The 2020 Event |The Sideshows|

|Front Cover|I-1.1|I-1.2|I-1.3|I-1.4|I-2.1|I-2.2|I-3|II-1.1|II-1.2|II-1.3|II-1.4|II-1.5|
|II-1.6|II-1.7|II-1.8|II-1.9|II-1.10|II-1.11|II-1.12|II-2.1|II-2.2|II-2.3|II-2.4|II-2.5|II-2.6|
|II-2.7|II-2.8|II-2.9|II-3.1|II-3.2|II-3.3|II-4.1|II-4.2|II-4.3|II-4.4|II-4.5|II-5.1|II-5.2|
|II-5.3|II-5.4|II-5.5|II-5.6|II-5.7|II-5.8|II-5.9|II-6.1|II-6.2|II-6.3|II-6.4|III-1.1|III-1.2|
|III-1.3|III-1.4|III-1.5|III-1.6|III-2|IV-1.1|IV-1.2|IV-2.1|IV-2.2|IV-3.1|IV-3.2|
|Boardtrip|1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16|17|18|19|Back Cover|


About The Author

The papers were stacked by a dead man.
The maker of the books
is THE SUITED MAN that killed him.

So who is the author?

The real question: Did you finish your book yet?


19| Existence Prime

“All right, that’s it. I don’t know if it makes any sense, but it’s done. It’s all– wait, what is this…? About the author of Doubleyou’Dash Sixty-Three? Really? Who gives a fuck about the author?The books are about the story for Christ’s sake, not the arbitrary shitstain who translated it from the big ehn-Eee.”

That said, the suited man alters the page’s title and puts black in the white space below it, then looks over it twice. Then, he clicks the save button no less than sixty-three times and closes the file. A sigh of relief escapes his mouth, but does not rustle the hairs of his goatee. They’ve no longer reason to rustle – the work is done. The suited man can march ahead.

On his way out of the bedroom, he presses the big blue button, and the printing press (thank goodness for the soup cans) gets to work on printing up the physical copies of the W-63 book series, by Hunter Owens Wallace, a dead man who forced a braindead man to scrawl his dirty words into a stack of loose leaf papers, then killed him when it was done; in other words, a high asshole.

The suited man avoids the growing pool of blood staining the dirty plywood floors of the tri-level on Fricker Drive. Laying in that puddle is Hilter Odolf Williamson, the braindead man who wrote Running: How To Torture Yourself And Enjoy It |The Unvictimized Edition| only to end up as the Universe’s most victimest victim. The wall the brained man lays beneath is dreadfully bare, so the suited man dips his gloved hand in the blood of he who is technically sort of his creator, his god, dead at his feet; he dips his gloved leather fingers in the pool of his god’s cooled blood and finds himself using it to scrawl a message on the wall. Red on bland yellow paint, so it sticks out. Nobody’s gonna miss this shit.

As the suited man steps back to admire his work, the hemibots in his hands make short work of the leftover blood. A lit joint then appears between his cleaned fingers and he hits it, burning it down in a single toke. The blood on the wall dries slightly faster as the smoke is blown into it. The message scrawled:

Thy Hiltering Cometh

The suited man leaves the deaded house with the certain peculiar satisfaction that comes from completing a long series of writings. No, it’s not even that, it’s more than just that – he’s glad he’ll never have to do it again, ecstatic even, and the day is still young! The maned man fled down this street called Fricker, down towards the reservoir, but that was almost an hour ago. Even typing at the asinine speeds the suited man was pulling off, apparently a human’s worth of fingers can only type so fast.

Or was it the maned man who stalled him? He said things happen as he writes them… could that be true? No, no way, the maned man was bullshitting up on that mountain when the suited man burned the bush with the brained man he would eventually kill. Of course, if he wasn’t bullshitting, then it wasn’t Chuck that killed the brained man, it was…

The suited man takes off running in the opposite direction from which the maned man fled. At the top of the road past wooden fences dwarfed by boulders sprouting saplings is a trimmed lawn of grass aside a stretch of scraped earth, the pasture bordering a pond, a pond dammed off by a concrete pathway. The middle slab of this concrete pathway is tilted off center, and the suited man has to leap to get past it. The only faith he holds is that he’ll not float off into the sky. The maned man Reality does not disappoint.

