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"Welcome to the All the Answers You've Been Looking Forward To For Quite a Long While. Can I foreshadow your brain-dead medium-surpassing confusion?"
" 'A thoroughly descriptionless and grammatically and descriptively awkwardly entering Skip the friter and Glorg the urgg strode and slurgthed (respectively) into a very futuristic literary agent's waiting office. The shiny metal walls were etched with decorative passages of prose Skip figured the agency considered at the very least grammatically and stylistically good crafted, and at perhaps the most, pinnacle classic material essential to the evolution current day literature to here and now. Its secretary sort of sat typing friendily as if a friendly immortal flower genetically engineered to be exponentially efficient in addition to ineffably friendly and excessively described as such. Given the room's inviting, home-esque coziness and timeless artistic nonbland style, it didn't seem the future of literature had too much punctuality in store for it; clearly punctual people have no need to sit and wait for things. (Or to make others do so. (I.e. not make them to have a need to sit and wait for things, but rather to wait for things in general, preferably in this waiting room)).
" 'As if to address this issue or least a relevent portion of it, what looked like the office's head literary agent burst toward them, awkwardly cutting any attempt of Skip's at further observing his setting in order to be able to describe it thoroughly to any freer
"Skip Friter! Glorg the urgg! For lack of anything more descriptive to call you for now! How nice to see you both. I must ask, how were your respective trips to--t-" The agent looked as if he had almost made a horrible mistake, especially for someone who was supposed to be coloquially fluent. "-t--to-to the Traxxerrumn-uh Stuttering Tolerance Bad Grammar Prose Seminar Forgiveness Revision Seminerr-rrrology Redundancy Medium Forgiveness Support Semi-seminar! Group. Grammar. Meeting. Prologue. Summary. Seminar. ..??"
The quite slimy Glorg gave an effortless, indifferent slorgsh as if the speedy man had yodled a jibberish folk melody.
"Ah, yes, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about your amnesia. My question was of the same rhetorical nature I always cleverly utilize every time I meet you. Sometimes I pretend you're the protagonist in Memento, and I'm a good guy version of the guy who shhh-h-all we begin?"
"Urnless ygou can do angrything to help Skgrip thgink up a frwoa that might help save my swamp bgack in my home ku, I dgon't have an urge to, no. Dgon't take igt personally, little guy..." the urgg looked as if he was forcing his words. "...And don't wgorry about me vgaporizing you if you start to annoy me. Mgy tolerance for humans will last quite awhile. Org at least until I forget about my last thgerapy session. Igt'll prorbably be sooner rather than later begug
"Pfah! Psychology is for people who flunk out of English when facing assignments to brainstorm involved protagonists and engrossing character development arcs. You want psychotherapy? Engrain every aspect of your personality into your characters and contrive a growth arc where they all turn out static and flawless from square one.
Being a writer, Skip looked moderately thoughtful at this. Glorg seemed depressed that he didn't have the writing talent to solve his issues.
"Let's head for my office where we can all get to know each other better since the-th-since that will help us get to know each other!" Mr. Flick took a chair.
"I'm Mr. Flick, by the way, if you haven't yet imagined a local narration introducing me as such. I suppose it would be a good irony- demonstrative idea to start off our interaction by feigning the demeanor of a shrink and charge us into a lack of productivity to demonstrate the profession's uselessness. So! How are you both feeling today?"
"And what have you been up to since last time we met--err- theoretically, that is, if we had ever met before today?"
Another shrug from Skip, and an expression from Glorg that said he was to mentally tired from the first to bother with another.
"Have you brainstormed anything good, lately? Potentially publishable by chanch?"
"Skgrip has agreed to wrgite a grwoa that willg save my swamp and my ku
Mr. Flick turned to Skip now holding back his urge to fidget nervously. He simply shook his leg a bit to release a theraputic bit of it, pretending to have to go to the bathroom. "And has Glorg fulfill his promise?"
"Honestly... I'm not sure. We've been through a strage ride... or maybe we only met a moment ago when we walked in... It's all so confusing. I think so... or maybe not. Honestly, I can't remember whether he has or not, or precisely when or if he made the promise to begin with."
"Well, tghat's ygur problem," Glorg defended.
