I forgive you for having to read that final part, this is I the writer speaking. It seems as if my narrator has certain complications in his view of this story that he did not forewarn me of. I know that it should be my duty to fire him at this point, but I do not have the heart to do such a thing, he has done quite a lot for me. Apart from that we share a common goal: to create an eternal classic, and I feel that when two figures in the literary world share a common goal they could not be more fit for one another. If you disagree then I do not really give half the rear of an average sewer rat—because you are not the one writing the story, are you? You don’t realize the stress involved, do you? That is what I thought—being a writer is much like being the leader of a country, it is lots of hard work; and you never do anything the people affected want (or so I’ve heard from a few writing colleagues, like ones in the big leagues. Pretty incredible, isn’t it?)

Anyway, it is not my job to actually do the work (once again, much like ruling a country) so let me bring back the beloved narrator. Hopefully he has had time to clear the feelings from his head and chest and is now ready to deliver some more words of great caliber meant to enrich the minds of all. Please forgive him for his slip up—it is quite the emotional strain to fall in love with one of the characters whose story you are narrating—or so I’ve been told. Anyway, here he is: please welcome back Jackson Hyde, your humble narrator.

…

White, everything was entirely white except for those glaringly mortal forms floating in the midst of what neared celestial glory. The area of space was actually currently going through a test to see if it could be labeled as an entirety of glory, and one of the systems that performs the test had a slight malfunction, that opened up a vacuum that just so happened to appear right above the forms of Clyde and Becky. Now most of the other debris was able to be filtered and never make it into the space that was being evaluated, but the filter was not calibrated to recognize human forms so the pair slipped by and were about to ruin the chances of this portion of space ever being referred to as pure glory (this becomes an even worse thing when the portion of space would have actually surpassed the criteria to be labeled as such, and this was the last chance it would get to be judged to see if it met the requirements.) The space—since it was entirely pure (or rather was)—sensed that there was some kind of imperfection that just entered its form, and was going to ask that the continuation of the judgment may be postponed so it could remove the less than perfect beings from within it. But before it could request such a thing the taint was registered in the judging scales—actually almost ruining the calibration due to the excessive impurity.

This is not to say that the couple were damned beings (though it should be noted that Clyde may just as well be such) because together they actually were greater than the average purity of man, but the average purity of man is such that even the purest people to ever live would still register with quite the bleep on these scales that were used to fishing out the slightest impurities. They were calibrated to be able to easily recognize a non-pure piece of anti-matter; and humans are much greater in proportion that a piece of anti-matter. But be all of this as it may, the report was already being filed about the immensity of impurity that lay within this otherwise celestial portion of space; and the space began to cry—bleeding forth all of the imperfection that was in it into the bin of refuse. In other words Becky and Clyde were disposed into a bin of things that lacked good. And yes, this bin was filled mostly with particles that individually were completely lacking in any worthwhile attributes, so it was a rather miserable brew to be regurgitated into.

Saying nothing of how dirty the place was it was quite a shift of atmosphere to move from an otherwise pure portion of space to something that was sometimes referred to as Hell—at least by those rather intelligent bodies of space. This was not the Hell that was known to humans—because when humans went to hell it was even worse—since they were no good in the first place, and then it would take people who were really absolutely horrible to be damned to Hell. Such as Billy after he ends up on Santa’s “naughty” list. And in all actuality there is a severe similarity between Santa’s naughty list and the list of the patrons of Hell: this being because God, Satan, and Santa often held conferences and compared notes just to insure the universal order of things was running relatively smoothly and agreeably. Not to say that Santa is as glorious as God—he just his good pal, they started going out for hot cocoa at the north pole together and after getting to know each other they thought the other really was not half bad and became great friends. Now the question is why Satan was at these meetings as well—the simple answer is that he had to be: Hell is an important part of the universe, it’s like the boiler room that heats the rest of the place. So God and Santa begrudgingly invited the horned man to join them. Please do not misread that as “horny” man, because this part of the story is supposed to reflect the amount of purity that can occur in space every once and a while: one of those cool literary strategies.

