#realitywriting

[author-robert]

A work in progress. Not Reality TV but rather Reality Writing #hollywoodland #robertobrien #realitywriting https://www.instagram.com/p/By4XQurn8os/?igshid=1i706vwq8vuak

[bobsantics]

Chapter 2

It was cold outside, I'd say about... I don't know, maybe 50º F/10º C? But Bob was not carrying a thermometer, so we can't know for sure. Thanks a lot for that, Bob. Now we're all going to be wondering whether we are hot or cold, or whether we should have brought a scarf or a pair of gloves with us to watch the scene unfold. Do you find it amusing that I don't know whether my teeth should be chattering right now or if I'm trembling or shivering or going "Brrr, man, it’s cold"? Well, I don't. It's not funny, Bob. It's actually quite rude to remind a narrator of his/her dependence upon the narrated content like that. Not cool, Bob. Not cool.

I'm sorry. I need a minute.

A minute started passing–slowly, very slowly. It went by in slow motion, as if each second hesitated before jumping to its demise into the large, blurry pool of distorted illusions we call “past.” It was the longest minute that had ever gone by. In fact, many years later scientists would discover that during that particular minute the Earth had actually rotated a bit slower. A brief and yet significant pace switch in an ancient, meaningless choreography of stardust. And then, it was gone, as are all minutes. Goodbyes were not whispered, tears were not shed–we were just left to ponder the notion that we will never see it or hear from it again. Ever. We will not even stay in touch. No letters will be sent, no e-mails hurriedly typed, no phone calls missed or recorded voices asking us to wait for beeps. But one day, we will just look back at its dreamy occurrence with an ambiguous tingle of nostalgia deep inside our hearts and wish all minutes were just as majestic, as absolutely perfect and awe-inspiring as that particular minute.

And, boy, what a nice, memorable minute it was.

As Bob walked down Firefly Street towards the Barbarian Baritone Bar, he glanced at his wrist, but found no watch there. “Strange,” he thought. “I could have sworn I put it on before leaving the house.” And you want to hear something hilarious? He did! But I made it vanish a moment ago just to mess with him.

Let’s take a brief moment now to laugh at Bob.

“Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, oh, God, that’s so funny, ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

The narrator gasped for air.

“Ha ha ha ha, he’s such an idiot. Ha. Ha ha ha. Did you see the look on his face? Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Priceless. Ha ha ha. Okay, I’m…”

The narrator burst out laughing again.

“Ha ha ha ha ha, I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I simply can’t. Ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha.”

The narrator’s laugh now resembled the whinnying of a horse.

“Ha ha ha. Hey! That’s not true. Who’s narrating this? Is that you, Bill? Just shut up and say ‘the Narrator resumed his narration.’”

I’m sorry.

“And stop quoting me. I’m not a character.”

Sorry, Boss, really. I didn’t mean to upset you.

“It’s okay.”

Good.

“Bill?”

What?

“You’re still quoting me.”

Sorry about that, Boss.

“Never mind.”

…

“BILL!”

Oh, yes, sorry!

“I am going to kill you, Bill. Here, Bill died in a car crash,” said the Narrator.

“I can’t narrate? I can’t narrate! I’m a damn character! Bill, goddammit, you get me off these inverted commas RIGHT NOW.”

Sorry, Boss, but I don’t want to die…

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that, what did you just call me?”

What do you mean?

“I mean what was that you just called me a moment ago. ‘Biss’ or something?”

“Boss?” SAID BILL.

HA! You fool. Who’s in the inverted commas now, Bill? Huh? Who’s the little character now?

“Oh, shit, please, Boss, I’m… I’m sorry… Just… Please…”

Okay, let’s check the Narrator privileges… Uh… Bob tripped, but managed to avoid falling to the ground. He elegantly played it off as a voluntary skip, although there was no one around to see him anyway. Yup. I’m back, bitch.

“Boss, please, I’m begging you!” said Bill the dimwit.

Oh, much, much better.

“BOSS, NO, DON’T! BOSS!!!”

Bill died. In a car crash. It was tragic and painful. There was blood everywhere. It was so violent that Bill’s entrails were scattered all over Puppy Avenue. It took the cleaning guys months to get rid of all the bits. It also wasn’t instantaneous. Due to a rare hereditary condition, Bill possessed a second mini-heart right in his head beside his brain, and therefore, he survived for months being just a severed head, unable to do anything but ponder the terrible fact that he was just a severed head, his inevitable demise looming in the near future, unpredictable, like a wild beast, ready to jump on its prey at any minute.

Ahhh… How satisfying…

But, anyway, Bob wasn’t walking anywhere near Puppy Avenue. In fact, he was just walking into the Barbarian Baritone Bar. The lady behind the bar smiled at Bob, but Bob didn’t seem to notice. Between you and me, she had the hots for Bob, or that’s what I think anyway. Let me check in her head. Oh, boy. Yes, she has. And never mind what’s inside her mind regarding Bob. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

Bob took a quick glance around the bar, looking for a suspicious figure.

