Spoiler
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“I am going to screw you over.”
So true.
Jack was a dashing young lad. His body was svelte, like a wild jaguar’s, and equally imposing. His head was in the Greek tradition: sunken eyes, curls more golden than French-fried potatoes, nose just off-center. Reputation was second to none – he saved puppies, for God’s sake! – and first of all as well. He was in fact the kind of guy who, in any decent work of fiction, was the Heroic Protagonist, he who gets the girl and saves the world.
He’s been killed off already.
…
“And now for something completely different.”
***
A nondescript clearing. There are many like it: a quick, gurgling stream flowing timeless to some vast ocean; grass kept short by passing animals, its distinct smell mixing with that of the loamy earth to create an aromatic spring medley; lastly the chain of trees encircling and enclosing it, a grove of cherry blossoms whose ephemeral grace was seen to bow out, leaving the stage for players whose act had yet to begin.
An ordinary clearing, that is true. Yet it is this clearing, and no other, that was chosen by fate, in wind-guise, to serve as a beginning for this tale.
Silence, save for the childish gurgling of the stream. Then a soft melody falling over the clearing, as the fate-wind implores “’Tis time! ‘Tis time! Rest, sweet cherries, and with your rest the world awake.” The lush trees shuddered and, sighing, released their fragile children in a luminous cascade of pink blossoms so beautiful as to blind all but the purest souls.
The wind settled, the trees lowered their barren branches. The yawning world stretched, blinked, and so began the play.
Regrettably, your soul is impure, thus in your blindness you missed the clearing blazing away (there were marshmallows). Conveniently for the plot, the narrator, yours falsely, is not only omniscient, but omnipotent. You have been granted access to this place so that your verisimilitude may be taken advantage of, er, used to advantage. You see, the world has become too balanced; boredom is the number one cause of death. Most essentially, your role is to facilitate the entertainment, a simple task for you, surely? My most sincere thanks have you. History shall record this in HD, and you shall depart the common life. Let us begin... Approaching the central plod of the ex-clearing, you note that a decrepit yet curiously intact scroll lies –
Plonk! Pivoting like a whirling dervish, you notice a ‘Dice’ at your feet, which must have caused your head wound. Grabbing them with intent to throw, you instead irrationally charge the previously unmentioned bats patrolling the scroll; a hidden orchestra begins the Pokémon battle theme! Attack → Dice → … 12! Awesome – wait, Pause. I, uh, left out a small tidbit. Perhaps your mind is clouded, but this is more Dungeons and Dragons than Monopoly. So that pair of sixes? Not so good with the twenty-sided dice. Let’s try that again, shall we? Yes? I thought so.
“Rewind,” the narrator commanded in the third person. Screech Squeak Squeak!
Attack → Dice → 36 (better)
The bats scatter, clearly in pain after being struck by small plastic dice. However, this amuses them less than you – their reaction is to drop on you three moist, brown dice: 6… 6… 6. Yes, you can use dice more skillfully than a flying rodent. Commendable. Excepting the fact that the 6-6-6 does hellish damage (although, this leaves the bats in stitches and you somehow the victor). Staggering, not in pain but drunk with success, your appendage connects with the scroll. Perusing the contents, you wonder why exactly bats would be guarding the secrets within, namely the ‘Mystic Ice Phoenix-Dragon School Crouching Liger Style Striking Art #3: Sandwich Make.’ Lest our valiant hero be incensed, I shall oversee the introductions.
My name is Loki, though I may go by Hermes, and some refer to me as the Gentleman with Thistle-Down Hair. Your name is NOT Inigo Montoya; it's Aye A. Fúbar (the A stands for ‘Am’). While on the subject of thinly veiled messages, [√-1 <3 u]=FALSE. Also, there is a 99.9% probability that you (subservient slave that you are) dislike this. Catch-22 indeed. The place you’re in is Ahd, a below-ground subsection of Russia; one where red is still the preferred color. The plot’s gone and wandered off, so this sentence is illogical. But you have my personal assurance that all acts are for your greater interest. Even the crossed
Having pondered the scroll, you decide it too dangerous for this world, and thus strike it with divine comedy, rendering it a sandwich. That sandwich taught you well, and you ate it well; truly a masterful display. On that note, sorry about the low-quality scenery – the graphic artists are on strike, mostly because of the following over-extravagant obligatory cut scene.
***
Dark days they were, for the sun refused to shine upon the atrocious, poorly rendered scene below. Two armies on the slopes stood, on metallic leather balancing. One, rebellious yet not the underdog; the other, old-fashioned and affably bothersome. The rebels were but one: a knight in shining polo and khakis, sneering with crimson lust, pupils black and eyes fully bloodshot, chaos’ haunting melody. Wielding his wits, fiendish sadism, and broken moral compass, the enemy he did face. Opposing were fallen angels, in the literal sense. The Old Man alone remained, stricken with plot. Regardless he clashed with the demonic rebel, vainly, oh so vainly. Parting back his lush, questionably wavy hair, with one fell stroke he smote God, and in so doing his position usurped. And the sun wept – blood precedes quiet…
To this day, the weather is a melancholy pleasure. The wind whips around, more than willing to haunt the swirling rain falling like a beat upon the dark light. Why dark? Because it was thusly suited: the sun still hid, and the new God favored the nearer heavens, namely pale Moon, innocent recluse that she was. Besides, he provided thunder and lightning enough to complement her fragile reflection… she was as his queen.