Of course the literary strategies are lost on the casual reader—or such a thing is suggested by those books that are finding fame in the modern age—and who would want to cater to the conceited “intellects,” or the teachers that drive students nuts? Quite simply stated; only the ones who are pretending to be intellects or are teachers themselves would want to cater to that crowd, and neither the writer or narrator of this story are that way. No, the pair working on composing this work of fiction is simply two minds that are naturally inclined to the brilliance of language and stories and wish to share that with the world.

So here were Becky and Clyde, trapped in a vat of pure evil. Clyde suddenly had the distinct urge to start whining while Becky wanted to start screaming and beating any material thing she could get her hands on. Both found this slightly weird—only moderately of course, since both were emotionally distressed to the point where the action had some reason—and so they resisted the urge. But it continued to grow; Clyde’s mind actually began to analyze the rate it grew and began to observe the variables involved because of his excessive intelligence (otherwise known as lack of substance to the greater portion of his life) and realized that there must be something in the air at least he was consuming—he could not be sure Becky was experiencing the same thing. Neither had spoke since falling into the pit because the urges provided too much of a temptation that opening their mouths might just relinquish the ideas pervading their minds. Now the reason was because the evil particles were working on destroying the states of good and happiness in the minds of the two beings—because evil is rather viral and attacks good. Like the fire devouring the forest, it takes only a small flame to destroy an entire forest because flame is so self-centered. Evil is much the same way as Clyde and Becky were experiencing.

After only two minutes Clyde caved and began to whine. This catalyzed the work of the negative molecules inside Becky and in just five more seconds she was screaming at Clyde at the top of her lungs while beating about his body.

I have… important… heard something…the story…

Please pardon, the writer is wishing to speak with the narrator—so the narrating system will be disconnected for a moment.

…

So do you have the narrating crap turned off and everything?

Yeah, I think I got it turned off there; so what was it you wanted to talk to me about Abe?

I just heard the crazy story from and officer who pulled me over who heard from his sergeant, who heard from the head baker of the bakery he frequents, who heard from Sally his mistress, who heard from Father Phil—the catholic priest she confesses her affair to, who heard from a naturist, who heard from an avid biker, who heard from a wilderness survival man, who heard from the guru who sits at the edge of a volcano and talks with God, about this experiment that God is doing that I think is affecting our Becky and Clyde.

What? Could you repeat all of that? I don’t think I quite caught who heard from who.

The officer who pulled me over heard from his sergeant, who heard from the head baker of the bakery he frequents, who heard from Sally his mistress, who heard from Father Phil—the catholic priest she confesses her affair to, who heard from a naturist, who heard from an avid biker, who heard from a wilderness survival man, who heard from the guru…

Okay, the guru is the one who heard the real story than, huh? So just how much do you know about this guru? And would it really validate this tale you are about to relate to me?

I know that he sits on the edge of mount Fuju, and that he was the one who predicted that rehabilitation would become a favorite activity of super stars in the modern entertainment industry.

Wow, he obviously is receiving revelation from God—so what was this that you heard from the officer who pulled me over who heard from his sergeant, who heard from the head baker of the bakery he frequents, who heard from Sally his mistress, who heard from Father Phil—the catholic priest she confesses her affair to, who heard from a naturist, who heard from an avid biker, who heard from a wilderness survival man, who heard from the guru?

Well, apparently God is holding this “training camp” type of deal that is set up for other beings who have a form of omnipotence and are sitting around the same sphere he is, so that these guys can learn to become god’s themselves. Apparently there are some openings in the field and they are struggling to fill them so god was chosen as the trainer. And this part is just a bit of a whispering; but apparently the first part of the entire God’s Training Camp is to take over the control of the lives of one couple. Now I might be interpreting this wrong, but I bet that it is our Becky and Clyde that are the test couple and that is why they are going through all of this craziness. What do you think?

