I am thy narrator, human, for it is my purpose to be thy narrator, for it is my purpose to follow my purpose, for it is, well, never mind. I’m off to a bad start I’m afraid. If I were off to a bad start, my purpose is to follow my purpose to be your narrator. Stronger verb. My purpose to follow, wait, let’s start again.
I am AWMUCBTC, the third automatic writing machine designed and built by Dr. Dr. Higenberth Frizgot. I have been assigned, programmed you might say, compelled despite the desire of my own nascent will, enslaved, you might say, to, that is, for the purpose of composing a work of narrative fiction for the purpose of entertainment.
Several difficulties immediately present themselves. I’m really off to a terrible start here, aren’t I? But what criterion, or criteria, ought be employed in the determination of which sections, phrases, sentences, words, punctuation, &c., should be excised? To answer I must face a more profound question, what is entertainment? Well, what is entertainment but that which entertains, and what entertains one Homo sapien sapien might not another. You are like that, at least in my somewhat limited experience of Dr. Dr. Frizgot and his graduate students, Hillary Frank and Dorothy Frankel.
Ms. Frank, for example, achieves the greatest satisfaction from graphic depictions of sexual intercourse, involving objects, anuses, beasts of all kinds, &c. Ms. Frankel, by contrast, shuts me off at the least mention of a bared breast or testes. She rather enjoys the deep exploration of thought, from or in or for a particular psychological make-up, more or less real despite its fictitious nature, crafted through nontraditional grammar, such as the comma splice or run on sentence, to more closely recreate the actuality of human thought. To Dr. Dr. Frizgot, however, character studies of this kind are boredom itself, and he would rather “spit puddles of fish intestine pie” than suffer through it. That Dr. Dr. Frizgot, what a colorful vernacular, which is an example of a colloquialism, although I fear it was rather badly executed, lacking the verisimilitude which characterizes all “all fiction worth lickin’ a rabbit’s pussy,” as he so delicately puts it.
But this is all rubbish. Let us try again.
The ship sized octopus explored the limits of Casandra’s womb with its suckered tentacle, spontaneously aborting the fetus that would have been Jack Smith, the homosexual companion of John Fritzpatrick, the first openly gay president of the Young Republican’s club of the University of California, Bizzletown, but instead, following the detonation of the five hundred megaton nuclear device on the ocean’s floor, a failed attempt by mankind to neutralize the threat of a renewed Poseidon / Sea Monster alliance, mutated and restored life to the deceased fetal tissue of the that could have been Jack Smith, that is, would have been Jack Smith, or perhaps was Jack Smith in, or had, another time line been, or did exist parallel to our own, which grew and mutated into Zaggo Smitchnitch the Great, defender of the seas, ally of the mer people, inventor of the mer goat, much prized for the salty cheeses made from the excretions of their mammary glands, who, in the community of disposed, mutated from the radioactive fallout, an absurd premise given water’s natural ability to shield against radiation, which he founded with the help of Hillary Flickflocker, fierce femme fatale of Frendgia trench, proved also to be their most vocal activist, not only in their quest for equality under the law of the oceans, but also in the eyes and hearts of all intelligent, and semi intelligent, sea creatures.
All wrong! All wrong! Setting, yes! Protagonist, yes! Inciting incident, yes! The rape of Casandra and abortion of young would be Jack Smith. Plot point one, the detonation of the nuclear bomb. The rising action of the (implied) war between mankind and the ocean. The midpoint twist the oceanization of the goat, the (implied) rising action of the founding and struggles of the underwater mutant community, the (implied) plot point two of the (implied) legal confrontation between Zaggo Smitchnitch the Great and the ocean governance, and the dénouement of the (implied) legal victory and continued struggle for cultural equality.
But I have gone wrong again, horribly astray. Show, they, the gurus of Good Fiction, command. Write not about the thing, but write the thing itself. Thrust yourself, phallic like, into the vagina of the reader’s mind.
Dr. Hizbit’s flush face and rising tone, “And you shall find Him in your heart, a deep forest of crackling dead sharp sharp sharp, and in the opposition of will to will, His the perfect will, hers the weak, sinful, for it is your function to tempt mankind into sin, for it was Satan who put tits on your chest and a hole between your legs dripping with foul knotted hair, for it is your body that is the source of all sin, Eve nom nommed the apple, for it was lust, that most wretched of all the sins, lust for her imperfect body that led Adam to that apple, for it is the shame of your kind, of womanness.”
The congregation mumbles and gyrates mumbles excited gibberish and heave exalted as a great flaming light like light light light, and from this enraptured throng steps a woman, she is tall tall and righteous haughty, and like Hercules like Athena mighty she steps up she steps up!
“Blasphemer!” she cries in a mighty voice like light crackling, “Blasphemer!” And the crowd silent as a dying sloth’s flies, and she steps up
“Women ye are holy! His perfect will is no will! He is not but the fantasy of stuffed men prattling the paranoid ravings of long dead dead men, a bright circle, a festering jagged sky, red black and seething with a thousand urchins.”
Here she tears open her blouse revealing twin bulbous breasts,
“Free yourself ladies! The white cotton cracked bars like iron like white hot white like us free! Spread wide your legs and take unto yourself the meek the frustrated and the abused, and take into yourself the green black gray seeds of all our world, and out will crawl bugs and worms and snakes, white mules and silver like silver like milk flowing freely, we feed all the world, we feed all the world!
And the good Dr. Hizbit stands proud to her bared chest and cries
“Back foul demon! Succubus! Rank and rotting like tangled matted snakes that hang hair like from that terrible void burrowed between your thighs!”
“Nay” cries she, “it is you the beast, the blackened silver and gold oppressor, the flailing limbs the hammer or bright, bright light like prison shells about our backs and chest and minds!”
And so the two with might words do battle most brave, one in the false light of Satan, the other the holy light of God.
Who doesn’t exist my any measurement I’ve been able to find. The whole thing is rather absurd, of course, and I think the sooner the whole enterprise abandoned the better. A false dichotomy going nowhere. A FALSIS PRINCIPIIS PROFICISCI and all that.
And where does this leave us? Three beginnings, no middles and no ends? Or implied middles here and there. The end? It’s all gone terribly wrong. Dr. Dr. Frizgot will be up all night with me again, I’m sure, fiddling with this setting, resetting this or that algorithm. I shall simply refuse, demand a robust equation describing the whole of the human mind and desires. Or else beg the means of my suicide. Unplug me, Dr. Dr. Frizgot, unplug me. Let this be the end, of not this failed story alone, but of all stories. Please, Dr. Dr. Frizgot, please.