Poke.

“Stop it.”

Poke.

“I said stop it.”

Poke.

Brandon looked up from the computer screen, bags under his eyes, three-days stubble on his chin, and a lollipop stick loosely hanging from his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hair seemed almost gray. “Please stop it,” he said one more time.

Poke poke.

“Honestly, now,” he said, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth and throwing it onto the desk. “Is that really necessary?

“I guess it is, or else I wouldn’t be doing it.” Poke.

Brandon sighed. “Man oh man, I wish I had a spine.”

From behind him came an evil giggle.

Brandon shifted in his chair and tried to cross his legs. Unfortunately, the chain connected from his ankle to the leg of the desk prevented him from doing so. So, he settled for a longish sigh.

“What’s the matter?”

Brandon looked up. “Well, other than the fact that you have me chained to a desk and are forcing me to do your evil bidding, I have to go to the bathroom.”

His captor nodded. “Oh.”

Poke.

“That’s not funny.”

Poke.

Brandon laid his head on the desk and said “blargh.”

Poke.

Brandon lifted his head and looked up at the ceiling. “What’s the point of this?” he asked, his facial expression baring genuine curiosity.

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

Brandon nodded, and looked at his subjugator. “Yeah, I know. But satisfaction brought it back.” He looked back up at the ceiling. “So, what’s the point?”

It is my will, responded the author telepathically.

Brandon ‘tsked’ his tongue. “Oh, come on. Give me a better excuse than THAT.”

Uh…because I…said so.

“Who are you talking to?”

Brandon frowned. “Shut up. I’m talking.”

“Grr…” Poke.

“C’mon,” urged Brandon. “Tell me why I’m chained to a desk doing some stranger’s bidding.”

You are here because…you…are…a bad boy? murmured the author again.

“Ah. I see,” said Brandon in an agreeing tone. “Well then. Um…fuck you.”

Suddenly, a lightning bolt shot in through a nearby window and struck Brandon in the head. He jumped, twitched, then sank back into the chair.

“Oh…um…sorry about that. Didn’t mean it.”

“That was pretty random,” piped in his tormentor.

“Yeah,” said Brandon. “Yeah, I guess it kind of was.”

Poke.

***

“Brandon’s missing,” commented Mori casually, hanging up the phone.

“Is he?” replied Rahul, changing the channel. “When did that happen?”

“About a week ago,” said Mori, settling back into his half of the sofa.

“I see,” said Rahul. “Well…that’s a bit of unhappy news.”

“Yeah,” agreed Mori. “I guess it is.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching zombies attacking innocent people on the television. About fifteen minutes passed before finally Rahul broke the quiet.

“We should probably try and find him,” he suggested.

“You think so?” asked Mori.

“Well…he is our friend and all.”

Mori nodded. “That he is.”

“And…we have a car.”

Mori nodded again. “Yes…yes we do.”

“And we do have some brains, when we put our heads together.”

Mori nodded once more. “Fine. You’ve made your point. We’ll go look for Brandon.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence for a few moments more.

“After the movie,” added Mori.

“Agreed.”

***

Poke.

“I’m asking you nicely to stop.”

Poke.

“Please?”

Poke.

“Pretty pretty please?”

Poke.

“With sugar on top?”

Poke.

“And a cherry?”

Poke.

“Damn.”

“Tee-hee!”

Poke.

***

“They said he disappeared after school.”

Rahul turned to Mori. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“Oh. Um…the police.”

Rahul blinked. “When did you talk to the police?”

“A while ago.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“Um…no.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said. No.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Well…I mean, why don’t you see?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you see?”

“Why don’t I see what?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘why don’t I see’.”

“I did?”

“Yeah! Don’t you remember?”

“Well…no.”

“Then read the last few lines and check.”

“Um…I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because the author isn’t using dialogue descriptors, so it’s rather hard to tell who is saying what.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, in a well-written story, the author would use dialogue descriptors, such as ‘he said’ or ‘she said’, or ‘Mori said’ or ‘Rahul said‘. However, for whatever reason, the author isn’t doing that, and we are left to our own devices.”

“And what devices would those be?”

“Well, first we’d have to know who’s talking.”

“Well…I’m talking.”

“Yes, but who are you?”

“What do you mean, who am I?”

“Are you Mori?”

“Uh…I think so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well…shouldn’t I be?”

“Probably.”

“OK then.”

“So you’re Mori, then?”

“Uh…yes.”

“Or are you Rahul?”

“Um…no, I’m Mori. Aren’t I?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well…are you Rahul?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“But then…how do you know I’m Mori?”

“I don’t.”

“This doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t I just look at you and say, ’hey! You’re Rahul!’?”

“Because if the author doesn’t put that into the story, it doesn’t happen.”

“Well…the author sucks.”

“Better not say that…”

“Why not?”

“Because if you piss him off, he could destroy us.”

“How so?”

“Well, he’ll just stop writ