Doc’s spot at the top.
This chapter is short. I know. It’s because of a mistake on my part. Originally I should have put this at the end of the previous one and it didn’t really fit at the beginning of the next, so… Oh well. Mistakes happen. Like that time I tried to remove the frost from my aunt’s car with a rock.
That… actually happened. I was nine, and very dumb.
On a brighter note: Strauss’ polkas! Nobody cannot not not love Strauss’ polkas.
Here's “Thunder and Lightning” Polka: https://youtu.be/b-UNhnZCAGM
And here's “Tritsch Tratsch” Polka: https://youtu.be/u5yr-r3GkW4
So, next part concludes this chapter of real life and – shocking news – something actually pertinent to the overarching plot will happen too! How shocking. Then we’ll one little detour to squirreldom before finally getting back on track with Elric choking to death on his mashed potatoes!
…That sounded cooler in my head.
----------------------------------------
Chapter 5: Fourteen Hours of Reality
~ Part 3: Third Time’s the Charm ~
Welcome back, friends. Let us now pursue our journey through the past, at a time before the occurring of an event I didn’t know would put an end to my life. At least as I knew it. Possibly more. I’m not sure.
This is the story of how I met your mother… kinda. Who are “you” anyway?
* * * * *
Half-an-hour – and fifteen baked crêpes – later, I carry a fifth of the result of my attempt at post-modern choreography to the living room. The rest of the thin pancakes are already in the fridge.
There, I– …What? No, not in the fridge. In the living room, you doofus.
Seriously…
Ahem. As I were saying… There, inside the living room, I then proceed to carry on a complete and heartless destruction of my own hard work. Cooking is a lot like playing dominoes in that respect. You spent time meticulously creating something, only to have it disappear without a trace beyond a vague feeling of satisfaction afterwards.
Anyway…
Barbarously resorting to my bare teeth, I tear through the defenceless sugar-sprinkled cooked batter, in this unsightly act, mess of drool and crumbles, commonly referred to as…
Eating.
What an abhorrent deed.
Quote: “So easily does hunger cause a man devolve into the ranks of the uncivilised.”
– Me, now.
On the table sits the pile of envelopes which Vincent delivered earlier. In between crêpe two and three, I reach out and go through the heap – admittedly not that large.
“Bill… Bill… Bill… Oh. A meal voucher for that new place down the street. Too bad I don’t have a ‘significant other’ to bring with. Screw you restaurant. I hate restaurants anyway. Who wants to wait for half-an-hour to eat something? …Bill again. When did I order a mini wooden ballista? …What’s this? …No. I am not interested in hearing about Yog Hurt, our lord and saviour. What kind of decent prophet is this mean to lactose intolerant people? Those sectarian recruitment pamphlets are getting weirder each week. …And what’s this?”
From the bottom of the pile of uselessness, I exhume a slick postcard. None of my relatives are currently on holiday, nor are Yasmin and Daniel obviously, so I can think of only one person whom this might come from. In fact, I don’t really need to guess.
His face is on the card.
The picture is that of a tanned young…ish man in his late twenties. I know this guy. And he knows me. Basically we know each other. We’re… friends?
Business partners, really.
Friends.
His name’s Aapeli Bernstein. He’s a photographer, and a pretty famous one at that… as far as any photographer can be famous. I’m not sure how much that is. I don’t really frequent that milieu. Or any milieu really, except if my living room categorizes as a “milieu”. I don’t think it does.
But, based on my shallow understanding of the art community – and the internet – “Aap” is a pretty big deal in the world of… pointing camera at… stuff and… selling the result.
…
……
………
I’m sure it’s much more complicated than it sounds like.
Most things are.
Probably. Anyway…
Like about eighty percent of the members of my current – lack of a – social network, Aapeli and I met in Untold Tales.
I mean, of course I met him in UT. Where else is someone like me supposed to get acquainted with a world-renown artist?
In your dreams…?
Shut up.
In-game, Aapeli plays a dwarf painter under the moniker Lautrek Pickaxo. He also sells his virtual paintings… An activity which somehow makes him even more money than marketing his real photographs. I don’t understand how other people’ minds work. That guy once told me how much he was making on average per painting. I was floored. I could buy three cars with that amount!
