Chapter 1

“It was all a dream!” Isaac insisted to his therapist. 

Agitated, Isaac sought shelter in a deep-seated chair that threatened to swallow him whole. He was sweating under the spotlight of a pink Himalayan sea salt lamp. It glowed on his therapist’s desk opposite him, but the little light was weak, doing almost nothing to combat the oppressive June Gloom clouds that lurked outside the building. 

“I mean, truth is stranger than fiction. That’s what they say, right?” Isaac explained. To the untrained eye, Isaac was your average, all-American asshole treading water on his way to middle age. He wore a tee and jeans, with plain brown hair, eyes, and skin. If Kirkland's Signature made a man, this would be him. However, as a federally licensed Harry Potter therapist, Dr. Rousseau knew better than to judge a book by its cover. 

Isaac Abrahamson was not average. He was perfect — the perfect patient. What made Isaac so remarkable was how unremarkable he was. Isaac had nothing: no job, no family, and no friends. He didn’t even have a favorite breakfast burrito spot. All he did was watch TV and movies. There was simply nothing there, a true tabula rasa. This made Isaac the ideal control subject for Dr. Rousseau’s thought experiments. 

But something had changed since last week’s session. Isaac was different now. Dr. Rousseau had received Isaac’s test results, and they weren’t good. Especially not when compounded by this newest development. You see, Isaac had a dream. And not just any dream. He called his dream Super Jesus 3: the Holy Trinity Strikes Back.

“Are you familiar with the Kubla Khan?” Dr. Rousseau asked his patient. 

“The Pokemon? I think so. That’s the one where it looks like a lizard fucked a kangaroo, right?”

“It’s a poem.”

“...” The tick-tock of a cuckoo clock sounded behind Isaac, filling his silence until Dr. Rousseau spoke again. 

“Samuel Taylor Coleridge penned it. Interesting guy. Much like yourself, he claimed his magnum opus, the Kubla Khan, was dreamt up.”

Isaac sat up in his chair, interested. “Is that true?”

“The scholarly debate remains unsettled, but the most common theory is that he wrote the poem in an opium-induced fever dream. Others believe it was a divine spirit that moved him — a muse if you will — while some cynics say the whole creation story was made up by Coleridge for marketing purposes.” 

“And what do you think?” 

“It’s possible he was telling the truth. There are other instances of inspired works of art.”    Dr. Rousseau used an arm of his horned-rimmed reading glasses to point to the bookcase behind Isaac. The usual suspects lined the shelf, Freud and Jung, but also the entire series of Harry Potter. “J.K. Rowling said that Harry Potter, the idea, came to her as a fully formed world, and she merely needed to write it down.” Dr. Rousseau coughed. “But, what am I going on about? I may have an authority on the subject sitting right before me.” He waved Isaac’s Super Jesus 3: the Holy Trinity Strikes Back script at him. “What inspired this effort?”

“It wasn’t opium if that’s what you’re asking.” Isaac bristled warily. 

“No. You misunderstand.” Dr. Rousseau leaned forward on his elbows, weighing Isaac’s words. “But you are taking your medications, right?”

“Morning and night.”

“In the right dose?”

“As directed.” 

“Are you steady?”

Isaac nodded. “I’m steady.”

“But are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Good.” Dr. Rousseau jotted some notes down in a weathered, leather Moleskine. “Why did you write your dream journal in a screenplay format?” He thumbed through some past work submitted by Isaac that was nothing more than a splendid collection of scribbles. It was a far cry from the quality of the script he presented at the beginning of today’s session. Other than the penmanship, there was nothing to suggest that the authors were the same. 

“I don’t know. That’s just what it was.” Isaac said. “I’ve never even read a screenplay before. I had to look up what I-N-T and E-X-T mean.”

“Interior and exterior. They indicate whether or not the scene is inside or outside.”

“Yeah, that’s what Google said.”