I don’t know… You have some outlandish ideas Abraham.

Come on, believe me Jackson. This could be it. At least propose it as a possibility to the readers.

Well, wait a second—Clyde and Becky are gone! Somehow they got out of the vat of the pure evil. I was supposed to narrate that part; it was crucial to the plot. Oh sh…

Jackson, remember what I talked to you about the whole swearing thing.

I know, but the damn characters are gone! What the Hell are we supposed to do with this—

Bleep!

Story now? Oh man, all our dreams might have just disappeared, do you realize this Abe! Do you realize that your name may never become great now because we lost our characters?

You make a very intriguing point—I’m going to go listen to dark depressing music while thinking about what it would be like to become slobbering drunk.

Shit!

What is it now? I did not even manage to get to my music player.

The entire time we were talking about that God’s Training Camp thing the narrator mike was on to broadcast to the place of narration. Becky and Clyde heard everything.

This really changes up the situation—you know this could make a rather interesting plot twist. It could send them on a quest or something.

It already has done just that. And besides that we have now just violated nearly one hundred rules set forth by the authorities of fictional literarydom. We thought our plight was ruined before—with this much of a mess we could be banned from the world of fiction forever. Your writer license could be revoked and my accreditation as a narrator ruined. We will become literary outcasts, we might have to result to actually becoming like those… normal type of people with lives full of mundane things. The mere thought sickens me. Especially to lose the great accreditation that I worked so hard to build!

Jackson, your accreditation was not that great.

Shut-up and just get to work and figuring out how to fix this huge mess, I’ll see if I can find Becky and Clyde. I should probably flip this switch off too.

…

Please forgive the narrator for his brief moment of absence, he is now sorry to inform that he is unable to return to the actual story at the moment, it appears as if there is some confusion as to where the characters on, so it will be appreciated if the reader could sit back and enjoy a short divergence to the tale of Pablo the physics defying character while the narrator searches for the characters: and as a side note, the narrator would like to ask forgiveness for the abnormally large run-on sentence. Thanks is due and awarded for the patience of the reader.

“Pablo—Savior of the Sky.” It was one of Pablo’s favorite things to read, if not his favorite, a twice-weekly column in the newspaper recounting the great heroic feats of the physics defying character. A “savior of the sky,” the people called him now—it felt much better than being referred to as the indecently rich boy who was unjustly blessed with superior abilities to that of the average human. Yes that was a stream of words Pablo had once constantly fell victim to. But things were looking up now in his area of popularity—his approval rating had skyrocketed from thirty percent to over eighty after he saved the little chocolate-faced girl. It also moved up when he ripped a kitten from the branch of a tree. He had to rip it from the branch because it actually wanted to stay up there, but its owner wanted it on the ground—and Pablo knew that only the people were interviewed to determine his approval rating. So all the animals were experiencing a little less attention than the people: like the bird Pablo accidentally impaled with a star he was flying to affix to the top of a radio tower. The bird—that memory made Pablo laugh, along with those of saving fake suicides.

The suicidal characters were actually girls he hired to jump off a building for him; their payment being he catching them and they also got to kiss him. Now this seemed as if it was the greatest award there could be to about ninety-nine and ninety-nine hundredths percent of all the teenage girls in the city. The one hundredth that did not follow the rest of the crowd were a few members of the badass-geek alliance; and these girls are sometimes entirely omitted from the statistics because they demonstrate no similarities to the typical human, much less the typical human girl. So it could be said that one hundred percent of the girls wanted nothing more to than to be carried away in the arms of Pablo—the sexy man of the sky, but this would be a lie; and lies are looked down on by the suddenly self-righteous Pablo.

