Idea Dept.

I have the best ideas as I drift off to sleep.  It wouldn’t help to have anything on my bedside to write them down.  The few times such a thing has transpired, the notes are worthless.  They seem like gibberish and I can’t be expect to translate them.

I had an idea for a short story last night about a poor fat man.  He has terrible luck, this man.  Every time he goes to the movies, his popcorn bucket splits at the seam.  No matter what.  And I thoguht this, drifting off to sleep.  Where do we go from here?  Poor man and his popcorn spilling into the aisle.  His life is rather hard.

There is no redemption for this man in sweatpants.  He smells after a few stairs to his apartment whereon he collapses into a pile on the only chair in the room.  How he exists, I do not know.  But he doesn’t really do anything to warrant his horrible luck.  But there is much good luck in the world and much bad luck, and how are Chaos and Order supposed to distribute them fairly?  Well, I guess Chaos just doesn’t care.

This poor piggy man sits down.  His popcorn bucket has split for the thousandth time and so he collapses.  His weight taken by the chair and a spring pops up, stabbing him in the ass.  The man has no insurance, you see.  What is he supposed to do about it?  No one has warned him against high-fructose corn syrup or trans fats, he works at a burger place.  He doens’t know how to problem solve.

What is he going to do about it?

Well, if I were this man, and I’m not, I would laugh at my miserable luck.  I would laugh and then call my folks for help.

But he has no folks!  No, he is a fictional character and wasn’t created with sperm and ova, so he just sits and pouts.  He thinks on the oreos highlighted in the kitchen, the only things he can think of when he thinks of what to eat.  He contemplates why is the way he is.

It’s meta-fiction, you see.  He knows it’s my fault.  His face is read now with indignation.  He is my puppet, I can make him do what I please.  His eyes bulge.  His hands stray to his crotch.  He punches himself there.  And I am cursed now.  I lock his apartment door, cannot let him out.  What he doesn’t know is that his hall closet has a loaded shotgun in it.  There are boxes of shells.  The closet he’s never opened, he doesn’t know what is inside.  It’s locked.  And I must hope he never thinks to break the closet open and see what I have put there.

He’s not me.  He will react in an explosion of anger at his fate and he will take us all out with him, somehow.

And that’s where this idea is headed.  All because of popcorn buckets.

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