“Don’t be afraid to ask me any other screenwriting questions you may have. I’m a bit of an expert myself.” Dr. Rousseau jerked his left thumb over his shoulder to indicate a framed copy of a Hawaii 5-0 script that Isaac had never noticed before in their time together. It stood in lieu of any diploma that Isaac could find. The title page bore Dr. Rousseau’s name as the second writing credit. Isaac guessed from the yellowed paper and Dr. Rousseau’s equally yellowed and papery skin that the show probably starred Jack Lord rather than the esteemed Scott Caan. 

“...”

“Did you watch Super Jesus recently? Like maybe before bed? That may have triggered this event.”

“Sure. Hard not to. It’s running on repeat on Netflix, Hulu, HBO, TBS, TNT, CNN ….”

“So, would you consider yourself a Disciple of Super Jesus?”

“I mean, that’s not a label I’d use. I don’t wear the pendant. I’m more of a casual fan than a stan.”

“Well, from a fan's perspective, what do you think of the Super Jesus scene you dreamed up?”

Isaac smiled. “I liked how it ended. The fangs. That’s pretty cool.”

“What kind of fangs do you think they were?”

“Sharp.”

“That’s not what I meant. Do you think the fangs belong to some sort of monster? Maybe like the basilisk Harry encountered in Chamber of Secrets?”

“I was getting strong vampire vibes now that you mentioned it.”

Dr. Rousseau noted this. “How did you feel about the main character? The woman.”

Isaac shrugged. “Seemed like a babe.”

“Seemed? You don’t know?”

“Depends on who they cast.”

“Who would you cast?”

“I imagined Margot Robbie when I read it, but I’m not sure if Super Jesus shares a universe with Harlequin. Either way, it doesn’t bode well for Emma Stone.” Isaac stated, referencing the lead actress in the first Super Jesus installment. 

“Well, who did you imagine while you were dreaming?”

“No one. I don’t remember the dream at all. That’s what’s so wild. These pages were just there, fully written, when I woke up. But what else could it be if it wasn’t a dream? It was like something you’d read about on the Ambien subReddit.”

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Dr. Rousseau wrote this fact down. “This is exciting. It’s exceedingly rare not to dream about oneself.”

“It is?”

“Quite rare indeed. Everyone is the main character in their own story, or so says John Barth. Except for you. Why do you think you’re not the star of your own show?”

Isaac sat with the question, turning it over in his head. “It’s a pretty absurd proposition. How could I be in a movie? I’m just some guy, a dude, really.”

“We’re talking about a dream, Isaac. That’s where absurdity is most alive, where it should thrive!”

“Well, I don’t think dreams are allowed to be boring either.”

“What do you mean? That your dream would be boring if you were in it? Go deeper. Do you think of yourself as a boring person?”

“Absolutely.”

“Continue...”

“Let’s review the facts of the case, okay? Think about it for one second. I’m male. I’m straight. I’m upper-middle-class. That’s three strikes right there. I live a comfortable life.” Isaac ran his hands over his suddenly long face. “Christ, if I were to die today, my only lasting mark on this world would be the size of my carbon footprint.” He gulped to keep a bellyful of hot and spicy anxiety down where it belonged.

“Okay, so you think you’re boring, but are you bored?”

“That’s just it. I’m never bored. I have high-speed Internet.” 

Dr. Rousseau wrote this down. “All the world’s a stage, Isaac, and I think it’s high time for you to act accordingly.”

“Say again?”

“Being boring is a choice. Life’s a performance, Isaac, so pretend you’re in a movie. Become the main character. Who is your audience? Who are you acting for? Yourself? God? A judge and jury of your peers?”

“...”

“Think on that for next week. As a therapist, I can assure you that no one is boring. It simply isn’t possible. Please excuse the tautology, but every individual is an individual. Can a snowflake be boring?”

“Fine, but what if you didn’t view me through the lens of a therapist? Try thinking of me as a screenwriter. Could I be a character of the week in your Hawaii 5-0?”

“Well.” Dr. Rousseau grimaced, defeated. “As a screenwriter, I’d say you’re better suited for more of a mumblecore milieu than a superhero story. A life devoid of external difficulties is a tough sell for a visual medium.”  

