Your Bed is in Your Bed, Pondering a Philosophical Dilemma (AShadowOfCygnus)
Your Bed is in Your Bed, Pondering a Philosophical Dilemma
AShadowOfCygnus
It is probably Tuesday morning.
Well, admittedly, it is morning, you went to bed on Monday night, so the logical thing to conclude is that it is, in fact, Tuesday morning. For Tuesday morning always follows Monday night, and Monday night always precedes Tuesday morning. It has always been so. The expected, the rational, the reasonable belief would be that, having gone to bed Monday night, it is currently Tuesday morning.
However.
Most Tuesday mornings do not begin forty-thousand feet above sea level. Most mornings in general do not begin at forty-thousand feet above sea level.
And yet, that is where you are.
Forty-thousand feet above sea level.
In your bed.
Your bed, I note, which is shooting gaily through the sky at a prodigious clip, though unsupported by any apparent means of locomotion. Nor even -- as you can plainly tell by peering over the edge -- the forty-thousand foot beanstalk, that might have been the next reasonable guess. But no, no, that was last Tuesday.
For you see, while most Tuesday mornings do not begin at forty-thousand feet above sea level, they have, for a good long forever now, begun remarkably badly. Whether awaking in a house decimated by ponies the previous night, or transported to far-flung dimensions, or in the bed of someone you’d rather eat raw cockatrice than spend another waking moment with, you’d long since learned to fear the morning that was supposed to come after Monday night.
And the worst part? After a while, even time itself decided to take the piss. Once upon a time, weeks had consisted of seven whole days, Monday through Sunday, as was to be expected. But once the constant parade of strange and disquieting phenomena began to creep their way into your life (and your bed), something changed.
You’d go to bed Tuesday night, and when you woke up, it would be Monday morning. Whole week stolen. You’d spend the day dreading the night, and once it came -- sometimes sooner, sometimes later -- Something would happen. That Something was never the same Thing twice, but it always ended in some kind of pain or crippling injury -- usually a bruised ego; the worst of wounds.
And after you’d cried yourself to sleep that night, and after you’d woken up Tuesday morning, and after you’d wasted precious time trying to fix whatever the last disaster had irreversibly damaged, you’d spend what little time you had left grabbing a bite to eat and beg not to be fired again. And then you’d stumble home, beleaguered and exhausted, fall asleep, and when you woke up, it would be Monday again.
Because, you see, Tuesday night is almost a whole week away from Monday morning. And as the Internet has taught you so well, a week is far too long a time for anyone to wait for their dose of Something, especially your friendly neighbourhood ponies. And since Something only happens on Monday night -- not Sunday night nor Tuesday night, and Celestia forbid a Friday night (perish the thought!) -- your doom is Bill Murray, endlessly looping for the amusement of deviant ponies (and pony accessories) until the end of time.
Homura’s got nothing on you, baby.
At one point, you’d tried to keep track of the days. At one point, you’d tried to find ways to break the cycle. At one point, you’d even tried to kill yourself to Equestria, as happens in those shitty self-insert fanfics that are your guilty pleasure, so you could settle the matter with Celestia herself. Again.
But nothing doing. No matter what you tried, no matter how hard you struggled -- and you tried some serious Final Destination shit there for awhile; remember that trip to the entomologist? -- every attempt failed. Monday night always came, bringing with it drunken Armours and studious Sparkles and malevolent Chrysalises, and increasing evidence for alcoholism for you. By drink or some darker force, however, you’d resigned yourself to it. Not quite ‘made your peace’, because you still occasionally relapsed and tried to blow up the entire house, but close enough to be mistaken for it at a distance.
But you had to admit, for all the crazy shit that’d been done to you over the course of Monday nights past, it had never -- not once! -- reached quite this level of extreme.
And yet, here you are.
In your bed.
At forty-thousand feet above sea level.
Which you’re probably just going to go ahead and blame on the ponies.
Yeah.
