclaims, so fucking glad he didn’t leave yet.

‘Yes, life on Earth started with the Quatchfut. Perhaps they’re a branch evolution from a stray Stropharian spore that missed the target when their species originally pulled a panspermia and landed on Mercury – the ‘Shroomians needed to originate somehow, after all – but that’s not for us to know. Regardless, when the Quatchfut ate the Mushroom, the Stropharians noticed.’

“From a planet away?”

‘From a planet away. What’s that old Zerocian saying? The one about Mushrooms versus Acid… OH! Mushrooms are like being strapped to the back of a rocket ship, while Acid is like piloting the rocket ship yourself. You ever hear that?’

“Sure.”

‘Well, when one is on Mushrooms and strapped to the back of that rocket… who do you think is controlling it?

Chuck doesn’t want to answer, but he does anyway. “You’re telling me that… what are you telling me?”

‘When one eats a Magic Mushroom, one’s consciousness is hijacked, or rather, highjacked, by a Stropharian for the duration of the trip. It’s entirely seamless too, not even a Zerocian can discern exactly when it happens.’

“Huh. So how do the Zeroc come into all of this?”

‘Right… so the Stropharians, having detected more life in their solar system, packed their bags and left for Earth. They created a symbiotic civilization between themselves and the Quatchfut at first, but it didn’t last long. The Stropharians felt that they were superior because the Quatchfut were covered in hair and the ‘Shroomians were mostly hairless, just like you and me. So, with these feelings, the Stropharians climbed to the top of the society and made the Quatchfut into lower-class citizens, for lack of a better term. Then they started some genetic experimentation and, how do I put this… one vial filled with a combination of Stropharian and Quatchfut dee-en-aye later, whammy, the first Zeroc was born.’

“Well fuck.”

‘Yeah. Eventually the Zeroc were demoted to the social status of lower-class citizens too, so we teamed up with the Quatchfut and kicked the Stropharians off of Earth. Then, uh… there’s no easy way to say this; then the Zeroc pulled a Stropharian and rose above the Quatchfut, and some dee-en-aye experiments occurred, and one vial of combined Zeroc and Quatchfut dee-en-aye later…’

When Chuck doesn’t answer, Ace telepaths, ‘Humans. I wanted you to guess it, but… yeah, we created the humans. And then there was anything, meaning something of a civil war, and we were kicked off the planet, and apparently, at some point y’all humoys got rid of all the Quatchfuts, too. Or maybe they gave your species a hard reset and put y’all back into the backdrop to be nomads for a while before going away themselves – speaking just for myself here, if I was stuck on a planet populated with humans, I would do my best to disappear, too. But anyway, that’s where humans come from: you’re half Quatchfut and half Zeroc, ya bunch of fuckin’ alien-ass asses. As for you Chuck, well… you’re not really human at all.’

“So I’ve been told.”

‘Okay so in the other iterations of this Universe,’ Ace telepaths excitedly, almost like the vibrational frequency responsible for his existence has never experienced explaining Chuck to Chuck before, ‘you’re a normal human, only one ninja village. Sigmund performs some cybernetic enhancements on you, but you’re still human. In this iteration, there are many ninja villages, and Sigmund kills you in your sleep by injecting your brain with hemi-atomic nanobots, just to see what happens. So, it sort of works and sort of doesn’t; you didn’t die, but you were also incapable of acting on your own free will. You could talk and say whatever you wanted, but as far as actions, you were a ragdoll. Then comes… a week ago tomorrow, in Earthly terms. Sigmund sends his CyberChuck (who didn’t know he was a CyberChuck yet, as Sigmund didn’t know how to tell him) on a mission to destroy space junk and clear the way for the aliens that aren’t coming to visit him. As you can see, he was quite successful, because there’s not much space junk up here now. However, he was also incredibly not successful, because a meteor struck the ship that CyberChuck was in and killed him.’

“Nah, I doubt it. The old me definitely survived the meteor strike and smoked a joint on his way out, that’s what I would have done. Regardless though, rest in pieces, ol’ boy.”

‘Quite. But, at the exact moment of CyberChuck’s death, your consciousness opened a portal into this Universe and the hemi-atomic nanobots that CyberChuck was composed of blinked through reality and formed your body.’

“Stop, you lost me.”

‘You lost yourself. Like I told you before, when you left your original universe, you changed who you are as a being on a basic, fundamental level. You ascended the consciousness spectrum so fast that you didn’t realize that you did it. And that’s okay, because that means you’re something of a guardian angel too, just like us.’

“I’m a guardian asshole, maybe, but continue.”

