Danny's Questions Part 3

Breathless, the Narrator fell back in his chair, taking a few minutes to collect himself. Clicking the mike, he said, “That was great guys; you know how to keep a fellow entertained. Now, back to the questions. Danny, I believe that you have two more questions?”

“Yeah, I have a question, snapped Danny. “Who is this stranger whispering in Tinnese’s ear?”

“Huh, what are you talking about,” said the Narrator, getting out of his chair and looking through the factory window. He saw ‘the stranger’ that Danny was referring to was none other than the missing member of their group, ‘Mr. Smith.’ Apparently, he was back from the assignment the Crow had assigned him. Clicking the mike, the Narrator said, “I’m glad to see that you have found the time in your busy schedule to join us, in this little therapy group. Now, since Danny had chosen his second question to be about you, why don’t you honor his request and tell the whole group about yourself.”

Mr. Smith offered no response; he didn’t even look up from what he was doing. The Narrator repeated his request- still no response. Slamming his fist on the console, the Narrator fumed. How dare this character, his creation, ignore him? This scoundrel. This good for nothing, self-inflated, egotistical piece of deranged thought, needed to be taught his place. Grabbing the mike roughly, he squeezed the button hard, while his left index finger hovered over a button marked Delete. Before he had a chance to follow through with any action, the Crow said: Agent Smith, answer the Narrator.”

Mr. Smith turned from what he was doing and replied, “I don’t answer to this so called Narrator. He’s petite and self- absorbed, disposing of his creation how he see fit. If I had my way, I’d make sure that he’d never torment another one of his creations ever again.”

The Crow laughed and the replied: “First, you answer to me. Second, out of curiosity, how would you prevent him from torturing another one of his creations? You, like the rest of the losers, are pure imagination. Your actions are chosen for you- in essence you are a puppet on a string; and he is the puppeteer. So I repeat, how would you, a mere creation, force the creator to pay for the suffering he caused you?”

“I would track him down in his thoughts and dreams, and force-feed him the rotten bile of emotion and trauma that he forces us to go through.”

Chuckling, Crow replied, “You’re a brainless idiot. But that’s why I keep you around. It wouldn’t do to have someone in my company who is on the same intellectual level as I; it cuts down on the chances of mutiny. Let me explain to your simple mind why your plan wouldn’t work. First, my simple friend, you may, on an off chance, be lucky enough to find your way into his dreams and thoughts; but it’d do you no good.”

“Why not?” Interrupted Mr. Smith.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, or else I’ll make you wish you were dead.” Said the Crow coldly. “Now, as I was saying, finding your way into his thoughts and dreams would do you no good, since he doesn’t choose ahead of time what he writes about. That is, the ideas and plots of the storyline come to him as he moves through the story. And the few times he does plan ahead, rarely does he use what he had previously outlined. Secondly, all that crap about you force- feeding him the rotten bile of emotion and trauma that he forces his characters to go through, is foolishness, since, as the Narrator, he automatically goes through all the emotion and trauma, as he is making his characters go through. This is the price that he and others like him pay for pouring out their soul on blank untyped pages.”

“You seem to know him well,” said Mr. Smith.

The Crow glowered at him, and blinked his eyes. Mr. Smith jumped out of his chair screaming, while slapping himself all over. Red ants began to pour from his pant legs. The rest of the characters, except the Crow, instantly jumped up on the chairs, to avoid being bitten. Smiling, the Crow sat and watched, as Mr. Smith did an odd dance around the factory; trying to rid himself of the ants. Holding out his arms, the Crow waited patiently as the ants, which were now successfully spread around the factory, came racing to him, ran up his pant leg and disappeared. “Yes, I know him, I know him very well. Now, get over here, you fool, and introduce yourself,” snapped the Crow.

Mumbling, while scratching one of his many bites, Mr. Smith ambled slowly to the center of the group, removed his battered, black fedora and said, “Hello. My name is Mr. Smith, and I work for the Crow.”

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