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Chap 1.4 - Page 7frangles: Skip book 1: Writer's Bricks

             "So that's Earth?  Incompetent secretaries, nutty shrinks, skanky beer, and endless answers to life's problems that only confuse the !@#$ing hell out of you the more you find them?"
             "Not to mention clunky train stations we should probably mention we're at right now for the sake of our freers."
             "I don't think I can write about this place.  I need something more exciting."
             "Didn't you want a cat--catalyst?  Why not just use this Earth place as a foundation for somewhere more interesting?"
             "Kilo, that's a great idea!  But *where*?  When *these* pet meds cost half at much, and they're delivered right to your door!"
             "Hunh?"  Kilo wracked his brain as it seemed he'd been given a positive response followed by the most non sequitur comment he'd heard from Skip since he'd known him.  Still, if he gave a clever and useful answer (assuming the question "but where" could be separated from the pet comment and was still directed at him and hence he was still being asked a question), perhaps his character would have a high score entered in the vaguely same ballpark as Skip, who seemed to be the main player.
             "Perhaps it's time *you* took control, Skip."
             "Easier said, Kilo."
             " 'Easier said'? "
             You know, 'Easier said than done'?  I was abbreviating it."
             "But how would I have known what you were abbreviating?"
             "It's... well... haven't you ever heard the expression 'Easier said than done'?"
             "I have now.  Looks like you thought that one up.  See?  Maybe you don't suck as much as you think."
             "Just because I've read a grammar handbook doesn't mean I can re-write the greatest frwoa of the known universe."
             "Then start small."
             "There's no time, Kilo!  I only have 6 hours!  Or was it 7?  13?  49?  My brain can't even count anymore.  Wow, I'm !@#$ed."
             "See?  If you can't even count right, for all you know you have a year."
             "That's a point."
             "Besides, things work so weird around here that you could easily stumble on a time machine before the day's out."
             "Or a duck and a dead whore."
             "Uh, sure; 's a plan."
             "Instead of looking all over for one, why not think one up?  Or some other place that has something that could help. "
             "We did think up a bar when we really needed to get smashed."
          "See?  And you need not to die a lot more than you need another drink."  Skip got the gut feeling that Kilo's eschewal of more drinking was mostly a self-preservation mechanism, or at least a drop of life insurance.
             "But I don't know how to do it *consciously*.  The bar just sort of came to us.  For all we know, we knew it was right around the corner but didn't knew we knew.  Or maybe it was just coincidence.  How many public city squares don't have a pub named Frank's Bar?
             "I've only been to one so don't ask me.  Why not just get back on the train and concentrate really hard?  Maybe it'll take ya somewhere else for once.  This can't be the only stop in all of Flutonia.  There's at least gotta be a Square *Two* somewhere.  Skip?"
             Skip had his eyes tightly closed.  His face was that of someone taking a shit while trying to materialize a missing role of toilet paper in a bathroom out of it.
             "Skip?"  Skip's eyes opened.
             "Oh well."
             Kilo surveyed the train track.  An old blind lady with a neon German Sheppard seeing eye dog was with her.  It wasn't helping her, though.  It was simply running around her in circles panting and barking.  She reached in her coat pocket  and tossed it a liver snap to shut it up.
             Kilo turned back to Skip who was staring with a deathly expression of failure.
             "What is it, Skip?  You couldn't think up your train?  I wouldn't be too hard on yours--
             "I was trying to hallucinate a free hooker into existence."
             So nothing happened, big deal, Why don't you just keep--"  Kilo finally saw what Skip was still frowning at: the old lady who'd just appeared at the moment he tried to think up a free hooker.
             "Well, at least you're doin' shit.  Your memory's getting clearer, you've lived a little, and you still got 13/14th of the day left!  I'm no genius, but there doesn't seem to be much else to do than get back on the train and try again.  You know what I do whenever I have a report due I haven't done shit on two hours before it's due?
             "What's that?
             "Anything but nothing."
             "Look, if you can't write a book, get a coupl'a short stories in.  At least you'll be bricked to death knowing you weren't a *total* failure."
             "Who would remember?"
             "Aw, comd on, think half full, Skip."
             "You know, it's good to look on the bright side that your glass is half full rather than half empty?"
             "Who said that?"
             "I did I think.  Then I stole your cliche-castration technique.  I was thinkin' you'd be smart enough to pick up on it."
             "I have an idea, why don't you--"  A loud train of thought approached from the south.  It looked new.  It's whole outside--and inside that Skip could see--was of a unique realness that only someone seeing it first hand for the first time could properly describe.  Skip sensed this to the relief of any of Skip's writers hovering about who's utter laziness was the only thing holding them back from doing so themselves.  The station air swayed the "Imagination Station" sign above as if to be rid of a poser only using their imagination as a gateway drug toward a goal of published material.
             "Even if I had time to finish the book, Kilo, what the hell's it going to be about?  An anal secretary, a psychotic shrink, and a bed-wetting 15-year-old?  I can't exactly re-hash *that* for 300 pages.  And the more I wander around, the less time I'll have to incorporate it into a full frwoa.
             "What do writers *ever* write about, Skip?"
             "What do you mean, Kilo?"
             "No frwoa's ever full, Skip.  They're all always half-unfinished. 
             "What about your optimistic beer bottle?  Shouldn't they be half-*finished*?"
             Not if they're never full.  Anyway, I *was* being optimistic; *your* hour's half-finished, and look where it's gotten *you*!  I was saying why not look to the fact that something is *un*finished as a positive thing?  A half-blank slate?"
             "You're a pretty smart kid after all, Kilo."
             "Maybe I was a brain cell in a previous life."
             "Or a cell phone."
             The train had arrived and was now impatiently chu-chooing for someone waiting for it to board it. 
             "Skip the present, Skip.  Skip to the future, even.  If present day Earth-Flutonia sucks, write about a day when it won't suck anymore.  If this place isn't very adventurous, imagine a time when it *will* be.  Call it... Future Fiction!"
             The train of thought collided with Kilo's suggestion in a magnificent big *bang* of molecular thought-matter implosion, and Skip thought-rode off to whatever future lay beyond the dull and mundane boundaries of current day Earth-Flutonia.

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