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1-164 [Frook 1, chapter 1.6, brick 4]

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 Skip booted up into blank, white void. Even being a writer (here an irony as vast, useless, and deceptively full of endless possibilities as the vifa white nothingness around him), Skip couldn't find any words to describe where he was. (Except for "blank white void", of course.) He did note a few things it was not. It was nothing like the surreally similar void in the film Nothing, or the white light at (SPOILER WARNING: do not finish reading this sentence) the end of the movie Cube by the same director that Andrew Miller escapes into to go be killed in the 3rd installment if he doesn't give the right answer to the religious philosophy question they ask you before you really get to leave. The void was especially unlike the construct loading program in the first Matrix film. Although, because the place where Skip was seemed to be connected to a vast fractal nonlinear saga (somehow he sensed this), the place could definitely admit that it did entirely rip off every other scene like it within the saga itself. It could admit this because it knew that the chance of its writers suing themselves for recursive infringement was significantly smaller than a lawsuit from Vincenzo Natali or the Wachowski Brothers.
 (Then again, you never know.)

 "This is bizarre. Where am I? I get the vague looming feeling of the fracolic non-coherency at the start of a new frwoa." Skip cringed, as he got the sense he'd just plagiarized the statement verbatim from somewhere else in... he should probably give the nonlinear saga a name. Fluff? Flour? Frilm? Froggles? Frangles? "Yes, Frangles will do," Skip decided, then decided to attempt talking to someone other than himself.
 "Hello? Anyone there?"
 Saying this didn't affect his situation, as there wasn't anyone around to speak of. Of course, this wasn't such a tragedy because speaking of anything around here didn't seem to have much of a point. (Mostly because it hadn't worked just now.)
 "Hello?"
 Silence.
 "Anyone there?"
 Silence with a touch of redundancy resentment.
 "Echo?"
 A very slight echo, but only one, and one from the future anyway that didn't really matter here and now.
 "Marco?"
 Nothing. (Not the film Nothing, because we've already clearly established that Skip's plain white void was absolutely like Nothing.)
 Suddenly, Skip started. He had a feeling he still couldn't describe, but he noted it was entirely unlike watching Microsoft Windows de-hibernating on the fastest computer in the known universe. Likewise, the booming voice he heard sounded not at all like a booting start up sound set to a wave file recording of the exact same statement. (Made further strange by the fact that the wave file that was supposed to not play seemed to have gotten cross-linked with a live streamed conversation. It didn't seem horridly non sequitur, however, since they did seem to be talking about Skip.)
 "Give him a shotgun this time."
 "Uh--wha?" Skip somehow realized that there were probably people in the universe--or the O/S or whatever--aside from him and its speaker who might see it as a killer tagline however self-cliche. This didn't help that it was confusing as all hell, though.
 A couple faint, subtle second wave files now played not as if they were from a separate minimized process on minimum priority; or from Winamp with a compact white-scheme skin set to 80-90% transparency playing hide-and-seek in the corner of the desktop.
 "Didn't we just use that shotgun line in 52.112 yesterday?"
 "Oh, right, yah. A little too redundant. I'll flag it and think of something to change it to later. How about a chainsaw?"
 Skip wasn't sure if things were better or worse now that he was finally delusional and had nonlocalized voices to talk to. He put off deciding which until after he'd vented his vicious migraine to them that was likely to be their fault.
 "Hey... Hey! What in the--wha--" For a rare moment Skip was drawing a 100% blank in coloquially expressing himself, so he simply shot a few hard curses up to the vague white lack of a sky where the voices were most likely to have originated. This got a very confused simultaneously reaction from the very first--and one of the second--speakers, like surreal vifa open mic microphone feedback .
 "He can't hear us, can he?"
 "He can't hear us, can he?"
 Now, finally, there was one good thing about his exponentially accelerating confusion: at least the void had responded to his request for an echo, even if it hadn't echoed any word or phrase he'd called out to date. Out boredom and bottomless starvation for literary irony, he called out "echo" one more time in hopes this would give him a few starting points, as a game of some sort seemed to be being played on him--or with him, or on him. Or something like that. None of the voices seemed to pay any attention, and the increasing handful of confused lack of multi-medium audio tracks began degrading into a muted mush of conflicting planes of digital reality, of which all on each clearly had a much better idea of what the hell was going on here than he did.
 The master confused volume finally lowered entirely, and the operating system now went into low power mode as this was all that was required for his simple subprocess command-line conversation with the lone voice he heard next. Or texted with. Or that had been posted on a zipped chat board a million years ago with a note to decompress and autoplay at this exact moment.

