The Storymaker (Part Five)

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

Gordon didn't know what to do. He sat there for a long time open mouthed, staring at the computer screen in awe, but he was unable to make the slightest sense of the jumble of characters swimming before his eyes. He was slick with sweat and he felt numb from the tip of his toes to the top of his crawling scalp. He accidentally knocked his cold, half drunken coffee onto the floor with his elbow and angrily kicked the mug under the table, thanking God that it wasn't the remainder of his precious lager, and that started to bring him to his senses. For a few seconds he felt dizzy and a trifle sick, but as soon as he recovered some semblance of control he tried reading through the Buffalo's incredible statement again. Still, though, he couldn't take it in - it was too complex, it was too fantastic, it was too good to be bloody true.

'I shouldn't get too excited, Storymaker, because you're obviously the butt of an elaborate, despicably cruel joke,' a little voice told him from a calm island at the heart of his storm beaten soul. 'Breathe slowly and deeply, Twatty, then you'll feel a little calmer, I promise. There, that's better. Now think very carefully about what has passed before you do anything rash. Do you really think you're that talented ? Do you think you're good enough to land a major book contract? I thought not.....

Any minute now Buffalo Mozzarella is going to deliver his coup de grace, after a suitable interval so that he can enjoy the thought of you stewing in your socks, of course. And then all the cold-blooded bastards basking in the cunt's spurious sunshine will stop their covert smaning and leap out of their hiding places en masse to join in the grand festival of your destruction. You won't be able to handle that, Gordon - you're far too delicate, the fuckers will kill you. Do the sensible thing, please. Switch off the computer, unplug it and dump it by the bin for the rag and bone man or some random passer by to collect; it won't be there longer than five minutes, I reckon, and then you won't be able to change your mind. You have to promise me that you'll never go on that damned site again..... Then you need to go and find Sally Anne before it's too late, if it isn't already too late. Well don't just sit there like a fucking lemon!'

“No!” Gordon snapped, banging the desk with his fist and stamping his feet like a spoiled child. “It is not a lie. I've bloody well earned this, I've known all along that something like this would happen eventually if I worked hard enough, and I'm not going to let anybody take my victory away from me.

Don't you think it's been hard, pandering to Buffalo Mozzarella's ceaseless re-constructive demands, demands that I foolishly mistook for nasty digs and snide comments? And at the same time I had my missus constantly telling me that I'm squandering precious time, that I'm a waste of space and food and fresh air. Don't you think I've suffered, listening to that thick, thoughtless cow telling me how shit I am? I repeat - no! This is my moment of triumph, buddy. I haven't had many of those in my life, so I'm bloody well hanging on to it. This is my chance to show an unbelieving world how much I'm really worth. It's time for me to stand on the crest of a hill, the lord of all I survey, waving a bloody sword and yelling 'Freedom!' at the top of my voice. I'm going to have a whale of a time, you wait and see, I'm going to savour every single moment of my hard-won success. If Sally Anne wants to stick by me she's more than welcome - hopefully things will be different now - but if she doesn't buck up her ideas she can go and fuck herself..... I've done it, I've beaten the ravenous demons of adversity, I've achieved all I set out to do, and more. I'm a winner, Mr. Conscience; I'm the king of the castle, and you're a dirty rascal.”

'I'm giving you one last chance to see sense, Gordon,' the voice said, still remarkably calmly. 'I'm not doing this for myself, I'm doing it for you. I am you, Twatty, remember? Now turn the frigging computer off, unplug it and throw it outside. Don't scroll down to the bottom of the lying scrawl you've been struggling to read again for the last half an hour whatever you do, or you're finished. The power behind that falsification is mortally dangerous, do you hear me? It's savage, it's unclean, it's poisonous - its hunger is bottomless and it intends to lightly grill you and casually chew on you like a screaming, kicking, living kebab.'

“Fuck off!” Gordon replied through a flood of tears. “For God's sake, leave me alone. You're jealous of my success, that's all it is. You're just like all the rest of them, you bastard. Go and join Sally Anne, the ungrateful bitch, wherever she is - this is my party.”