Completely Anonymous in the Unnatural Realm
“Well, after recovering the Eggshell of Invulnerability and dealing with “The One Theme”, what should we do next?” Robert, the unusually attractive saurus warrior asked his companions.
Moe, his almost identical, but not quite as attractive, spawn-twin replied, “What we have always been doing – prosecuting the Great Plan, silly.”
“Prosecuting the Great Plan?” snorted W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm, the Skink Priest and Mage of Heavens. “So far we have been letting it off with just a caution.” He was not unattractive for a skink, but clearly not in the same league as Robert, even though he was wearing the very smart looking Eggshell of Invulnerability on his crested head. “The Great Plan is quite simple. We are meant to be gathering the diverse races into their rightful homelands and restoring order to the chaotic domains of magic. It’s not rocket science.”
“Well it wasn’t rocket science. Not until the bit when all the Temple Cities buggered off into space and left us here,” observed the fourth member of the party. He was Hen’ry Mc’Coy, a kroxigor. He had the kind of looks that make milk curdle while it is still in the cow, but in the egalitarian and accepting lizardman society, he was respected and treated as valued member of the community. “Where is here anyhow? A little while ago we were in the Fungus Forest of Athel Sporange, a place with a detailed history and robust fluff background. What is this unnatural realm we now find ourselves in?”
“Oh, Hen’ry Mc’Coy,” laughed Moe respectfully. “You stupid, fat, ugly kroxigor. This is obviously a “
lavishly designed and constructed” “
wildly fantastical landscape” and the dawn of a bright new era.”
The Kroxigor looked around the sparsely define terrain and wandered over to a substantial looking boulder, which he poked with one finger. It was made of flimsy cardboard. It promptly fell over. Then it crumbled to dust. Then it caught fire. “ ‘
Lavishly designed and constructed’?”
“Well, that’s what I was hoping for,” replied Moe sheepishly.
W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm had also looked around. Now he was looking up. The sky was changed, and there were a number of disconnected realities floating around in a way which pretty largely defied physics, and probably metaphysics as well. “I would say it is more like an aimlessly drifting domain of illogic which will soon spiral into the void of oblivion.”
“That’s just ignorant scaremongering,” Moe snapped. “What makes you think you are an expert on astrophysics and predicting the future?”
The skink priest silently handed over his membership card for the Hexoatl Amateur Astronomy and Divination Club.
“Well, I don’t think we should be hasty in judging this place anyway,” said Moe. “Why don’t we go over to that dark citadel that we hadn’t previously noticed and ask what is going on. Someone over there is bound to tell us what they want us to hear.”
“I wonder whose dark citadel it is,” mused Robert attractively.
“Obviously it is not Chekhov’s dark citadel,” noted W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm. “It looks like the kind of dark citadel that would house a malevolent lord, like that famous tower, Ba’ad Ide’uh from Middle Earth. That one had a big eye’s hole at the top.”
The citadel was nestled against the crumbling edge of the flimsy domain where it soared to an arrogant height. At its top where two prongs which looked like a pair of fingers. They were raised to the world like… well, not like a victory salute, anyway.
“I would say that this dark citadel is a poorly designed and constructed edifice which is teetering on the edge of collapse.” Hen’ry Mc’Coy found he could not comfortably look at it without holding his head at an angle. “The parts of the structure dedicated to marketing and product design are top heavy and are not held up by the columns of consumer feedback and customer support. It is unbalanced. And look at that, large parts of the support base are breaking off and drifting away.”
“Teetering on the edge of collapse? What makes you think you are an expert on structural engineering and basic business theory?”
The kroxigor silently handed Moe his framed Masters Degree in Architecture, Temple City Construction and Corporate Management from the University of Xlanhuapec.
“Well, we should still check it out anyway.”
The lizardmen approached the gate, which yawned open invitingly.
“I’ll ask what is going on first. Hello!” Robert called. “What is this unnatural realm in which we are wandering so listlessly, and is there an eye’s hole at the top of this dark citadel?”
Against all probability and prior history, the questions he shouted at the citadel received prompt replies.
“Welcome, friends,” a disembodied voice replied. “You are wandering in the Realm of Farce, a “
lavishly designed and constructed” “
wildly fantastical landscape” which replaces the world-that-was-really-not-that-bad. This dark citadel has no eye’s hole at the top. We have a board of directors to fulfil all of the duties normally associated with an eye’s hole. Why don’t you enter the hobby, I mean lobby, to find out more. There is a free set of rules waiting for you if you enter the site.”
