Chapter Eight: Death of Erik

Back in the lair beyond the lake, I settle down to some serious fanfiction reading, absently petting my new hippy, who sits on the ground at my side, panting. I find on entering that Jose, my minion if you recall, which you may not, and it doesn't really matter because he wasn't very important anyway, just a sort of after-thought as it were, nothing to do with the story at all, really, apart from that brief appearance, and now he's dead, which is what I found on entering, as I had started to say all those words again. Apparently I locked him inside unknowingly.

Oh well. What's one more corpse?

Absently, once more I begin to wonder what would happen if the police walked in on the whole bunch of dead people in my bedroom. At least I didn't take Random with me.

At least, I don't think I did—

I'm paranoid by this point. I get up to check.

No, no dead writer. Heaving a sigh of relief, I settle back into my deskchair, the thought nagging at me that perhaps I should change my name, run and hide, go on the lam. Lam? Is that right? Is it perhaps lamb? Goat? Small pig? Hamster? Stoat? Weasel? Octopus? Can one be said to go on the octopus? Eventually, I settle for calimari, and by this point, I'm hungry.

Returning to the computer with a tub of Cherry Garcia, I settle down once more.

Engrossed in some of the worst fiction I've ever read, I suddenly feel curiousity stealing over me, and before I know it, I've found the author's biography page of Random Battlecry.

I scroll down the far-too-long list of stories the woman has written.

I find something which looks intriguing.

I open it.

And there I am, large as life; it takes me a few moments to comprehend that she originally intended me to be a one-shot. A one-shot— who wants to feel that they were only supposed to last for one chapter? I curse her name. How dare she condemn me to a one-shot like that—

—apparently she likes to do one-shots and then elongate them—

Snorting in disgust, I click off the computer, and it is only then that I realize that I've accepted something. I've accepted that she did write me; that everything she typed had come true.

I glance down at my hippy, who is engrossed in the carton of ice cream that had dropped from my listless hand. Very unwelcome thoughts are racing across my mind now. Also I had a stomach ache, but that, I assume, was from the ice cream.

If Random is dead, then who is writing this?

Am I real or am I fictional? False or true? Authentic or questionable? Unassailable or doubted? Bona fide or simulated? Keen-witted or delusional? Small or big? Thin or wide? Smart or dumb? Salt or pepper? Passion or fruit? Hamburger or hot dog? Angel or demon? Right or wrong? Light or dark? Willy or Wonka? Yin or Yang? Fred or Ginger? Freight train or cargo pants? White-haired or calico? Mustard or ketchup? Snogged or boffed? Intelligent or from Kentucky? A small wart or a large pimple? French fries or potato salad? David Wenham or Sean Bean? Red or blue? Democrat or Republican? Green Day or the Beatles? Mulder or Scully? Paranoid or chased by black helicopters? Confused or confusing? Annoying or annoyed? Hugh Panaro or John Owen Jones? Lemons or muffins? Snow or rain? Sleet or hail? Mailmen or doorknobs? The Three Musketeers or the Three Amigos? Don't Come Around Here No More or Mary Jane's Last Dance? Jekyll or Hyde? Should I stay or should I go? If I go will there be trouble? If I stay will there be double?

Abandoning this fruitless line of thought, I go to make some coffee; and yet the words are still there, in my mind. Kind of like me. In the minds of others. I don't ever seem to really leave. I simply— hang around. Forever. Its almost a comforting thought, if somewhat claustrophobic.

I'm tired of using Splenda, so I pep up my coffee with some rat poison. I hope this wasn't a bad idea.

I do so hate anticlimax.