"I agree!" Mr. Flick declared. "If Skip's not sure if Glorg's been any help in his journey to a taskless future, then the only fair thing to do is to assume Glorg's fulfilled his task, and pay up, for for all we know, Skip's purposely put himself in subconscious denial that Glorg's helped him along his journey, and that's not an issue that should rest on Glorg's shoulders." Mr. Flick looked at Glorg and decided the lumps to the side of his head didn't entirely resemble shoulders. "...to his 'shgolders'," Mr. Flick corrected. It seemed an appropriate substitution, and Mr. Flick momentarily beamed at his solution. Being in the presence of a mighty writer, he looked to Skip for a trophy, but seemed to detect no visible traces of valuable metal in his indifferent yawn.
"What if my sympathy and lack of survival instinct--since Glorg doesn't seem the type of urgg you'd want to piss off--led me to push a full lack of helpfulness to the back of my mind, so I wouldn't have to be insulting here and now to complain about his gross incompetence? Perhaps Glorg should assume he's failed his task and do the nice thing by letting be his requested task of me?"
"Why don't we compromise. Skip, you're not out of the future--where you haven't found any means of escaping the problems of the past or the present--yet--if you ever even will be, so for the time being the only two things you have to occupy you are working on your frwoa
"So why don't you just choose the more productive option and get the hell to work. Since you can't seem to find anything suberb worth writing about anyway, you might as well get going on Glorg's task, because clearly you have nothing better to do."
"In fact! It might be the best all-around option for you anyway, because at least now you have a clear writing assignment without having to worry about what precisely to write. And since you can't frite
"So! Since you now have the standard
Skip paused and emitted an impenetrable mask that disguised a terror akin to that of a god on judgement day who not only hadn't created anything good or even useful after all eternity, but hadn't even bothered to try. Given the inspiring terror worthy of documentation, now seemed the perfect time to procrastinate his sudden pop quiz in favor of feigning progress on the one he'd been diligently trying to drop.
"In the beginning..."
All gave a tiny cringe of hope this wasn't going where this type of phrase usually directs a reader.
"There was slime."
A third, even more harmonious than the first two. Skip's stage fright suddenly became so massive as to bend back back around infinity to click itself off and click on a bubbly confident writer's demeanor.
"The slime was green... and mighty... and, uh, vast. Definitely vast. Yes, that'll do. 'In the beginning there was slime. Just slime. And it was green and mighty and vast.' "
Glorg was either surpressing a tear or wishing his body could produce one. No one looked sure whether they were hoping there was more or less to the story. Skip forced the issue by raising his voice to that which one uses at a summer campfire of third graders to drown out the screams of those running from the burning forest fires all around them that their campfire had caused.
"And the slime said..."
A scant child-like
" 'I'm damn ass bored! I wish there was somebody around! Perhaps there will be in a moment, because things are so strange and void and bereft of physical law here that maybe a mere thought alone and by itself can bring entire truths into existence. Like the already- and now twice- stated wish of mine that someone will now appear, stat, because, as said, I'm damn ass bored!' "
Glorg and Mr. Flick shared a significant hint of being insulted. Skip missed their subtlies as he was devoting his focus to hoping the story's increasingly repetitive self-references were creating the necesary self-infringement to distract the reader from its general reference to any sort of vast timeless frwoa of the sort. Glorg began darting around his sludge eyes upward as sporatically as they could physically achieve in considering the direction and worth of the evolving story. Perhaps he had never heard anything like it; Skip considered that his supposed strain for a tear was actually one of timeless peace at hearing his lifetime quest for creativity approaching its end.
"But..." Skip notched up the childlike- wonder- inducing tone, since it didn't seem to be having much effect as is.
Glorg now had a rare imaginative look as if he wished his race had evolved theatre popcorn at some point; or perhaps he was simply imagining Skip drowning in a pool of orange
"The formless void... recieved form!"
Glorg happily nodded approval; either he was enjoying the saga more and more or had concluded his fantasy that Skip had drawn his last breath and perished in the boiling mulg. Perhaps this contributed to Skip's tangent from at least a potentially meaningful story (in theory) to what he narrated next.
"...Of course, since this was a somewhat paradoxical thing to occur, it was more or less a change that only resembled attaining form and yet for all purposes was form, except that required of any decent student of propositinal logic, within which this near-equivication would not be anywhere near tolearble for the purposes of formal, logical argument separate from the particular premises of the void and pseudo-voidless form coming into existence."
Mr. Flick--almost forgotten--looked like he had invented the skill of falling into a coma without lying down or even leaning against a wall for minimum support. (Although he did conceed to the middle ground since he was, in fact, sitting down.)
"The green vastness lessened from its official pure RGB greenness so that parts of it were a darker green and parts of it were still the normal green. Other parts solidified into squiggly line patterns that in all ways literal and metaphorical could be interpreted as blood veins of the Void and simultaneously cracks in it foreshadowing the breaking of it into the forms and shapes and shades of green it was now breaking into. The crack-veins also would have resembled stars if their colors were inverted and the luminosity of the resulting picture lowered a great deal."