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Well, not that I’m criticising anyone. I’m actually happy that people are stupi… art-enthused enough to empty their pockets into his pocket.
Because a non-negligible portion ends up in my pocket.
Let me explain…
We initially met by chance in a tavern, during one of my rare trips to the Tame Zone. He needed an escort into a newly discovered abandoned crystal mine that was reputed marvellous to look at, but also absurdly dangerous. He wanted to paint it. But nobody was taking his request because the cave was just that dangerous. I ended up doing it because I was bored and the guy was funny.
That day, we both died gruesomely.
The cave was just that dangerous.
But on the brighter side, we became fast friends. There are few better experiences to bond over than being eaten alive by giant spiders.
Ever since, Aapeli has been buying from me screenshots of any unique in-game location I might encounter. I tried to protest that I was willing to just send them for free, as a friend. But he insisted that business and friendship are separated issues, so I caved… no pun intended.
I’ll also admit my protests hadn’t been very loud. I don’t consider myself greedy, but I’m only human and he does pay well. Although I suspect what comes my way amounts to no more than cheap change for him.
He’s really not a representative of the starving artist stereotype.
But I don’t really mind. I’m just taking pictures of places I would be going to anyway. I feel a bit like a professional tourist.
....
Elric Walker, the Wandering Tourist.
Epic indeed.
*sigh*
I cast another look at the postcard. It’s from Australia apparently. I know because Aapeli is in the middle of an airfield, posing next to a small plane sporting the logo of the Australian Parachute Federation. A kangaroo and a parachute. Pretty explicit.
How do I know about the Australian Parachute Federation? Pfff. Who doesn’t?
And “APF” sounds like the noise you make when you hit the ground after having actually forgotten your parachute.
…aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAA-PFFFFF!!
…?
…not really.
Leave me alone!
I take a rather vicious bite into a poor crêpe, who did nothing to deserve my anger besides the unholy sin of being born a crêpe. It’s truly unholy by the way. Think about it. Whenever you cook with eggs, you actually use the remains of an unborn child.
Think about it.
Nodding to my wisdom, I flip the post-card over to decipher the short paragraph written in messy strokes. Geez. That guy might be a good photographer, but his handwriting puts doctors on the level of skilled calligraphers.
In a few brief, straightforward sentences, Aapeli details how he was currently in Australia – Called it! – as part of a project to photograph exceptional landscapes as seen from the sky.
Admittedly, it explains the plane…
But not the animeharemful of lightly dressed beauties surrounding him.
Yes! An “animeharemful”. That’s an official unit of measurement of females gathering around a single male. And if it isn’t, it damn well should be!
I feel mildly annoyed right now.
Aapeli often tells me about how he “travels the Globe in search of inspiration”.
Inspiration. Sure. How weird that his “muses” always end up being quite busty and scantily clad. Strange for a photographer who officially specialises in landscapes and rarely do portraits…
But, hey, who am I to comment upon the ways of an artist, right?
RIGHT?!!!
Calm down, Nick.
I AM CALM!!!
Sighing, I stand up and carry the picture to my room, where I throw it in a huge box that is marked with a glowing radioactive hazard warning sign, and which already contains an absurdly huge amount of similarly… irritating items of the postcard persuasion.
The playboy photographer has made a habit of mailing me one of these from each of his stops around the World. He never said why. Although, privately I believe maybe he doesn’t actually have that many friends to send stuff to. A somewhat farfetched guess, knowing Aapeli’s agreeable and open personality. But maybe, sometimes being friendly to everyone makes it difficult to distinguish between true friends and the rest.
How deep…
That said, I hope he has other good acquaintances to inflict this postal boasting upon. For his own sake. Because the idea that his friend were so few that I made it high on his list is… rather pitiful.
And this is coming from a guy who can count his friends on his fingers without requiring additional hands, or using his toes. Moreover, said count includes my landlord, the owner of the local entertainment store – both of whom I’ve known for less than six months – and a psychotic priestess whose goal in life is apparently to turn me into shish kebab, lava sauce.
Really glorious there Nick.
I have no excuse.
Well, it’s not that I mind receiving postcards from all over the world. The stamps alone make for an interesting collection. But…
But…
But…
There is a nervous twitch at the corner of my mouth.