‘So, when you entered into this Universe, your existential signal, so to speak, alerted the hemi-bots that were the old Chuck and they got to where they needed to be in order to support the new Chuck. You see, and I’m going to use a metaphor here, don’t read into it – you’ll see what I did there in a minute – so, originally, this book was supposed to be Sigmund’s story, you follow? He killed you and turned you into his cybernetic sidekick and together you were going to fight crime, and then the “big twist at the end” was going to be that he was the villain all along. Then, naturally, you would have had to kill him. But Sigmund’s bad choice in the other iterations sent a ripple into this one and bam, here you are. The true you. That’s why Psychedelics don’t affect you like they used to anymore, because your body, while still functionally human, is not actually human. You’re different now, so the Moksha hits you differently. I think that’s how you work, anyway; cards on the table, I’m from the current iteration of this Universe, so I don’t really know what went down in the past one. Or ones; for all we know, Sigmund could have destroyed this Universe two, three times. Maybe you got the ring from me in the last iteration, maybe you didn’t. There’s no way to know, but, at the same time, it doesn’t really matter. You’re here, you have the ability to travel to different Universes, and your body is composed of hemiatomic nanobots, and, you’re aware of all that now. So, when you eventually get spat out into a different universe, your body will automatically be composed of the nanobots. You’re… well Chuck, you’re basically a god. Like, officially. And now you’re aware of that. Congrats.’

“Can I go now please?” Chuck pleads, not wanting to hear any more words inside his head. “I don’t even know if you answered all the questions you asked me, but I’m… I’m about done here. I don’t care anymore, I have shit to do.”

‘Exactly!’ Ace telepathically bursts, still holding Chuck’s hand. ‘And you may go, after one more thing. I want to do a little exercise with you here. Close your eyes – good. Now, open them. Yeah, we zoomed out a bit – right now, you and I are so far away from planet Earth that it looks like a tiny little pale turquoise dot. You see it? Yay! Now, humans have many hand signs, correct?’

“Hand signs?”

‘You know, like… the hippie peace sign, ninja hand signs, the Star Trecker’s more fingery peace sign, um… the normal peace sign, repeated for emphasis. You know what I mean?’

Chuck is so tired.

‘Now close your eyes again, I will too this time. I want you to hold your hand up at Earth and make a hand sign at it, any one you want. Just express how you’re feeling about Earth. Nice, I’m feeling something. Okay so now open your eyes an– a peace sign? Fuckin’ really, Chuck?’

Chuck looks over and sees Ace flipping the bird to planet Earth, the joint pinched betwixt his thumb and pointer finger.

“A middle finger?” Chuck asks, mocking Ace’s voice. “Fuckin’ really, Ace?”

‘Fuckin’ really! Chuck, you’re a god now; you’re an individual being at the helm of the consciousness spectrum, unless there’s something above you, but that’s not important right now! You can go into Existence and do whatever you want, you belong to yourself and nobody else. You perpetuate your own existence, Chuck… well, not literally, but you know what I mean; you have an entire infinity ahead of you! Fuck that planet, fuck your origins; first there was nothing, then there was everything. Now, Chuck? Now, there is anything. So go fuckin’ grasp it!’

Chuck lets go of Ace’s hand just to realize he’s not holding it. In fact, Ace isn’t even there, and neither is his ship. Chuck is just floating now, floating by himself in deep, deep space, not quite as deep into space as this Universe’s Chuck was when he died, but deep into space nonetheless. Chuck takes a deep breath of the lapse of air around him and concentrates to summon the DfZT ring to his middle finger. A large oval is drawn into the void and shattered to reveal the spectrum of all the colors of the rainbow and then some, the undulating cauldron’s broth of conscious energy which permeates throughout all of Existence, constantly spinning behind the scenes, just waiting for another being to jump in and become one, one with It and with itself.

Well, why bother keeping It waiting? Chuck jumps in and the portal closes.

And the Universe goes on without missing a beat.


Hello Commons, this has been chapter 23 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~

Posted in Writings

I’m So Sorry – The 2020 Event |The Main Event| (59/66)

Chapter 22.222
I’m So Sorry

A Man Named Chuck

Chuck stands next to Sigmund’s bed and honestly debates pressing the button.

It would be quick and painless, poof: everything living in North America, and probably every living thing on Earth, considering how the detonation of a North-America-sized bomb would realistically decimate the planet at large, would be burnt to a crisp; nobody would remember the suited man’s rampage today. Nobody would be able to grieve over Jack. Nobody would have to suffer through a world in which Chuck Leary lives and breathes.