***
Well, that’s enough flashback for and about me (it's all true, you know). Now, having just eaten and rested during the break, surely you have strength enough now to advance. Let’s throw in an NPC for some chatter, eh? Shady as the base of a tree, cool as an ice cube pre-frying pan, a wizened cat leans against the side of the Meatshield Inn (“The Perfect Stop For Plot-Starved Heroes”), puffing smoke rings. Seeing a main character in the vicinity, she stows her pipe so as to better provide expository hints; also, she’s hungry. Improvising like a true nerd, you rationalize that your ability to create sandwiches allows you to be more specific, thus managing ‘Summon Bigger Fish.’ … Having eaten her way from down under the fish, the puss expounds, suggesting that you listen closely, which sets up this lovely exchange:
You: “Blah blah, epic quest blah.”
Cat: “Nyah nyah nyah, distant shrine nyah.”
You: “Blah blah blah?!!”
Cat: “Nyaaaaah.”
Having expressed gratitude, you move onward in the direction indicated, priming your spirits for the remainder of the tale. You must first vanquish the Dread Three, most hideous and wretched knaves enslaving whatever they do not desire. As per the instructions of your cabal with the cat, you dig three ditches six foot deep, not by necessity but to avoid an unsightly mess; good fashion sense, I must say – corpses just aren't in vogue these days. Upon completion, a joyous jig do you begin: one two three one two three one two three one – ! Leaves whirl around you, actually petty cash if you look closely; the Three appear.
David, Patryk, and Jim: one Jewish, one smart, one slim. Together they made, an accountant so great, that they swindled fate out of a date. Speaking as one, they let no one have fun, and by them must your taxes be done. David, the Jew, cheaply everywhere flew; distraught airlines begged him to go, yet he always said no. Patryk, the smart, enjoyed many a tart; oft wanted for alimony, he resorted to villainy. Jim, the slim, enjoyed seeming prim; if one happened to curse, they'd be soon in a hearse.
“Your frolicking ends here, boy. Now be nice and we might consider giving you a discounted rate on your funeral,” sneered the Three, making a point of reflecting the sunlight with their caricatured bald forehead. Ah, ah, it pains me to observe such ridicule, please vanquish these stereotypes for me... boy. Heeding Word of God, you move to kill accounting for one's actions the only way that an overacting cliché can be killed, with... invisible guns. Quickly, you bury the dead-again bodies and put back the soil you shoveled aside. And I suppose that it was a good idea to write down their rhyme, as might be publishable one day. Onward to the main quest!
You traverse through overgrown forest, each heartbeat a step toward the light, though gnarled roots tangle your way – 5000 leagues. Bleak wastelands do you pass, enduring through apocryphal sights and perverse sounds, though temptation lusts after you – 3500 leagues. All this, and many a glorious retreat – 20000 leagues in all. Indeed a herculean effort, truly laudable even by me, normally so laconic. In any case, you may stop being a peripatetic, for you have reached your destination: the Liquid Shrine. Of humble size, no greater than a large house, it lies before a waterfall; on either side flow sheer cliffs, and the style mirrors that of the Parthenon. In back, a low pool of marble construct devours the waterfall – the rushing flow enters and is not seen to go beyond; nor is evident the water’s source, for no river passes through the plateau above.
Regardless of this mystery, it is time to make a decision. Before you, at shrine’s center as the cat foretold, sits a copper basin no larger than a bowl of soup (no soup for you though). To fill it, as you must, you have two potential courses of action:
A) Release the water from your flask, and risk perishing of thirst. Certainly the heroic approach. Your fate awaits you beyond the great Asterisk Line – as easily penetrated as its distant cousin Maginot.
B) Relieve yourself, and go against all courtesy and logic. Seriously, what the hell. A lavatory this is not, you know. … Well, if you do insist; continue where you are. Fool. *grin*
C) Throw away this lore, and face what is known only as ‘THE WRATH OF MARCUS JACKSON.’ Not advisable.
Having balanced your internal pressure, you unbalance the earth, the seas, the air, and the wonder of it all, as though the universe itself finds your lack of faith disturbing. You distort through an array of impossibilities beyond even that of neurotic addicts… a final explosion and you are left floating through marshmallows – all that truly exists in this dimension. Millennia of feckless meandering grants you the wisdom of time, yet still this is ceaseless purgatory. One day, you know not when, a voice tells you, “proceed to the underline, and inspect naught before it.” Let us do so, for it is time to part company, painful though it may be.
*********************************************************************************************************************************
As the last drops fill the basin, the waterfall displaces and rushes through you. Blinded, you stagger, only to fall into a warm embrace. Blinking, you find yourself in the arms of a fair maiden, who in due time will reveal herself to be the shrine’s spirit. Her hair is raven-colored, with pale aquamarine streaks throughout, and falls straight nearly to her navel. She is a smidgen below your height, with jade eyes that are clear and deeper than the greatest ocean; her voice brings to memory a seashell-played lullaby, a gentle ocarina. On a buccal note (and I refer not only to her face), she has more curve than is average; her frame is thin, though well-rounded. Truly a modest marvel of a heroine.
With her by your side, the world opens downward for you, and hell is forced to obey your rule, O Devil. But with power comes equal insanity: on the finest of days your dear maiden takes you aside, draws closer than your own clothing, and smiles gently as she suffocates you… blacking out ingloriously, you unexpectedly open your eyes standing before an empty basin in a shrine, flask and bladder both bulging. It seems your decision was poor – go back to it and make a wiser choice, will you?
All roads lead to this sentence.
You have had a fun mirage, yes? Thank you, Subject 314159, for allowing me to accompany you on such a wondrous fiction without even leaving my throne. Your hallucinatory adventure was wonderful to craft: painstakingly, staking you to the pain, and so on. Now, as Moon pulls the lever, remember to smile as you fall in with the others in the shark pool. By God (that’s me! haha), I do love my schadenfreude.
You're awesome, and the above is awesome.
Obviously you spent too much time Tv Troping.