“Wait,” said W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm. “A free set of rules as bait to enter a hobby, I mean lobby? This could turn out to be a costly mistake.”
“Oh come on, what’s the worst thing that could happen?” Moe led the way through the menacing portal.
As promised, there were free rules. They were prominently displayed on a gold plinth, and an unseen orchestra played stirring marshal music in the background.
Moe picked up the rules and leafed through them. “Four pages. They are commendably succinct, I suppose.” He passed them on to W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm.
Robert had read the rules over Moe's shoulder. “I would say that these rules are a hotch potch of half-baked ideas and insider jokes which have been promoted as an evolution and enhancement of the status quo, but have actually turned out to be ill-conceived, poorly executed and a jarring contradiction to established conventions.”
“Ill conceived? What makes you think you are an expert on elaborate and over-long set-ups used to justify badly thought out and ultimately dissatisfying payoffs set in a written framework which is not consistent with community expectations?”
Robert silently handed Moe a list of his published works.
“Oh. Right you are. Carry on, then.”
W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm handed the rules on to Hen’ry Mc’Coy and addressed the mysterious voice. “If you are going to change something, you should make it better. Otherwise, what is the point?”
“What?” the voice replied.
“What is the point of the exercise.”
“The
what of the exercise?”
“The point. The purpose, the intention.”
“Oh, now we see. Don’t use funny words we don’t understand next time.”
“Funny words? You mean like
point?”
Hen’ry Mc’Coy had found he could not comfortably look at the rules without holding his head at an angle. ”What about balance?”
“What?”
“The balance of the game system. That is really important too.”
“
Balance?”
“Yes.”
“That word you use, I do not think it means what you think it means.”
“This is stupid,” said W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm. “We should leave the lobby.”
The massive citadel gate suddenly clanged shut. “You cannot leave the lobby,” the voice scoffed. “Where would you go?”
The skink priest put his hands on his hips. “Who are you that would try to stop us?”
The inner wall of the lobby melted away like smoke. The illusory supporting wall of the citadel had been concealing a large group of evil, typewriter-wielding Games Workshop monkeys.
Robert slapped the palm of his hand against his forehead. “How could we have conveniently shown such
genre-blindness? All this time, the dark citadel with its free rules and crumbling support base was some sort of metaphor! A twist so unexpected that even the sudden appearance of the Games Workshop monkeys, our recurring enemies, pales to insignificance in terms of shock value. I should be taking notes…”
W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm was uncowed and unimpressed. “You monkeys have ruined everything. How have you committed this crime?”
The leader of the monkey’s laughed. “Do you not see? Games Workshop magic typewriters do not create words, they create reality.”
“Rubbish!”
“OK, they produce rubbish, but you are still stuck with it, kiddo.”
“We are still leaving the lobby.”
“You cannot. You have invested too much. There is no way out.”
“Really?” Hen’ry Mc’Coy poked his finger against the closed gate of the citadel. It fell over and crumbled to dust. Then it caught fire.
“Hey!” protested the monkey, “that was ‘
lavishly designed and constructed’!”
The rest of the building began to wobble as the heroic lizardmen bravely fled outside in a blind panic. When they got a safe distance away, they turned around to watch the citadel’s complete collapse into a pile of smoking rubble. The kroxigor found he could finally comfortably look at it without holding his head at an angle. “I told them balance was important.”
Robert shook his head. “With the world-that-was-really-not-that-bad destroyed, and the citadel gone, where will the future take us?”
“We should make our own future. A brighter, more pointy and well balanced future,” stated Moe.
“But how?” asked Robert.
“With these four magic typewriters that I have just found, which we hadn’t previously noticed,” replied Moe.
“I wonder whose four magic typewriters they are,” mused Robert attractively.
“Obviously they are not Chekhov’s four magic typewriters,” noted W’yss’ans W’il’dfo’rm, “and who is to say that we will do a better job of creating rules that evil Games Workshop monkeys.”
Moe’s eyes lit up with righteous fervour. “We can do better than evil Games Workshop monkeys if we work together as one. We will get suggestions from the community, reach an agreement about what form the future world should take, and then with our -“
“Reach a consensus,” interrupted Robert.
“What?”
“You said ‘reach an agreement,’ but we should reach a consensus instead.”
“An agreement is fine.”
“No, it isn’t. Consensus.”
“Agreement.”
“Consensus!”
“Agreement!”
“Consensus!”
“Agreement!”
To be continued.
For a long, long time.