“Tell it to me straight, doc. Admit that I’d be the villain in any movie. That’s the role of mediocre white men these days, and it’s well-deserved. So I’m okay with that.”

“Are you? Are you okay with that?”

Isaac looked down at his gurgling stomach to analyze his gut reaction. It burned. “No. I’m not okay with that.” He squeezed out a smile that felt more like an ulcer. “I don’t want to be the bad guy.”

“Perhaps it’s time you’ve taken on a new role?”

Panic rose to Isaac’s eyes. “How? It’s too late for me. I’ve already eclipsed my mid-twenties.” 

“It’s not too late. Plenty of main characters in plenty of stories feature men far beyond their mid-twenties. Jesus died at thirty-three.”

“Do you really think I have what it takes to be a main character?”

“I do. In fact, you have a strong make-up for it. Forgive me, but you’re a bit of an everyman, an empty vessel.”

“An empty vessel?”

“It sounds harsh, but it’s good in this respect: it allows audience members of all kinds and all backgrounds to project themselves onto you. This allows them to take the hero’s journey with you. You’re the avatar. You see this phenomenon a lot in storytelling, and that’s why side characters often have the most personality.”

As a heavy consumer of TV and movies, Isaac realized his therapist was right. “So, where do I begin?” Isaac asked. 

“You need to save a cat.”

“...”

“You must save a cat. Are you unfamiliar with the term? Blake Snyder invented it. He wrote a popular ‘how-to’ book on screenwriting. The ‘save the cat’ theory is that every protagonist in any story should do something charming when introduced, like, for example, saving a cat from danger.”

“Why?”

“The audience will witness this moment of goodwill and subconsciously align themselves with that character for the rest of the story, even if the character is of dubious moral fiber.”

“I don’t get it.” 

“Here’s an easy example of ‘saving the cat.’ Remember in book one when Harry Potter freed the snake in the zoo? Yes? Well, the snake was the cat.”

“Oh.”

“You must have internalized this lesson at some point. Your dream had a literal save the cat moment.”

“That’s right!” Isaac’s eyes brightened, remembering how the Margot Robbie character from his dream/script tried to abduct a cat from some sort of mystery facility that Isaac couldn’t place. 

Dr. Rousseau leveled his eyes with Isaac’s. “That will be your assignment for this week, Isaac. You must save a cat.”

Isaac nodded eagerly. “Any other tricks of the trade?”

“Not at this juncture.” Dr. Rousseau tongued one of his gold-plated incisors, thinking. “Well, there is this one thing. But it’s not a screenwriting tip.”

“...”

“As you know, I also participate in a Groundlings improv group, and the most important rule is to always say ‘yes.’”

“Yes?”

“Yes! That’s the first principle of improv, but you should also take it as a prescription for your boring life.” Dr. Rousseau raised his eyebrows in a moment of personal epiphany. Narrative character development as therapy! This could be the next gimmick that sets him apart from his peers, and it was tailor-made for LA. He could already envision the ad on Groupon. 

If he were honest with himself, the Harry Potter act that had launched his career had been wearing thin. While Dr. Rousseau was thankful for the first Millenial presidential administration for fast-tracking the creation of the “Ministry of Magic” department and the subsequent Slytherin Board through Congress, how many more times could he really utter his pet phrase, “Life is like a sorting hat?” 

What had once been an experimental frontier in psychiatry had grown stale. It was time to move on. Harry Potter therapists were now a dime a dozen even as Super Jesus supplanted Harry Potter as the dominant cultural touchstone of its time. (Plus, J.K. Rowling had since turned problematic, stunting demand for Dr. Rousseau’s services.) Now was as good of a time as any to rebrand. 

“Save a cat. And say yes,” Isaac recapped, “sounds easy enough.”

“Simplicity is not a synonym for easy.”  

“Who! Who!” An owl burst through a cuckoo clock, signaling the end of their session.