But(t).
…Is it really, really necessary that every single one – Every. Single. One! – of these mailed cards shows him accompanied by his latest conquest? Uh…?! Oh. Pardon me. Conquestssss. PLURAL. And not only are the girls on the picture. It goes beyond that! What I resent are the activities those cards show!
Never in my life has it been my goal to possess a near cubic metre of pictures bordering on soft-porn. When not worse!
Oh, yeah, sure, those shots were “artistic”, he set them up himself after all. And he is a professional. Yeah. A candid by the GRRRREAT Aapeli Bernstein, what a unique piece of art! It must cost a fortune!
It does actually.
Well, newsflash, I HAVE A WHOLE EFFING BOX OF THOSE!!
Do you know, O grand estimed photograph critique, that Mr Bernstein’s entire – and I do mean entire – body is covered in tattoos, some in places you’ll wish you never were made aware of? BECAUSE I CERTAINLY WISH I DID NOT!!
Sniff… give me back my innocence.
Your what?
…
……
………You can get extremely obnoxious at times, do you know that?
Yes, but you love me anyway.
I’m kind of narcissistic aren’t I?
Yep, and nearly schizophrenic I’m afraid.
…Is that so? Well, as long as the voice in my head isn’t hearing voices too, I suppose I’m still alright.
Yeah, that’s what they said too.
…Maybe I really should reconsider taking my meds once in a while.
Please don’t. The voices are telling me to stop you if you try. By any means necessary.
“…”
I’m joking.
…Sure.
* * *
Later, as I finish wiping the dish I used to eat my crêpes in, I take a casual glance at the digital clock displayed on the oven.
[11:18 AM]
I also take note of today’s date right below…
“Mmmh…”
For some reason, this gives me pause. I blink slowly, trying to remember why that particular series of number indicating a particular spot on the calendar rings a bell…
In the background, as if guided by the hand of providence, the ever present melody of the radio carries the refrain to a song I know very well.
< …back to the gods, who betrayed Her trust, ♪ Her powers rampaged, fed by Her bloodlust, ♪ Forbidden dark spells, insults to Heaven, ♫ The angel was dead, rose the Black Raven~ ♩ ♫>
Then it dawns on me.
“…fudge.”
It’s today! Today is the release of Faust’s newest album, Black Raven!
It completely slipped my mind. How could it be?! Impossibile!
Not a minute to lose! TO THE RECORD SHOP!!
In a hurried daze, I drop the plate in the sink. It shatters, but I don’t pay attention. I dive out of the kitchen and rush to the front door, grabbing my keys in passing. I leap outside, lock the door behind me, and start to run towards the lift.
…
……
………
A few seconds later, I rush back to my flat, unlock the door, step back in the hallway then into my room.
Clothes. I need clothes.
* * *
Minutes later, calmed and clad, with my music player in hand and my earphones on, I am giving last-minute orders to a seemingly unconcerned black tom. I guess me slamming the door repeatedly woke him up.
“Soldier McLeon! Keep the fort! I, general Sie-“
“Meow~ Who named you general?”
“Shut up recruit! I’m not in the mood for insubordination!"
“I still think I should be general.”
“Please… I’m sort of in a hurry. Just play along. Don’t complicate the situation for the sake of being a pain.”
“You do realise you are the one making this whole conversation up… Do you?”
“I’m not that insane yet.”
“…Good to hear you say it,” doesn’t reply the cat, because I’m the one talking.
“Now. Keep the fort! This is an order. I, lieutenant Siegel, shall be out for a short while.”
“Whatever. I’ll do a better job than you anyway, buffoon.”
“I said SHUT UP! Stop being disrespectful. You’re not even talking. …What am I doing? Anyway, I’m off.”
“Meow.”
That was actually the cat. Yes, he does actually meow sometimes.
After one last quick check to assure I am wearing shoes – Matching shoes! Hurray! – I get out of the apartment, again, close the door, again, lock it, again, and finally make it to the lift.
Man with a mission, I resolutely leave the building and embark upon my long and perilous journey towards the record store, braving the cold air of late January, strong with the knowledge that I…
…
…
…
…forgot my wallet.
* * * * *