It’s always been like this for Chuck, ever since he was born; everybody around Chuck is so afraid of him, so terrified of the fact that he’s alive that they would rather attempt to take him down than let him glow. What is everybody so afraid of, that he’s going to kill them? Nobody ever caught a bullet from Chuck that didn’t deserve it, and nine times out of ten he revives the humans he puts down, even if it’s only to off them again so he can turn them back on. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just very spiritually wealthy, and he understands the true nature of reality – that it’s fluid, that there’s no bad or good, that there just is and no matter what anybody thinks, does, or says, reality will continue to be forever. Nobody understands him, nobody wants to understand him. They all just want to be him, as if he doesn’t do a good enough job of being himself.

Chuck reaches down and…

S U S P E N S E

…grabs his tie, fixing it around his neck and pulling it taught. He then commands the hemi-atomic nanobots to deconstruct the NUCLEAR HOLOCAUST button.

Ever since this week started, this Universe has been saying one thing to Chuck over and over and over again: “Fuck you.” Well fine, then it’s fuck the Universe right back. Chuck doesn’t need to stay here, he can leave. He’ll find a new universe to live in, one where the beings aren’t afraid of somebody who’s objectively better than them in every way possible, a universe that will accept him for who he is: the most human human of all.

But first, there’s a few things he needs to smoke, two notes that need to be left, and one check that needs to be delivered.

Chuck, after leaving a note on Sigmund’s bed (the writing of which made him weep), rides the elevator up to his office and strolls over to Karen’s desk. He was hoping to smoke some Cannabis out of his favorite bong before he left, but Karen never unpacked them. Oh well. The Universe is and it will continue to be, regardless of Chuck’s state of sobriety. His hemibots materialize a piece of paper and a pen and Chuck scrawls a heartfelt note thanking Karen for her undying loyalty and employment over the years, and also confesses that he’s secretly had feelings for her ever since the moment they met at that little library in her hometown.

Then he tears up the paper, eats it, and has the hemibots in his stomach deconstruct the fragments of the note at an atomic level. Then, using the same atoms, they construct a fully loaded joint.

As he burns down the happystick that he just belched up, Chuck writes out a new note for Karen, one thanking her for working at Cape for so long and requesting that, before she goes on to pursue what will be a doubtlessly successful career as an author, she sells off the amphibious motorcycle to the highest bidder and donates the majority of the profits to some charity that helps build prosthetic limbs and pacemakers for cats. Then he walks over to his desk, grabs his computer, and flies out the window.

A few minutes later, the Apex Corporation loses a window and Sean Hymarc catches a computer to the face.

After proving once and for all that his word is worth more than his balls, Chuck flies back to Treering. He lands on the door of the Monta household and then immediately begins to walk awa– no, he has to do this. Nobody else will, it has to be him.

He knocks on the door.

It opens.

Chuck says, “Fucking you?”

A very disgruntled Chuck Monta sneers sweaty at Chuck Leary and doesn’t say a word.

“This is where you fucking were when I… of course, of fucking course. How goddamned fitting, how cosmically fucking hilarious. This Universe is a fucking dickwad, I swear to fucking… okay, look man. Your son, Jack? I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, but he died today. He got shot and there’s not even a body left, and I could have saved him, but I went to your place to deliver the check first and you weren’t there. You weren’t fucking there, just like you were never there for Jack and his hippie brother. You were never there for your fucking kids that you abandoned. Jack died because of a man named Chuck today, and… just… fuck you.”

Chuck then backhands Chuck across the face with a check for a number of thirty digits and flies off into the upper layer of Earth’s atmosphere, the one right beneath the junkosphere. He takes one last look at his planet, one final gaze down to the shiny little blip off the east coast of the United States that is his city, and flips the whole world the bird. Then he opens a portal into infinity and dives in, never to be seen again.

Little Birds

Chuck Monta, on the other hand, with thirty digits of dollars in his hand and one less snot-nosed leech to worry about, starts to search around the house for the keys to Daisy’s car. When he finds them, he leaves her a note to call him when she gets back from whatever the fuck she wastes her time doing, hops into her car, and peels out, heading straight for the bank. When he gets home, not to his house but to Daisy’s, Mister Monta steps out of his new monster truck and uses his gilded platinum walking cane to knock on the front door.

After a few minutes, Daisy decides that the knocking she hears isn’t her head pounding, and hobbles her way out of the bed in the guest room to answer the obnoxious asshole who thinks it’s a good idea to wake her from her slumber.