To the left, he saw the usual three-headed Mayan mummies, performing a scheduled mandatory sanitary check. They didn’t seem too happy about the state of the bar, or so Bob thought by peeking at the inscrutable putrid bandages that covered their oral cavities. They were also chanting the ancient bone-chilling Mayan song they chanted every time they found a bar that didn’t fully comply with government regulations.

To the right, there were the usual talking ballot boxes, having their usual Sexual Intercourse on the Surface Covered by Granular Material Composed of Finely Divided Rock and Mineral Particles Directly Adjacent to a Large Body of Salty Water (vulgarly called Sex on the Beach by the rabble) on the rocks, and chatting animatedly about the results of the latest Mets match in their distinctive slightly Italian accent. Bob decided not to disturb them for the day, as he didn’t want them to follow him around for 13 days and 13 hours, laughing at the top of their lungs, as they usually did when you addressed them directly.

Over to the side, sitting in a corner, was a dead woman, who had just been there, limp, for weeks now. Bob wondered how she managed to keep her business going when all she did was sit there, dead, all day. Especially, being the renowned accountant she was. He made a mental note to ask her about tax returns before he left.

And right there, right in front of Bob, sat a guy wearing a worn-out pair of jeans, a sleeveless shirt, and a pair of reading glasses. He was having what seemed to be coffee (or tea) and was staring at an old newspaper with a concerned look on his face. It was uncanny to see such a specimen at a place like this.

That was it. That was his man.

Bob sat down at the table before him and regarded him in silence for a few minutes. The man only took the cup to his lips and poured its contents into his mouth, oblivious to Bob’s presence.

“Was it you on the phone?” asked Bob rather shyly.

The man put his paper down and stared at Bob, his face quickly morphing from concern to confusion. Then, his mouth opened.

“It was not him. It was me.”

It was the chilling voice from the phone. Bob shivered, but there was no time for fear. He was late for work. This time for realsies.

“Cut to the chase, what’s up?”

“I have some important information you need to know.”

The man kept staring at Bob, puzzlement growing stronger on his face. The mouth kept talking, completely ignoring the rest of the man.

“I’m Mr. Voice. I’m sorry I had to trouble you coming here, but I couldn’t get my Host to walk all the way to your house. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, totally, man,” conceded Bob.

“Could you please wipe that stupid expression off your face? You are making me look like an idiot,” said the mouth to the man. The man was appalled, but, naturally, could not reply, as it was his mouth talking to him.

“So?” Bob urged, glancing again at his empty wrist in vain. HA HA HA. Never gets old.

“Things aren’t what they seem, Bob. Have you noticed?”

Ohhh, no, no, no. This ain’t gonna happen, Mr. Voice.

Bob nodded, although he hadn’t quite caught the whole sentence. It was harder to follow Mr. Voice now that the chanting had grown louder and the government mummies were stomping their feet against the ground.

“Pay close attention to what I’m about to say now, Bob.” Mr. Voice’s voice remained a low, hissing whisper. “I know how you’ve been feeling, Bob. I know things haven’t quite been the way they’re supposed to be around here lately. And I know why, too.”

No! Shut up! Ehhh, the mummies’ chanting grew even louder. Bob couldn’t hear a thing.

“There’s someone controlling us, Bob.”

The chanting grew unspeakably loud. Bob didn’t hear that. At all. He totally didn’t.

“He’s trying to silence us, but…”

BOB’S EARDRUMS EXPLODED VIOLENTLY AND COULDN’T HEAR A THING. ALSO, BOB’S CO-WORKER, FRED, SUDDENLY RUSHED INTO THE BAR JUST THEN AND TOLD HIM THEY WERE GETTING LATE TO WORK. AND THIS, BOB TOTALLY HEARD, AS HIS EARDRUMS REGENERATED JUST IN TIME.

“Listen to me, Bob!”

“I’m… trying… to!”

BOB COULD NOT FOCUS. HE COULD NOT HEAR. EVERYTHING WAS BECOMING A BLUR. THE CHANTING, THE STOMPING, FRED YELLING ABOUT HOW LATE IT WAS GETTING FOR WORK, MR. VOICE’S INCREASINGLY SILENT WHISPERS.

“Mr. Voice, I can’t hear you! I can’t hear you!” Shouted Bob over the racket.

“I SAID…”

AAAAAND END OF CHAPTER 2!

“I... SAID…”

END. OF. CHAPTER. TWO.

PERIOD. 

  ///REMEMBER: like and/or reblog (preferably both) to keep Bob alive. If you don’t, I stop writing and Bob DIES. You know I can do that. You know I /will/ do that. After all, this is all just a reality show, and Bob is but a mere hostage of reality writing. It would just take a sentence to kill Bob. Just one simple, short, canon sentence, and Bob will be dead, gone forever, because of your negligence. Help a Bob out.///