 God>oh, hey, Skip, sorry about the confusion.
 >>@emit Skip couldn't even allocate any focus to considering accepting the apology as the apology himself confused him even more than the strange new communication medium he was somehow conveniently fluent in.
 God>don't worry, I'll explain the whole thing right now. Everything will make perfect sense in a minute.
 Skip>I would think God wouldn't need to explain himself. Or are you just a narcissistic demi-god who conveniently lost the prefix? I hope this isn't a philosophy of theology chat room because if it is, I'm not sure if my brain could handle the balance between irony, inverse irony, and appropriateness of being here. @emit Skip withheld venting more of his confusion to the boundaries of online etiquette for the sole purpose of angering God to the point that he'd leave him to rot in the terabytes of his confusion.
 God>what? oh, yah, that's just a little thing I like to do to insult the freers when they're pissing me off.
 @#$@#$@#$@#$@#$#
 SysAdmin>better?
 Skip>Worse, actually.
 @#$@#$@#$@#$@#$#
 God>alright, well, where do you think you are, Skip?
 Skip>Given the dizzying incoherency of this place, I would definitely have to defend my literary sanity by eschewing any useful response, and answer you that I think I'm exactly where I am. But since mild phylical sarcasm probably isn't the response you're looking for, I'd probably go for a tad more vague and reply that where I am probably depends on my frangle.
 God>frangle! Good. I forgot that one. Good term. I'll have to add it to our glossary when I get a chance. Alright, so sure, on that line of thought, your answer is a pretty easy. You see, from one frangle--
 Skip>What's a Frangle?
 God>what? Is this more "mild philosophical sarcasm"?
 Skip>No, I just pulled the word out of--well, from nothing, I suppose. I mean it's where I seem to be, right? Where else would I have pulled it?
 #d4 <<Skip wouldn't actually type the hyphen if he was typing, he'd just backspace if he wanted to change what he was going to say. Is that a typo?>>
 #d4 <<Probably. Now shut up. We're not supposed to be commenting on this part.>>
 Skip>What in the hell just--
 God>ah, well, a frangle is usually a short way of saying "fractal angle". like--wait, you really don't remember? I thought you coined the term from just about almost any Frangles frangle out there.
 Skip>And what the hell is a fractal angle?
 God>wait, you really don't.. Hold on.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> God> Did someone wipe Skip's memory again? For the last time, people, the irony of _literally_ dealocating the running memory of an NPC with amnesia is getting piss old. I'm deleting the account of the next freer that does this, I swear to god this time.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> franglessucksballs> oooooo. we're scared. like we care if our shit frangles accounts are deleted.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> FreeKyle: You swear to you? lol.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> mezoroneedsdentures> you haven't deleted a single hate fan account yet, tom. face it, you're a good fight in r/l but online you just don't have the balls to beat someone to a pulp
 NerdHerdBoard1>> FreeKyle: Hey, closet freers: Stop spaming the !@#$ing message board. If you really hate Frangles go waste your own time hacking the domain.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> mezoroneedsdentures> hey, jay, that's not a bad idea. what do you think?
 NerdHerdBoard1>> franglessucksballs> i think it would be a waste of time as I already pulled it off last tuesday and if you just return my fucking car already you can have the domain passwords.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> user:Mezoroneedsdentures has logged off.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> FreeJebb> Well, at least their franglifobia is good for _something_.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> ::/SYSTEM> YELLOW Fair Use warning. Comment by user:FreeJebb borders infringement of "CUBE" line: "Well at least he's good for something".
 NerdHerdBoard1>> FreeFish> We never should have added the cube script to the ffu database.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> user:God has left channel.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> user:franglessucksballs has logged off.
 NerdHerdBoard1>> FreeFish> Wait, they didn't actually hack the domain, did they?
 NerdHerdBoard1>> FreeJebb> God, I hope not.
 God>back, sorry.
 Skip>I'd comment that you really can't be back seeing how you said "hold on" about 3 seconds ago but that would probably whip us off into some temporal medium jokes that would _really_ fry my brain.
 God>getting back. Alright, so, basically, Skip, sorry to tell ya, but you're a program. At least from my frangle.
 Skip>I think I figured that one out on my own. What are the others?
 God>well, from a flutonian frangle, or F1, this place is basically your average vague basic place there, except more vague and a tad digital. Make sense?
 Skip>A bit.
 God>bit? was that a pun?
 Skip>nods head ambivolently and looks around the plain white void for someone more perceptive to talk to.
 God>From an F2 (Earth) frangle, you probably just got knocked out by a beefy publishing agent who hated your manuscript and are having a quick out of body experience before you come to. Or, you could have downed so much Starbucks espresso you started to hallucinate your writer's block into a whole actual white place, except all virtual or whatever because you were writing on your laptop or something.
 Skip>Got it.
 God>From an F3/fue-fi frangle, you could be in a crashed virtual reality program that fried your brain, and your friends dumped you in a hospital and left you in a coma so they didn't have to pay the fifty bucks for a data recovery specialist. Or you could be in a real life matrix pod and your mind is freaking out until they upload your life that'll keep your mind under control while the machines grow your body for harvesting. Or, of course, you could have just knocked your head again, except this time on a bulkhead or the ceiling of a shuttlecraft you'd forgotten was so low. Early technology is pretty crude, you know. I mean here around Florbb we just practially just _think_ ourselves from planet to planet. I mean well literally it _is_ actually thinking to another place b/c the the sub-quantum linker interprets the electrical signals of our brain to form a physical hyperhole and transports us where we want to go (or maybe we're still in F3 and not F4 and I just pulled that out my ass; you don't know, see? that's the beauty of Frangles)... but I say practically to to remind myself that it's all founded on near-infinitely advanced science rather than just sort of dreaming or something like that.
 Skip>...if you're actually even...from F4?
 God>now you're getting it.
 Skip>No, I just said something that made a bit of logical sense based on your intrinsic grammar sans any idea how the hell anything you just said just now could make any sense to anybody.
 God>from a Kroffonian frangle, well, that's pretty much just F3 and F4 except with some type of manga or Pink Floyd reference thrown in. I don't know how to describe it, I don't really edit F5 much. Though from F6 you're definitely confused as fucking hell because they don't even have _any_ type of computers in Generika. I suppose this might be some sort of spiritual moka network experience after dying and no one's resurrected you yet-- you know, from people playing the characters in generic final fantasy or whatever-- in which case you'll probably be here awhile, as you were questing alone and the hill trolls that killed you aren't likely to raise you any time soon. Or am I going too fast?
 Skip>W....
 God>aaand, lastly and leastly, there's Zeroa, but if you want a Zeroan take on your situation go talk to Steve because I for one didn't waste my time in college studying fucking philosophy so I could leech of my friends for rent because McDonalds didn't up my pay when I got my masters degree.
 Skip>T....
 God>sorry, my bad, just gets me angry sometime is all. You know Steve. Wait, no, you don't. Right. Sorry.
 Skip>F....?
 God>Hunh? What are you confused about?
 Skip>@emit Skip cries.
 God>Oh, come on, FrangleSim isn't that hard, you just gotta read the help files and walk around a bit. you know, socialize. hit F1 and surf around the help files if you're still confused.
 Skip>What in the depths and breadths of hell is FrangleS--