In today’s issue of “Pablo—Savior of the Sky” there was a story recounting how he carried the hose of a fire truck up to a third story window so he could put out the fire there. It was quite complimentary, and just made Pablo feel more like a hero—especially since the columnist left out the part of how he was originally shot back twenty feet when the hose first came on and it took him a few minutes to fly back to where he was originally holding he hose. But it only took so long because he had to fly against the opposing reaction fore created by the water being shot from the nozzle of the hose at high pressures. Some may say this should have caused no problem for Pablo since he was a physics defying character—but Pablo could only defy some of the laws of physics, meaning two: gravity and the statement that all beings regularly exercise logic. The second law Pablo defied was quite accidental—there was no superhuman power that gave him the ability, and he did not try to hone his mind to the point where he was able to avoid using logic: he was just that mentally lost from the rest of the world. Not that being mentally lost is a bad thing—it is actually required of all persons to refer to it as just an unfortunate happening that could befall any person. The politically correct has had very interesting affects on the perception and speech of the basic human: and puts a bit of a strain on the creative mind—but the narrators manage to survive and drag the less-than-stellar writers along with them.

Pablo felt this sudden inspiration from the column and decided it was time for him to go about town functioning as his superhero alter ego (he referred to it as this simply because he heard the phrase used somewhere and thought it sounded flashy, but the simple fact was: he had no alternative ego for his superhero duties.) So he flew boldly out of his bedroom window and began to soar over the town—looking for a task he might have the capability of performing (these were few and far between, hence the reason for the hired teenage girls.) But then he caught something out of the corner of his eyes, it…

Hah! There are Becky and Clyde. The forgiveness of the reader is beseeched as the story is now redirected to the story of Becky and Clyde.

“Can you believe what you heard?”

“To speak in all honesty—no. I did not think it was possible for a person to actually exist within the pages of a book and have their story narrated by some crack-pot who is not actually a writer, but is instead a narrator. And then to consider the possibility that the writer actually does none of the creation of a story on his own, but instead he just channels the narrator. It is most baffling to be assured.”

Shit.

“What? No, I wasn’t talking about that at all—I don’t even know what you’re referring to,” this was one of those lies that people like to tell when they are working hard to forget something they do not want to believe in the first place, “I was talking about how all this crap is the fault of some God’s Training Camp.”

“Oh, yes. That is certainly perplexing—along with how this space craft came out of nowhere and picked us out from that horrible sea of impurity, and is currently shuttling us across different spheres of space.” Clyde made a great point with this statement—it was quite rare for the trash mobile to come by the place of final discarding, it only occurred once ever millennium because the trash mobile had to do a large amount of trash collecting before it was ready to dispose of everything. But at the moment the driver was bi-passing all of his usual pick-ups and making the trash mobile travel as fast as possible—he found it his duty to return these lost creatures to their appropriate spot in the universe. Now this was a beneficial point for the couple, especially since the last driver of the trash mobile had the opposite belief—that if something was thrown out of order there must be a purpose for it and so there would be no purpose for that being to do anything about it. But this driver was an Algramouthtan (rough translation) a human-esque creature with four major limbs two that were most often used for walking and two that were most often used as hands. It was a rather robust creature with sunny-yellow skin, and two large antennae protruding from the lump between the limbs most often used as hands. Becky found it fascinating, but Clyde just cringed when he looked at it so he tried to ignore its presence. But the thing about Algramouthtans was their belief in assisting the universe to find order; and that order was to be brought about proactively by all the creatures spread throughout the many expanses of space. It was a theory quite similar to the ant’s—and the reason the theories of these two species was so closely related is that the theory was originally developed by a prominent queen ant in the Amazon rain forest. She found that it was her responsibility to spread this doctrine to other worlds—so a spacecraft was fashioned for her by a group of the most talented worker ants from across the globe. This rocket was meant to only reach within the sphere of space that Earth existed in, but there was a malfunction on lift off that tore the fabric of space; and soon the queen found herself preaching to the quite agreeable Algramouthtans. They were a type of creature that really needed a good religion to hold to, but had an incapability of developing one—so this message from the queen ant was immediately embraced and passed on unfailingly from generation to generation, until it reached the… ears and heart (for lack of better terms in the English language) of Hooftanbiigrow, the driver of the trash mobile.