The path opening the forest, ‘Horseshoe Trail, Hilter called it,’ is lined by logs and the occasional wall of standing rocks on either side. To his left is a raised walkway lined with smaller stones and pebbles – the high road, as it were, a path the suited man won’t be taking on this journey. His destination lies elsewhere, in a different direction than the high road leads.

This forest is barren in the winter, the leaves are all gone and the trees look like fat, mud-caked skeletons standing with their arms up over their heads. The suited man steps over the logs lining the trail, the ones actually caked with mud, and walks straight to the footpath on the other side of The Triangle – Summer Stroll South. Each step is labored, as if a force was acting against him, and frigid gusts of wind chill his lips to a chap before the footpath gives out. At the end of his mossy stroll is a smaller triangle of trailways where Summer Stroll South branches to East and West, a triangle marked by dirty bricks arranged in a triangle around a poorly stacked structure, a tower, a stone tower bathed in sumbeams to be specific, the top brick sheared into the shape of a triangle pointing skyward. The air stops with the suited man’s footpace.

On a hunch, the suited man removes his right glove and wills his ring, a band of living metal gemmed with DifZoral Tryptamine, a psychedelic drug from an extraneous universe that knows you better than you know yourself, to appear on his finger, and it does just that, the gemstone shining clear of the innocent blood it was made to spill. The ring hums on the suited man’s middle finger pleasantly, as if it didn’t know what it did today. What it was used for. Oh well, what’s happened has happened, and all that happens happens because it’s supposed to happen, or whatever string of symbols that’ll justify the murder of his creator in the suited man’s mind, it doesn’t even matter anymore. The Highest One Writing fled, hands in his pockets, and now the suited man must pursue.

The triangular brick falls over when the suited man taps it with the stone of his ring. Then, The Monolith fades away altogether, revealing a pool of liquid violet satin that glows brighter than the sun, but not offensively. Not painfully either, it seems, as the suited man can’t help but stare into the vortex, to get lost in the hypnotic swirl of this otherworldly whirlpool spinning like a kaleidoscope in the hand of a tripping hippie. He even took his sunglasses off, if you’d believe it printed on the page.

From the mauve portal rises a monolith almost identical to The Monolith, but with one very clear difference: this tower is not made of stone but of metal, and in the place of the triangular brick is a big purple button. There’s a message inscribed beneath the button in a cryptic language which the suited man has never seen but can read quite well regardless, and it’s set in a font that makes the suited man feel uncomfortable. Translated into Zerocian Standard, it says:

Existential Reset

And below it, in a different language even more obscure and ununderstandable than the first, set in a font that makes the suited man feel equally uncomfortable (albeit in a more refined way), as if he had gone back in time to an ancient chapel and saw a painting of one Jack Monta on the ceiling, that kind of uncomfortable, reads the following when translated into Zerocian Standard:

It’ll all go away with the press of a button, but know this, suited man Chuck Leary: you spilled sacred blood and used it as finger paint. The first spiral is complete; there will be echoes of your actions when Existence comes back ‘round, echoes pitched to blow out your suited eardrums, echoes bound to make you regret even having ears in the first place; but you’ll still press the button, and for one simple reason: until you do, Existence’ will still be. All that’s happened will still have happened, and we both know that can’t be let to fly. Well, you do at least; there is no me.

I’m simply an inscription.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” the suited man utters, wishing he had never been born. “Existence Prime… it’ll all go away with the press of a button… okay. But will I still be around after I press the butt–HRRRCKCK

The suited man punches himself in the chest three times and expels a wad of crumpled loose leaf paper from his now unclogged gullet. He uncrumples it and sees a message, a final message, printed in Zerocian Standard and set in the Times New Roman font:

guess you’ll have to press it and find out

The suited man says, “Welp. Guess I better press the button.” But then he doesn’t. The suited man simply walks away. He exits the forest and goes on to live a long life, an endless life, a life spent hopping between planets and universes, all the universes, in fact; Chuck Leary dodges his responsibility to Existence and runs from his problems until the end of time, and then when time doesn’t end, he just keeps on running, never stopping, never giving up. Nobody can make him press a button to destroy Existence, he had a nuclear holocaust button and he didn’t even use that, and a what’s a planet to a whole reality? Chuck will not be pressing that button. Absolutely not. Nice try the maned man, but Chuck wins this round.


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