It occurs to you at this point that you should probably be more concerned that you are at forty-thousand feet above sea level. Because for all that’s happened thus far in the course of your spectacularly fucked-up life, not once have you been shooting through the air like a rocket-propelled ostrich, with nothing more than your sheets and whatever stained T-shirt you wore to bed separating you from a certain death by gravity.
Well, not at this altitude, at any rate.
You ponder the passing fluffy cumuli for a moment and wonder, not unjustly, whether this might be an appropriate moment to scream. And then you ponder it a moment more, and for several more moments after that, until the idea of ‘moment’ has gone right out the window and it’s now officially an aside.
At the end of it, however, you do decide that forty-thousand feet is indeed a quotient worth screaming at.
So, in the hopes that it might somehow help, you do.
It doesn’t seem to help.
It does, however, wake the snoozing bed in your bed next to you. It blinks blearily at you, and -- voice perfectly audible over the whipping high-altitude winds -- asks you why you’re screaming, darling.
It takes you a howling moment of logic to realise that your inner monologue hasn’t yet made much note of the fact that there is a bed in your bed next to you. Perhaps it was too busy snogging the id backstage to remember its cue.
It takes a moment more to realise that it isn’t just any bed, but your bed, in your bed with you.
At the very least, it’s not a pony. Unless . . .
‘I get it,’ you proudly proclaim, refusing to be wrong-footed, even at forty-thousand feet above sea level. ‘I know what this is.’
Your bed looks at you, utterly confused.
‘This is another Changeling thing, innit?’ You’re very sure of yourself on this. It was -- what? -- the second or third time this had happened that your bed had suddenly sprung legs and a carapace? ‘So who is it this time? Chrysalis? Some sob-story survivor of the Canterlot attack? Someone else completely fucking irrelevant?’
Your mounting frustration at the situation you’ve found yourself in finds an outlet in your ranting, and the bed in your bed actually recoils. ‘Actually, you know what? No. I don’t care. I’m not dealing with this. I’m going to roll over now, and go back to sleep. I’d better bloody well be home when I wake up, yeah?’
This last is directed to the skies whizzing by above.
With a muffled thud of sheets, you flip yourself over, as far away from the bed in your bed as it is possible to be while still being in the bed.
You hear, from behind you, a slight whimper. ‘Irrelevant?’
The word carries on the wind for a moment, like a particularly vile bit of flatulence. Then the sobbing begins. Loud, waily sobbing. The kind of sobbing that usually ends with cleaning the snot out of T-shirts, and fielding noise complaints from Ms-Next-Door-Stick-Up-Her-Arse.
‘All those nights we spent together,’ your bed chokes out. ‘All that time we shared . . .’
Your must actively remind yourself that this is, in fact, your bed speaking, and not your depraved ex. Nor even a Changeling pretending to be your bed, apparently.
‘I was sleeping in you,’ you grumble, somewhat put out.
‘Exactly!’
You lie there awkwardly for a couple of moments while your bed wails into the pillow next to you, contemplating whether you could have phrased that better. But as the wailing continues, something else strikes you.
This is actually insane. Like, really truly insane. Not your standard gibbering about aliens and giggling like a hyena on a cocaine binge insane, really fucking insane. Even considering all the crazy shit that’s been going on for you lately, Groundhog Day or no, this is off the Richter Crazy-Shit Scale.
There’s no way this can honestly be real. Elaborate, inventive, stressful, taking cues from your past experiences -- there’s no doubt about it. This has to be a dream, and a damn ridiculous one at that.
Cracking an eyelid, you peer over the edge of the bed again at the land forty-thousand feet below. They say one of the most common nightmares is falling . . .
Then again, the wind whistling past you seems fairly real, and while you’re not exactly in the mood to pinch yourself at the moment, you reckon that if you did, it’d hurt. Though, admittedly, probably not as much as listening to the ecstatic lamentation going on behind you. At least the fall would be quick.
And, hey, if you pulled this off, you’d never have to see another pony in your bed again. Ever.