 A low-quality door closing sound echoed in Skip's head as the conversation came to an abrupt close. He looked all around. The plain white void was still there (it had never left, but as his chat with God hadn't included any narration or setting description he felt it appropriate to take in his environment again as a reminder to any freers freeing his story), except now there was the infinitesimal phrase "LOGIN SUCESSFUL" blinking somewhere vaguely in the horizon fog.
 "Fog," Skip realized, and stared it down for some hint of how it had come from nowhere or where it had come from, but nothing that didn't involve fatal puns intermingling the relationship between foggy memories, foggy settings, and foggy fogs clearly presented itself. "Now that's new. I wonder what other--"
 Suddenly, Skip got the sense of being very cold. Then he was slightly cute. Then ugly, then 14, then 41, then hot, then warm, then water, then Luke. Then he was cold again. He tried to think up a thermostat or a fire alarm to get him out of the place, but wasn't even sure if thinking was having any affect on the place. Why would it? Where in corporeal existence is there where simply thinking brings everything into reality?
 Skip shrugged, and (for literary purposes if not escape strategies) wondered how combinations of the feeling settings he'd just had might work. In response, the void raised the temperature to luke-warm. That stayed as long as the contrived set up pun from "warm" and "Luke" was below lethal levels, and then he felt cold again... except confused as well. Then cute and cold. Then hot and hot. Then, following that, just thoroughly nauseated after his near-death experiences with lethal pun dosages doubled. This led to more confusion, and the confusion stuck. So much so that it didn't even occur to Skip to start wrapping up his boot up experience for his freers as it had probably already continued far too long for them, especially any gaming freers nervously guiding him to find the first save point so they don't have to start a new character again and go through all the introductory scenes again.
 Skip tried to remember back to before he booted up, but for what seemed like the infinith (or at least the zeroith) time in his life, the attempt simply worsened his everpresent amnesia: an ailment he deduced he must have had because his tolerance of bad jokes juxtaposing all his memories with literal and metaphorical puns on amnesia now never seemed worse than at any point in his entire life as a short, suddenly-halted unsaved test run program in the unwritten age of the progression of the known universe Okuaka somewhere from Flutonian boot up to Steve's real life, half-ass, indefinitely procrastinated doctorate disertation.

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