“Chuck? What the fuh…” she begins, rubbing her pounding temples. Jesus, how much did Daisy drink last night? “What are you doing here? And what’s with the… how much did that cane cost?”

If Daisy wasn’t so stricken with her daily hangover, she would have noticed the monster truck. But she is so she doesn’t.

“It doesn’t matter baby, some guy came by and told me that our kid died today, and we got a big ol’ check!” as he waves the voided slip of paper in his ex-wife’s face. “There are thirty zeroes on there, are you seeing this?! I already deposited it into the new joint account I ope–”

“Wait… wait, stop!” Daisy shouts, grabbing hold of her head for dear life. “Did… did you say one of the kids died? Which one?”

“There’s more than one? I don’t remember getting you pregnant after we broke up.”

Daisy sighs, hitting Chuck Monta with a plume of ripe morning breath that could curl the spikes on a Peruvian torch cactus. “Yes, Chuck, I have another son. His name is Jack, I adopted him.”

“Oh yeahhhh, after that liposuction, yeah I’m remembering now. Oh well, so both of our kids are dead. I’m sorry, well I am just so sorry for misspeaking.”

Daisy assumes the look of a mother werewolf on her face and growls, “Oh… well?

“Yes! Oh well! We have more money than everyone else in the world now, Daisy! Just think of what we can do!”

“Chuck!” Daisy screams, her voice muffled by the shockwave of the backhand slap she dispenses to Mister Monta’s stubbly cheek. “How dare you be so fucking happy right now?! Your fucking kids are… my… my babies are dead!” said through a waterfall of tears that flow over her less-than-appetizing crying face.

To think, she’s cracking up now; just imagine how she’s going to feel when Sam never comes home and she fails to find that gun he was toting earlier in the week.

“Dais’,” Chuck says, putting a sweaty arm around Daisy’s frail shoulder. “He only said one of them was dead, but honestly, I forget the name he said, so it might as well be both of them. Let me explain something to you though. I, am a degenerate motherfucker. You, are a rotten cunt. We were raised by the type of human that would rather throw their children into the gears that power an assembly line than see them grow and become themselves. Together, we are the worst two human beings on the planet; we were bullies growing up, we were terrible in high school, an’ the only reason we still know each other is because I hated you and one of my friends, who is dead now, dared me to marry you out of spite because I fucked his mother. We allowed our marriage to be broken up by money, we live in the same town and never talk; hell, I never once came up here for more than fifteen minutes at a time other than yesterday, and that was only because you were so drunk that you wanted to screw! Fuck the kids, I don’t give a shit about them! And I don’t even try to hide that fact! All we do is get intoxicated to deal with our deep-seated pain and inadvertently make the lives of those around us difficult, whether we want to admit to it or not. As much as it pains me to say it, we ended up just like our parents: terrible, awful, psychotically abusive human beings who probably don’t deserve the life they have, and definitely don’t deserve to have kids.”

“Jesus Chuck, you are a fucking degenerate. How could you say those things about me, about yourself? What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“EVERYTHING is wrong with me, and you too! I just said it, I laid it all out for you! We’re damaged goods! And you know what? That’s fine, it’s all okay. Now. It was bad in the past because we ha– well, because you had the kids, only one of which had my seed in ‘em. But now, we don’t have kids anymore. So…”

“So…” Daisy continues, catching the wavelength and fuckin’ running with it. “So there’s nothing to be guilty about anymore, no more kids for me to damage even though I’m doing my best. It… it’s like we never had kids in the first place. We can do whatever we want, we can finally face our trauma and heal!”

Daisy and Chuck squeal with each other and embrace in a warm hug. The past is finally dead once and for all; they can move on with their lives guiltless. After forty-something years, they’re free; free of the icy grasp of their parents judging and criticizing their every move, free of being forced to watch the kids they made slowly and surely become worthless monsters because they were subjected to their inherited parenting style… they’re free to stop feeling sorry.

They’re free to finally do better, for themselves and for everyone around them. And that’s all that matters.

Fly on, little birds; your skies await.


Hello Commons, this has been chapter 22.222 of The 2020 Event |The Main Event|, a satirical novel about aliens that do psychedelic drugs and the subjective nature of reality. |The Main Event| is the fourth book of the First Spiral, a longer story called The Highest One Writing.

The Highest One Writing is a story about an author told through the books he wrote. It starts with a self-help book and ends with the destruction of Existence. Also, it may or may not take you to the depths of insanity and back.

|The Main Event| is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like |The Main Event| and would like to help support my work, buy a copy of the book here.

Be well Commons~