Chapter Twenty-Three: Karma Police

"Great," Bowser rested his face in his hands, "I hate that story too."

"You hate it because it feels bad to hear?"

"Mmm…" Now Bowser rubbed his head with one hand. "...Yes…"

Admitting that made him feel stupid for some reason. At this point he'd like to say he hated a story (or any piece of "art") for its objective value— a failure to be beautiful, or having faulty construction. To hate a story because it makes you feel bad was not really a reason to hate the thing, at least in Bowser's opinion… some of the best stories or works of art were designed to make you feel bad, really. Painful works increased one's empathy, or an expansion of consciousness.

But these stories the boo told… they didn't just feel like cuts. They felt closer to a knife getting stabbed right through Bowser's flesh. And he refused to think about why.

"Where'd you get that last one?" Bowser asked.

"Last story?"

"Yeah."

"It's a rough parable related to a field of psychology called Object Relations Theory. I'm still working on it."

Now Bowser's face was resting in his hands again. Facepalming. "You're kidding." He mumbled. "Psychology?"

"Yes. It's an offshoot of some of Freud's theories."

"Wow," Bowser remained facepalming, "Ugh."

A few moments of silence interspersed with crackling fire...

"Didn't psychology… as a science... come around AFTER you died?"

"Yes. But being dead is no reason to stop learning."

The fire crackled.

"Okay," Finally Bowser sat back up, "So what? So what is all this? You want me to learn a lesson or something? Is there something…"

He trailed off. Whatever his small protestations, his head actually did feel like it was cracking more than before. The last story especially seemed to be effecting him like an exploded bomb. The other two stories had also set off bombs of their own, slowly expanding in effect elsewhere, bubbling…

"I'll leave them to you to judge," The boo floated up. "I thought you might find them interesting."

"Yeah, you said that already. And I don't believe it. Those stories feel so strange to me."

The boo smiled a little again. "I've been conscious for many years. And I have observed you for some short time. Perhaps, after all, I was able to make something useful for you."

"Maybe." Bowser frowned.

"But regardless… Now, I am afraid I must go."

Another small pop went off in Bowser's head. "Wait, what?"

"It's getting late," The boo looked to a clock on the wall, "You're about to become very sleepy— it's just about that time that you always go home and fall asleep. And I am to leave Chai."

Now that the boo said it, Bowser did suddenly feel incredibly weary.

...But of course he still had more questions. This was one of the most interesting things that had happened to him in at least the last five years, and he wanted… he wanted more…

"Yes… you look so tired."

"I'm really okay." But now he felt even wearier. Eyes heavy, and…

"You can sleep right there, if you like." The boo nodded at Bowser's seat. "But I am to go. My will has followed through, and I have learned of a new miracle in the Koopa Kingdom from you. I must go there, back to the old steeple, and see what is happening."

Bowser blinked tiredly, confusedly.

"I don't think we will ever meet again. But it doesn't matter. I told you what I was supposed to."

"What you were...supposed to…?"

"What was willed. And that is all."

Objections sprouted in Bowser's mind, if only to prevent the conversation from ending, but he really was helplessly falling asleep. He couldn't even get up from the chair anymore. Was it something in what he had been drinking?

He was going away now...

...And he was coming back, back awake, in a warm room with an empty fireplace, a room empty of persons or any rate souls like himself.

"Damn."

There was no one in the bar proper, though there were still drinks lined on the shelves and chairs turned up onto their tables. By all indications the bar was simply closed (as normal for the morning) and would be open that night. If he went back, he'd probably find one of the two regular bartenders waiting behind the counter, knowing nothing of the whereabouts of their boss… but happy to entangle him in a Wonderlanded or Kafkaesque conversation.

This is what he thought, walking down the street, head feeling loose:

The question remained whether any of that had been real. Maybe he had been drugged from the beginning. Who knew.

Who knew what was even real? The conversation hadn't alleviated his sense of complete disbelief in reality, though it had been interesting. Again, it felt like the stories' effects were still bubbling, that they hadn't really exploded yet… That there was something he would realize eventually, and suddenly… BOOM!

Was that being hopeful? Or pessimistic? Hopeful if the BOOM was a positive revelation. Pessimistic if the BOOM was his going insane. What a nice thought. What had Waluigi talked about? Meeting a spirit? Well, Bowser had now, hadn't he? How funny. Ha ha ha…

But he didn't feel any crazier than before. He didn't feel like killing anyone. And he still felt like, if someone asked him to explain himself, he could describe, part by part, his reasoning towards things… logic and rationalism was the opposite of insanity, wasn't it?

But, (but but but) he'd have to enter a conversation with a real person, and if the real person wasn't giving him scared looks, that would be the best proof he was doing OK.