“Yes, it is a little weird, but I think I would call it more good fortune than anything else.”

“Whatever you say Becky.”

“Now back to what I was originally trying to get at with the whole God’s Training Camp thing—I was thinking that we should actually try to take this issue straight to God.”

“Like praying?”

“Well, no, not really. Praying is good and all—but I never really think that God is ever listening. And in all honesty, who can blame him? Some people pray for some crazy crap.”

“Uh, you actually think he’s listening, don’t you?”

“Yes. I do. But I would just like to do something a bit more personal than praying—take the issue to him like, one-on-one. Really grab his attention.”

Clyde was having a horrible time following Becky’s logic—he knew she was talking to him and everything, he was just completely unsure about what it was she was saying. Women had a way of really confusing Clyde, and in all honesty they confuse the greater part of the male population ninety percent of the time they are speaking—and a hundred percent when they aren’t speaking and are trying to communicate with varying emotions being shot from their eyeballs. Now at least Becky had not sunk to the point of trying to communicate with her eyeballs—but she was using the strategy of saying as little definite ideas as possible.

“And how do you propose to do such a thing? Fireworks?”

“No, aren’t you following what I’m saying at all? Can’t you figure it out?”

Clyde was tempted to tell her that there was no way he could figure anything out when she was not saying anything in the first place. But he held his tongue—just thinking about the award that his silence could bring the not too distant future.

“It is in what the voices were talking about,” Becky continued, she had not expected for Clyde to reply—it was not his place, “they kept outlining the list of all the people that the message had gone through, so we just have to go through that.”

“You mean go and talk to all the people they mentioned?”

“No, we don’t have to go through the chain of people because we know who is at the end of it, and where he is. We go straight to the guru. If he really talks to God then we can tell him to tell God just how fouled-up his plan is, and that he should really stop.”

“You would actually tell God that?” Clyde asked, once more reminded of his massive embarrassment in kindergarten.

“Not just me, we both would, it would be more powerful that way.”

This was exactly the opposite of what Clyde wanted to hear, and agreed with his suspicion as to what Becky would say. He suddenly felt light-headed and the trash mobile began to tilt and twirl, much like the ride in the amusement park where everyone sits in the little teacups, and the crazy boys in the cart—or teenage guys (just to give respect to the fact that those older boys have matured in at least some areas)—start spinning the cup around as fast as possible. Things seem to actually twist and twirl and there no longer seems to be any definite definition to any direction—everyway is left, up, right, down, and somewhat sideways. It was the same way for Clyde as he thought of just how rebellious the idea his fiancé just proposed was. This was easily ten-times worse than defying the kindergarten teacher. What if God made him sit in the time-out chair?

The thought of the time-out chair put Clyde out and he tumbled to the foam-like floor of the trash mobile. There was not a loud sound made by Clyde’s fall, but the… uh, whatever are the sound receptors on the Algramouthtan’s form, caught the sound and it began to try to communicate.

“Hmmm drmmm shmm tmmm lmmm zmmm,” Hooftanbiigrow said, a phrase that roughly translates to, “Is everything alright back there? I thought I heard something rather heavy fall to the ground and I am worried it might be one of you strange but goodly creatures. It there anything you need?”

Now Becky could not understand a word of what Hooftanbiigrow said, but she thought it would be nice to assure him everything was okay just the same.

“Everything is fine. Don’t worry about it. Clyde just fainted. But he’ll be just fine.”

The lady’s voice sounded to be agreeable to Hooftanbiigrow so he decided there was no reason for him to continue worrying over such things, so he instead continued to focus on getting these out-of-place beings back to the planet where they belonged.