"It was all surely approaching the formation of a universe extraorindarily and infinitely unique--since there was nothing anywhere nearby resembling it--if not for the breaking of one of the cracks which bridged a far away universe and dumped in a flood of contrived frwoa static of the most astronomical level fathomable... I refer of course to the creation of the Blorkk wallpaper that was the only inspiration or muse for this part of the great story of Blorkk, now doubly ruined by its narration unmasking this conspiracy which otherwise would have remained cloaked enough to avoid the total imposion of everything otherwise creative in the future of the Void/non-void's existence, blacklisting anything unique that anyone or anything that would ever occupy--even momentarily, such as via a visit or a crowd of tourists on vacation from Okuaka--the Void/whatever Blorkkan universe would ever, ever feel or know or ponder."
Mr. Flick's coma was now battling between deceasing him into the calm peace of a lifeless coffin, and snapping him out of itself to go grab a literature calculator with the power to handle calculating what sense (if any) Skip's ramble now harbored. Glorg looked half-devistated--as if his universe had suddenly imploded before it had even begun, or just a bit after--and half infinitely intrigued. It also had a bonus of an enlightened awareness so much so that for a moment Skip thought Glorg could detect a whiff of all the bizarre irony in the whirlpool of multi-medium strageness surrounding them and any freers in the area freeing their stories. (Not the least of which included Skip's increasing passion for his tale after just declaring he couldn't create any good story at all, never mind the vast Blorkkan saga he was now imersed in.) While missing the irony completely, Mr. Flick started to awaken via the sheer possibility that someone in the room might get their way by the end of discussion.
"And then, tragically, since the Great Breaking of the Green Slime Void along with anything vaguely to do with it had itself been broken via uncountable medium- entangled means, it now solidifed the last fully corporeal thing that would ever solidify anywhere within it until its destruction death precisely 43.7584 billennia away! It solidified an infinite and ever-unbreakable loathing for all things Frangles or Blorkk, especially the particular manifestation of these sagas on the world-wide internet of current Information Age Earth within which my very current narration itself has now served as the greatest and most dizzying medium-bridge between these two respective sagas ever ever to be built in the whole internet- and- existence surpassing ultimate fractal nonlinear schizo- philo- sophi- scientificky saga of sagas known as Xangles!!"
<continued from "xangles!"> (?)
The freer (that's you) was now confused as all mutherf@#$ !@#$. Skip had clearly lost his mind to the point of hallucinating a matrix of intertangling realities so strange that his own narration might not just fly but turd in the face of all established literary boundaries between freer and protagonist. It had clearly failed, for who in their right mind would have stepped in and solved Skip's current tremble of terror that something earth-shattering might now happen just to spite--at the least--his ridiculous attempt at feigning--or perhaps cursing--or perhaps creating--or perhaps turnding in the face of--god himself. Since there was no visible sign of anybody anywhere actually caring about his outburst enough to bother doing anything about it, Skip now sighed a breath of relief that the universe as he knew it was still entirely intact. Except, of course, for those in the room--including himself--he had now turned into unorthodox atheists. He kept the technique in mind as one useful for subjecting religiouss fanatics to as doses of their own medicines.
"Are you quite done?" Mr. Flick asked.
Skip looked around the room just in case anything that could havef happened was tardy in doing so. Glorg now actually had shed a tear, or something that at least vaguely resembled one in the general expected area. It was certainly uncharted territory, whatever it was. Glorg could have been moved to tears, or had done the Blorkkan equivalent of freezing to death from boredom (in which case the tear would be him melting at the warmth of the conclusion of the ridiculous medium mangling rant and his approach back to an uncryogenically reelased awakended adfklfklgj sldfkgj asldfkgj sldkrj ...or he could have sunk so deep in his fantasy for
Skip's torture that he had forgotten he was even in ta room. Or of course, he could just have had a runny nose. Any of the could have drastic life threatening conseqeucnes.
Mr. Flick made an astronomically noble and potentially successful attempt at indefinitely postponing any mortal danger that might be lurking by asking Skip the one thing no one anywhere in any of the existences in known being would have expected him to ask.
"Well? Go on, Skip."
...And Skip began narrating the frwoa he was finally positive he was born to write for once in his life as an obscure frwoa friter somewhere between as far back as Skip could remember and his eventual removal from the list of Frangles characters that anyone on Earth was even considering officially publishing.
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