“You’ve got a trying week ahead of you, Isaac. In addition, I would encourage you to write down any other script pages that come to you, consciously or subconsciously.” Dr. Rousseau waved the script at Isaac. “I’m going to hang onto this if you don’t mind. I’d like to subject it to further ruminations.” 

Isaac shrugged. 

“If you’re going to be a screenwriter, then we better make it official. Take this.” Dr. Rousseau reached into his desk before handing Isaac a black Moleskine notebook to call his own. Isaac grabbed the leather-bound book and nodded, not understanding its significance. While it may have looked like any other notebook to him, anybody in the Industry would now know that Isaac was a member of their secret order of screenwriters.

“Thanks.” Isaac nodded, gathering up his belongings when his therapist stopped him. 

“Hang on, Isaac. You’ll have to excuse my cowardice for waiting until the end of our session to tell you, but we received your test results.”

“...”

“You have my deepest apologies.”

Isaac didn’t blink. He had been expecting this news since he completed his psychological examination weeks ago. “It’s okay. I understand.”  

“You’ve been sorted into house Slytherin,” Dr. Rousseau said gravely, recounting Isaac’s Sorting H.A.T. (Holistic Aptitude Test) results, which were indisputable. 

Despite Isaac’s benign behavior, the test had identified something rotten lurking in his core, even if it was dormant. “Per federal law of the Ministry of Magic and the agreement you signed upon intake, I have notified the proper authorities. I expect that you will accommodate them appropriately?”

Isaac nodded solemnly. 

“Thank you. As you already know, but I’m obligated to repeat this for the record, the Slytherin Board monitors all Slytherin-sorted citizens for anti-social behavior, so you can expect an agent of the Ministry of Magic to arrive sooner rather than later to take on your case evaluation.” 

This was Dr. Rousseau’s genius. He struck gold by capitalizing on two cultural phenomena: 1. The popularity of Buzzfeed-style questionnaires, which provided the template for his Sorting H.A.T. exam, and 2. Millennials, aging into increased political power, were eager to incorporate any aspect of Harry Potter into their real lives that they could, no matter the costs. So, with the government's help, Dr. Rousseau took J.K. Rowlings’ house sorting to its logical conclusion – personality eugenics. 

In the Harry Potter books, all deviants were sorted into House Slytherin, so it made sense for the safety of society to segregate this population away from the other houses. That’s where J.K. Rowling fell short. In Harry Potter, these Slytherin had all the rights and privileges of a “normal” citizen, allowing evil to run amok, but that was an error that Dr. Rousseau and the newly formed U.S. Ministry of Magic wouldn’t repeat. 

There was one problem, however. While all deviants were Slytherin, not all Slytherins were deviants, so some non-deviants would be rounded up as collateral damage, but that’s where the Slytherin Board’s secondary evaluation came in handy. Only at the conclusion of that more intensive investigation, with Board approval, could a Slytherin shed their designation and reintegrate into the general population. If a Slytherin failed this second test, then, well…

“Furthermore,” Dr. Rousseau continued gravely, “the program requires Slytherins to show gainful employment.”

 “A job?” Isaac gasped, having never held one in his life.

“Yes,” Dr. Rousseau confirmed. “I know that the financial component is immaterial to you, but the state uses employment as a proxy to see if you have the constitution to contribute to a well-mannered society. But I think the plan we’ve outlined today will be some good first steps to steer you clear of the fate that befalls most Slytherin….” 

Avoiding Isaac’s gaze, Dr. Rousseau handed a pamphlet to his patient. Isaac looked it over. The title at the top of the tri-fold brochure read: “So you’re a Slytherin,” and the photo on the opposing flap was of L.A.’s dreaded Twin Towers Correctional Psychiatric Hospital. 

The sight of the building unnerved Isaac. He understood the threat immediately. There was something uncanny about the Twin Towers’ architecture. It was polygonal, and its features were flat, making the facility look like a villain’s lair from an N64-era video game. Isaac tried to anticipate and proactively plan his escape from the building but couldn’t. Its windows appeared to be nothing more than an optical illusion.