The story of the Random Road begins with an instance. Not a particularly interesting instance, in truth, merely the inception of another bubble of reality that those within will, at some point, come to rely on as their anchor of reality.
To those within, surely this particular instance is something worthy of grandiose celebrations, to such an astonishing degree that they are likely to forget how the law of averages predicts this single instance of their entirety is as uninteresting, unmeritorious, unmentionable, and all around as insignificant as whether nothing actually is nothing, or if it is actually just something masquerading as nothing.
In order to combat this not-so-interesting beginning of the story, we must rely on the storytelling crutch of latching our initiatial event onto a simplistic happening, which for arbitrary reasons constitutes the so-called 'beginning' of our story.
With this in mind, we begin our story with Peter.
Peter stepped upon the Random Road for the first time by complete accident. It just so happened that, at the point of Peter's entrance, in an entirely different realm of reality, a wicked author asked an online name-generator for a name to start their story with. In a cosmic coincidence - one which probability dwarfs the uninteresting beginning of our story by several orders of magnitudes - this very act began a string of coincidences so unlikely, yet ultimately successful, that combined to open a portal in the fabric of reality right in front of Peter.
As the sensible, and very average, person that Peter is, he - of course - did not instinctively seek to enter the portal. Indeed, as a very average man, with a very average comb-over, Peter felt compelled to get away from this very unlikely and improbable event happening right in front of his eyes.
To his infinite misfortune, however, the very improbable event had not only occurred once, but had double teamed poor Peter. In fact, the first portal was merely a lure, cunningly opened in the inanimate hope that Peter would step backwards and enter the other portal, hungrily awaiting a taste of his very ordinary shoes.
Losing his step and tumbling backwards, throwing away all of the groceries he had just picked up from the store, Peter fell into the portal and, ultimately, landed upon the Random Road.
What is the Random Road, you ask?
It is standard to answer such a simple answer with complicated allegories which serve mostly to confuse and obfuscate from the only real answer that is: who knows...
All Peter knew was that he was lying on his back upon a simple dirt road, stretching through an endless grassy plain. His brown khakis had gotten ripped, somehow, during the portal-ambush, and his sleeveless shirt had suffered multiple stains.
Shaking violently from an unusual sense of incomparable incredulity, Peter gained his feet and managed to confirm that he was indeed standing exactly where he had not been before. Upon the horizon not a single landmark of any significance was visible, only grass and grass; sprinkled elements of grass, lines and lines of grass.
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"BEHOLD," a sudden voice erupted across the plain, like thunder from a clear sky. Peter looked around, trying desperately to confirm the existence of someone else; surely, whoever it is, would know what was going on, and whether he was having a stroke.
In the non-distinct landscape, a sudden puff of smoke was enough to draw any measure of attention, even one as average and common as Peter's. From within the smoke stepped a very distinct shape; distinct in that it had the exact look of Peter himself, down to the ripped khakis and stained shirt.
Only the face of this shape was markedly different, since, insteading of putting on the wide-eyed shock and fear on the originator's face, this Peter had eyes wide with exuberance and uncommon joy.
"I AM REBORN," said the shape of Peter, laughing madly as it approached the actual Peter with arms spread wide and a uniquely aggressive gait.
Stepping back from the apparition, Peter wildly flung up his arms - in a very common, defensive posture - and screamed, "Wh-who are you!? Do-don't come any closer or I'll... I'll attack!"
The shape of Peter just laughed, ignored all of the actual Peter's resistance, and stepped in to give his counterpart a great big bearhug - significant because of how much energy he put into it.
After moments of fighting it, Peter gave in and, much to his own surprise, actually enjoyed the uncommon sensation of being hugged by his exact copy.
That is, until the copy began to melt in his arms. Screaming, Peter fought off the melting expression of himself, brushing off his increasingly stained, sleeveless, shirt, and kicking away the goo that had fallen upon his pristinely ordinary shoes.
"What.. what is happening," exhausted, poor Peter finally exclaimed the words that would reveal all - and absolutely nothing - to him.
"Why, welcome!" Peter turned around, half-way hoping to someone without his face - while the other half hoped he was actually having a stroke. Instead, he laid eyes upon a strange little man dressed in pants much too small, wearing two differing socks beneath, and drowning in a long waistcoat dragging along the ground behind the man. The man had a head like a potato, topped with a magnificent tophat as long as it was crooked.
How he managed to keep the darn thing on his head, Peter would never figure out.
"Why welcome, dear Billy, to this; the Random Road!"
Peter had a hard time keeping his eyes on this little man, as he jolted from side to side; appearing to stand still then suddenly shifted slightly to either side. "I'm sorry," Peter mumbled, trying to keep his very ordinary voice level, "But my name isn't Billy... It's Peter."
The little man blinked. He turned around in a circle, chasing the tail of his waistcoat, then came back to face Peter and concluded, "There's no one else here."
"No, there isn't," Peter agreed.
"And you're not Billy?" The man asked, tilting his head, as if the very notion was incomprehensible.
"No."
With a frown, the little man took out a number of papers from out of nowhere, studying them one by one while grumbling to himself. "Darned gnomes, always trying to confuse... Surely they haven't sent me the wrong papers again just for kicks... Ahh!"
With a joyful roar, the little man raised a single piece of paper, as if it alone held all the truths of the world. With a grin he addressed Peter once more, "You are Matthew, are you not?"
"No... I'm Peter," said Peter, his tone approaching hopelessness.
Wrinkling his brow, the little man screwed up his face and studied Peter closely. After a moment, he looked down his own person, noticing something distinct on his chest.
"Ahh... of course, I see," said the man, nodding to himself sagely, "That explains it. I apologize good man, I had it wrong the whole time." Looking back up at Peter, the man pointed to his chest, where a golden name-tag proudly proclaimed his name for all to see.
"I am Billy," said the man, grinning so widely his face nearly cracked in twain, "Now, who are you?"