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1-444 - SkipFron
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1-444 [Frook 1, chapter 4.4, brick 4]

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The news of the collapse of Publishco would have spread through the streets of Writer's Block like a proverbial wildfire had half of Flutonia not heard the unfathomably loud implosion first hand anyway. Still, since it was one of the most exciting things to ever happen, a collective consensus to pretend no one knew about the event instantly struck everyone who'd heard the implosion, like a crash of illiterate thunder just after a bolt of lightning brainchildren.
"Did you hear about what happened at Writer's Block?" they would ask each other.
"Oh, no! Whatever happened?" the others would follow, having just conversed all but verbatim a few blocks back with another party of gossipers. The great news-tale of the Fall of Publishco By an Unknown Entity would follow, all listening to the new storyteller shining for a brief moment as a prised Pulitzer winner or campfire tale teller giving the campers nightmares for longer than they'd ever remember. Each would take their turn at holding the torch in the story's re-hashing, which only got better each re-telling. Then after what seemed like ages, the cliques of gossipers would forget the whole thing to go share the news with anyone else who hadn't heard it from them in a couple of hours. In each telling (for the cause was unknown), the culprit got more and more magnificent. First it was a baby microscopic fluton who'd briefly pondered sneezing and accidentally fractured the skyscraper's loose thought-metal structure. Then it was a clique of teen flutons who'd told a dirty joke about the matter and simply forgotten how powerful the Flutonic Effect was. Then it was a high school award-winning science project that failed at its biggest presentation, then an undergraduate Introduction to Flutonic Phylo of Flwoa Tragedy mid-term paper.
Then the number of culprits grew; from small numbers of flutons, to large numbers of flutons, to uncountable, then infinite, then imaginary, then nonexisent numbers of flutons. Then, when flutons got exhausted, it became everything imaginable between flutons and the vifa solidity of matter sort-of composed of indivisible flutonic particles way down on the flutonic level. Then, the need for stretching out the gossip became as massive as fathomably possible and gave rise to some of the earliest ideas for scientific particles. It was said the tragic antagonist was no longer the flutons, but a whole quark of flutons (however many there were). Then--didn't you hear?--it was a whole neutronic fluton of quarks of flutons, then whole atom-things of neutrinos culprited by then with positivits and electrolytes that were already last sour's news. The atom-things became super-atoms became superatomicnanonomits, then molecules. Then the molecules--in a sudden tiring of being a countable number of particles---broke into an infinite plethora of permutations of all of the former, somewhere vifa far upward forming all thought and matter and form and ideas and sentience.
On the tangible level--long after the initial fluton-error rumor but nowhere near the tiring of the storytelling--a stray lit cigarette was now blamed with the irony that the pile of ash was like its relative microcosm metaphor of the ash tray's ash before it leaped into a much bigger realm of metaphorical literary tangibility. Then it was a whole pack of butts, then a pack of wolves, then a whole cigarette-factory inside Publishco who made Wolf Lights, then there was a whole half of the skyscraper packed with Wolf Heavys, then Wolf Extra Blacks, then Killer Mangling Mutant Werewolf Black Night-Light Plusses. Then on, and on, and on; the sticks of nicotine became sparklers, then glow sticks, then firecrackers, then dynamite, then enough C4 to cause exactly the damage it did. Soon half the building contained dangerous explosives placed by Fight Club rebels angered by the corrupt tyranny of greedy tobacco industries that knew damn well their products cause lung cancer, forest fires, complicate pregnancies, and the destruction of very important buildings on Writer's Block.
Soon, there came a time when exploding Publishco conspiracies reached their limit, and then massive external conspiracies outside the building were created to replace them. It was a Writer's Block Conspiracy, then a whole totway conspiracy, then whole cities outside Writer's Square beyond imagining, and finally no less than all of Flutonia was blamed save the present company of those gossiping about the Great Fall of the Morality of Everyone Else But Present Company Excepted And Doesn't It Just Suck to Live In These Cynical Lonely Ethically Deprived Times conspiracy.
Then, and only then--when everyone realized the Great Evolution of the Publishco Conspiracy conspiracy might have hit its limit coincidentally at the climax of the Great Limitation Of Indefinitely Extendable Blame Gossip Crisis--did one nameless person think to think up something beyond all of Flutonia entirely. It was a great idea, for now infinitely more beyond Flutonia could be blamed; whole massive great stories worth taking years off from work to be told or heard could now be told. This was the core foundation of everything that ever existed outside Flutonia, and all because some idiot somewhere narrated the destruction of an obscure publishing company somewhere between the dawn of Okuaka and the middle of it. It was stupid, but marvelous. Life beyond the only place anybody knows! What an adventure in storytelling for everyone of all ages, as long as it lasted, which it did for the entire 88-ish billennia of the only known universe anybody ever knew about, named Okuaka by the nameless man who had now blown his idea for existence to tedious astronomical levels.
What a way to write.

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