Sure, yeah, whatever. Maybe all of this was a dream… the butterfly's dream. Zhuangzi you nut, eat your heart out. That kind of game made things easier at first, but now everything had settled back down again…

Settled back down… settled back down… settling down…

This is what you'll get

And it had to be admitted, a little sadly, that Bowser hadn't gotten the revelation he was hoping for from meeting the boo. He did not feel profoundly changed. He had some bombs inside him—yeah yeah yeah maybe—but what the fuck else was new? Maybe maybe maybe… Life was a mist of maybes. Huh! He felt just the same walking away from Dark Land as he had when walking down its underground hallways, reveling in his newfound loss of sense. The road went ever ever on… what now?

Join a church, that's what others do, yeah? Say, screw it, contentment is better than truth. Ah, but he'd been screwed on too tight, and he still wanted "truth". He'd keep reading religious books anyway, because maybe after all they hid some psychological revelation: there'd be some grand sign that would finally flip the switch in his head and he'd see how all this was the kingdom of heaven or nirvana already, yeah yeah, just keep meditating towards a happy ending, so to speak. That boo was a profound experience, wasn't it?, an encounter with the wise old man or some Jungian gimmick… but it hadn't saved his soul. Nah, what else was there, then, but…?

But part of him was saying, yeah, you know, if you want answers… you know where they are. Where the last three (or was it four years now? Damn) all started. Where a miracle happened, heh. Why not? Had that been Rûm himself?

"Excuse me, Mr. Magical Priest Rûm, please grant me happiness. You can change my physical form (that's real neat), but maybe instead you can change the chemicals in my head, and just make me perpetually happy? Better yet, happy and stupid. Yes, I know, I used to be stupid, it's my own fault I'm a little less stupid now (or even more stupid, look at all of this I don't know) but I'm a miserable sinner, and I keep thirsting for knowledge of this evil material world. Kill my head for me, would you?"

Obviously there was a sarcastic nature to this, and yet it was true anyway, it seemed. They say there's an element of truth to every joke.

So even as Bowser imagined the above exchange with an ugly sneer on his face, it was seriously the essence of what he wanted to ask. Or, OK:

"Please give me true revelation, so I can finally see how truly perfect and wonderful the world is, and then I can feel content at heart, or something."

But really, damn, who thought about crap like this? He wanted his thoughts to stop circling around religion. If he had more money, or more love, maybe he would feel better. But he could think it through and understand why at the moment he didn't have more money.

And love… was an impossible situation. The conclusion that seemed to match reality was that you either fall in love or you don't. You know if you do. Bowser had never "known" he'd fallen in love, except for what he thought was love for Peach, but you know, fuck that and fuck you, etc...

*Souper408: Anyone else just feel terrible for no reason? I've thought about it and thought about it, and I've tried making lots of changes in my life (I moved to a different country!) and I still feel bad. I don't know what to do.

*SpaghettiAbundance4594: Have sex.

Yes, but I'm asexual… (He wanted to write, but he knew what kind of response that would get.)

Freud was right, Freud was right… everything was about sex. You could tell normal people that, and they would disagree, and then turn right around and be hunting for their next sexual conquest. ('Goddamn robots', he thought in his darker moods.) And somehow, he'd fallen all out of it.

Or he hadn't? And he was just a spectacular failure? But he'd already "proven" he was asexual, at least as far as his reason could take him. So he really had nothing more to say on this topic, besides getting angry at people and whining more.

So if you don't spend your life fucking random people (or your "true love", ugh) then you have to find a "purpose". And this purpose could be all sorts of things, pursuits in science, or athletics, or art (cough), or religion, after all…

So you find solace in your "purpose", and when it begins to stall out (or you think it begins to stall out), blame "God" or demand answers from "God". And then ask, who seems to have the most peace in this world, and it's some of those very spiritually accomplished people (what are you even talking about?) and you go crawling to their examples, because you're failing in your own artistic pursuits (you're missing all of the people who are accomplished in their purpose, who have attained "flow" state, yes…?) or it's like, it's like, it's like, yes you're doing all the things you're supposed to, and you're running the machine properly, and you still feel bad, the proper machinery underneath the machinery of the mind still feels bad (is this what religion/spirituality is supposed to fix? The feeling that things are bad for no reason, that the deeper machinery needs solace/explanation to keep running even when the pursuit of purpose is on its way, it's going, but still the battery itself underneath everything is failing, the Heart so-to-speak…?)

And you can say to yourself: Stop thinking. But after all… after all…

Uh…

Bowser wakes up one day, and realizes: he is happiest when he is immersed in his artistic (poetic) work. If he is slamming back coffees, and making his art, he is focused there, in that place (this is "flow" state, yes?). That is when he is happiest, when he is floating away/out of the world. So he needs to do that as much as possible.

Yes, yes, OK. Now we have a goal: Get to the work you care about as quickly as possible. Nothing else matters. Nothing else matters… everything must support the continuation of this "flow" state of doing the work that matters. It's the only guarantee of peace. There it is. Look kids! Outside the window, on the right… you'll see… an actual landmark. We've been driving through mists of nothing for years now, kids, but… if you look out the right window… you'll see… what looks like a rock… a lone rock… the only rock in this Abyss… I drove us into…

A great, blessed rock.