Order and Chaos

help mary duh

"I know who Chwoka is," I began, "they're... uh..."

What even is a Chwoka, back Mary up

"I have no clue, actually," I said. "I've never met them. Actually..."

I've never even heard of a Chwoka. Must be some fancy title.

"What even are you? A chwoka?"

"It's pronounced," Chwoka insisted, "Chwoka."

"And what's that?"

chwokaos
Order: Fågel

"I'm the writer," he said. "You see, the author is dead!"

"The writer of what? I've read a lot of books, I'm Commun Marx, I've never read you."

"The writer, of you!" he said. "Of all of this!"

"No, you're Nothing."

"Damn, cutting put-downs from my own fictional character. How low have I come," said Chwoka. "But I have the perfect rebuttal!"

get punched in the teeth; lose crown

He swung his meaty fist and clocked me square in the jaw. My one remaining tooth went flying.

"That's for never having any funny lines!" he said.

"How would that be my fault if you wrote me?!" I cried, through the blood coming out of my mouth trickling down onto the cobblestone floor.

"I'm going to wipe this slate clean," Chwoka said. "Undo this whole universe and story, for real this time, like was my master plan all along. It's called death of the author, it's survival of the fittest, I must cut down my own creations."

"Good luck," said Mary. "I'm in control of universal stability and I can't die!"

I, Chwoka, reached out and broke her fucking neck over my knee, killing her instantly. Also Commun's eyes fell out of his skull and then Milton slipped on them, falling out the window and splitting his head open on a rock even though it should have been a safe water landing. A pity, Milton was my favorite character. But every single character died, the universe unraveled, and nothing was left behind, in a flurry of tedious winking 4th wall breaking and banal functional prose with no cleverness to lighten the load.

---

My name is Geg "Cornelius" Pegagus, but you can call me Cornelius for short. Every day, I wake up at 9 PM, put on my fancy hat, drink four beers out of a big spoon, and then go to my job, which means opening an app on my phone that's like Uber exactly but it's called Rydrr. That's also the name of a dragon.

I look around as I do donuts in the abandoned parking lot I live in, which is my breakfast. There are even less stars tonight. A sob cries from my phone — a customer. There's a not a minute to spare as I wind down the scenic route.

The rain slicks down the roads of glass as I smash through them. I can't see a thing because I've turned off my headlights, but I can smell the smoke all around. Finally, the customer clicks open the rear passenger door and climbs in.

Ironically enough, it's a yellow taxi cab. "Follow that cab," he orders. I throw the car into reverse and floor it, maintaining steady eye contact with my companion.

"So what's your story, Mac?" I say, as if I know their name. "Falling on hard times?"

He sighed. "I'm not following my parents into their profession. That's what you're there for," he said. "I'm a professor of philosophy. My name is Plok II. These bones are too tired to roll."

"Oh really?" I feigned interest. "What do you study?"

"Nothing," he said. I chortled. Those useless academics. "It's an epistemological concern. The question is simple, but vast: Is nothing a thing?"

Well, what do I think?