//------------------------------//
// Who Wrote the Book of Chaos? 
// Story: Chaos Spawn, Not Sane for Long 
// by FanOfMostEverything 
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It was fairly obvious I wouldn't be going back to sleep after that. However, that meant I had nearly two hours before I needed to go anywhere. I contemplated possible ways to kill the time as I showered. Needless to say, reading more about unfathomable beings that toyed with the lives of mortals was far less appealing than it had been the night before.

It turned out that I'd been wasting my time. The answer presented itself to me as I reentered my bedroom. Lying on my rumpled bedspread was a book. No, "book" is an inadequate term for that thing. A tome. A brick of gilded pages big enough to make any coffee table proud, bound in ketchup-red leather. Its title was scribed in some opalescent material that flickered through rainbows when tilted from side to side.

"Chaos and You:" I read aloud. "A Guide to Practical Nonsense, by Jean de Corbin." Well, that began to explain why the prismatic letters were in Comic Sans, of all typefaces. The tome was as suspicious as a "Free Birdseed" sign in the middle of the Mojave, but it was also the only lead I had for my inexplicable ass tattoos.

I gave said sigils another look. No, they were clearly not tattoos. More like impossibly colorful birthmarks.

Oh, hey, I needed to get dressed, didn't I?

Once I was properly attired, I returned my attention to the tome, and immediately frowned. Something was off about it beyond the obvious. I wasn't sure what, or even how I knew. It just seemed... not wrong, per se, but certainly different.

After a moment, I had it. The shimmering text now proclaimed it to be the work of one "Muramasa Renji."

"Okay," I muttered. "Book appears out of nowhere, changes authors when I'm not looking, and is obviously a trap sent by the whatever-it-is that, if I'm interpreting my dream correctly, created me from nothingness." I considered that last part. "And, by extension, I am actually a tiny purple horse." I sat on the bed. "I should not be taking this this well."

Is there anything I could do about it? Panicking certainly won't help. Reading the book might.

"True. Wait." I frowned. "Did I think that, or was it thought for me?"

Does it matter? I agreed with it.

I scowled and tried to look up at my own forehead. "I'll play your game, Trebek, but you and I are going to have to have a very serious inner dialogue in the near future." That made clear, I cracked open the tome (which, I noted, was now by Dmitri Dorcas.)

Despite its grandiose appearance, on the inside, Chaos and You was totally modern in appearance. It even had a page with its publisher information (Gold & Apple Books) and Library of Congress designation.

I continued on, and saw this:




Table of Contents


If you're really expecting one of these, I don't think you've fully grasped the whole concept of "chaos." Seriously, you're not going to read this cover to cover, are you? It's not that kind of book.



I quirked an eyebrow. "All right, then. What kind of book is it?" I turned the page.



I'm glad you asked.



I honestly wasn't surprised.



You see, Stan – can I call you Stan? No? Too bad – your body is going to be going through some changes soon. You'll be feeling some strange urges. Hair will be growing in places where it hadn't before. Parts of your body will be getting larger. It's nothing to worry about; it's just part of growing up.

There comes a time in every young man's life when he discovers that he is actually an equinoid avatar of chaos incarnate. Well, not every young man. Just you, really. Still, the point stands; over the next two days or so, you will be returning to the form you had during that little flashback you had earlier, in both body and mind. However, there's not much that can be done about your memories, so that's where this book comes in.

As the title implies, this is something of an instruction manual. Everything you'll need to know lies within, and the book will open to whatever section you need when you need it. Serendipity is quite the handy bit of chaos magic, as I'm sure you know.



I paused in my reading. Thoughts of instances of good fortune that had smoothed my road in life crowded into my recollection, not least of which the very circumstances that gave me my current apartment.



Exactly. Never let it be said that I don't look out for my own.



My stomach roiled. "Who... what are you?"



That, my girl, is for me to know and for you not to concern yourself with. All you need to know is that what I say goes.

Now, we have plenty of time before you have any appointments, assuming you even want to bother with your old life. You've still got more than twenty-four hours before your abilities start returning to an appreciable degree, so why don't we start with some introductory chaos theory? The real stuff, not that "nature will find a way" dreck.



I chucked the tome away from me and went for the door. I opened it, stepped through the doorway, and immediately tripped on something. Quick reflexes had me on hands and knees as the obstruction slid into view, propelled by the unintentional kick. It was Chaos and You, open to the middle pages.



Now what was that for? Don't tell me you're actually going to try and resist. You're only going to delay the inevitable. The person you think you are is but a thin veneer of sanity over the fundamental madness from which you were shaped. Just sit back, relax, and let me take the reins. No pun intended.

Okay, pun completely intended, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up.



I hefted the slab of paper as I got back to my feet. "I get the feeling that any attempt to destroy you is doomed to failure." I let my eyes fall on the page at random. Written in one margin was my answer.



You'd be right.



"Fine, then." I shut the tome, lodged it under an arm, and moved into the main room of the apartment. Not much to look at, really. Wheeled computer chair, cheap desk, throw rug, really more space than I used or even needed. I grabbed my laptop case, one of those faux leather attaché dealies, from where it was leaning on one of the desk's legs. Much to my lack of surprise, it was the perfect size to carry my new "instruction manual."

I sat in the swivel chair. "Whoever you are, whatever you are, wherever you are, I want you to listen. I have lived as who I am for twenty-five years. I existed as you knew me for less than ten minutes. You may have created me, but you do not control me. I reject your authority and substitute with my own. So mote it motherfucking be." Gratuitous, yes, but I've been on TV Tropes enough to understand the value of a Precision F Bomb.

I set the libram on my lap, spine down, allowing it to open to a random page. Sure, I'd declared my independence, but my creator at least deserved a final response.



How cute, you think you get a say in the matter. Very well, I will relinquish my claim on your mind and body on one condition: Say your mother's name aloud.



"Seriously?" I rolled my eyes. "The Neverending Story you aren't. Still, I'll take you up on the offer. It's..." I hesitated. Why did I hesitate? My mother's name. The name of the woman who gave birth to me, cared for me, offered me unconditional love no matter what I did.

...

Well, her last name was definitely Baxter, I knew that much. One of them, at least. She may have hyphenated when she married Dad.

...

Wait, what was his name?

Without thinking about it, my befuddled mind sought answers in the book.



Drawing a blank, are we? Not that surprising. After all, it's much simpler to concoct a few memories and an adult body than to wait for an infant to grow up.