Your bed blows its nose wetly on something behind you, and the decision is made. Closing your eyes tight shut and taking a deep breath, you throw the covers back, spread your arms wide . . . and let yourself fall.
And fall.
And fall.
The wind whips past you in the darkness behind your eyes, fingertips and toes hot and tingling with adrenaline. Your heart beats wildly, erratically, fit to burst, leaping into your throat as the vertiginous swooping sensation passes from your stomach to the very reaches of your--
Whump.
. . .
Far too quick for forty-thousand feet. And far too few gobbets scattered about the countryside. The wind is still ripping around you, you can feel it, but you’re . . . lying on something? And, nearby, through ears raw and ringing from the roar of the wind . . . is that someone crying?
Again you crack an eyelid, and find, to no small astonishment, that you are lying in your bed, and your bed is next to you, still wailing like a banshee.
Your mind boggles. It performs a boggling so profound, that any panel of certified bogglers would have have consented as to its authenticity. It performs the kind of boggling that puts most mental gymnastics to shame, the kind of boggling that generally requires one’s brain to be double-jointed to accomplish.
And at the end of its period of requisite boggling, your brain decides that this has to have been a cosmic fluke, and commands you to dive out of bed again to test the theory . . .
. . . only to land back in bed, next to your bed.
The third and fourth attempts produce the same result, though the fourth also results in your heel colliding painfully with the crossboard at the foot of your bed, and your howling quickly joins the renewed wails of the bed in the bed next to you.
And as you clutch your foot and bellow in agony, and as the bed in bed next to you blows its nose once again on the bedspread, you become aware of a low rumbling in the bed beneath you, building gradually in strength and volume until it becomes recognisable as a deep, sonorous voice vaguely reminiscent of Samuel L. Jackson, but considerably less profane.
‘If you lot keep this up, I swear to God I will turn this thing around and take you both straight home!’ bellows the bed you and your bed are sharing.
The caterwauling ceases, as much in surprise as in compliance.
‘Much better,’ harrumphs the bed. ‘Just look at you . . . you think the Hun’s going to be impressed with that stubbed toe down there, eh?’
‘I . . . what?’
‘Normandy, boy! France! The Continent! The Front!’
‘The FRONT?’ Oh please, let this still be a dream.
‘Yes, the Front, you daft sod! Where else did you think you’d be paratrooping into, a cosy resort trip in Majorca?’
‘I--’
‘I bet you’d rather be home in bed right now, reading the paper and sipping on some posh tea, is that it? You make me sick, you little-’
‘I am in bloody bed!’ you roar, cutting your bed off at the pass
To your utter surprise, the bed lets out a guffaw. ‘That’s the spirit, boy! Eat, breathe, and sleep your vocation, innat right? These other little shits could learn a thing or two from you!’
A few moments of stunned silence pass, and you manage only a few fish-mouthed, incoherent sounds. A passing sea urchin is moved by your insightful words, and tips its fedora in your general direction. Insomuch as it can tip, around the spikes.
Not stopping to wonder why there’s a fedora-clad sea urchin passing you in midair, you renew your attempts to speak to the bed your bed is in; that bed has been remarkably quiet and attentive the last few minutes. It distresses you that you can tell.
‘So,’ you ask of the bed you and your bed are in, as the urchin sails off, slightly miffed at not being taken seriously, ‘You’re flying us to the front.’
‘As I’m the pilot, yes.’
‘Right. So we’re in a plane?’
‘C-47 Skytrain!’ says the bed proudly, the sky darkening to a worrying shade of maroon in the urchin’s wake. ‘Best troop carrier of her class!’
‘And, er, I suppose your instruments are all working and that?’
‘Right as rain. Don’t you worry, boy, we’ll get you there in one piece.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ you say, staring worriedly as you overtake a school of whippets swimming serenely through the air.
It takes a moment of sitting, ignoring the renewed whimpers of the bed next to you and the tangerine cloud marmalade that’s come to rest on the bedspread nearby, but you work up the courage to speak to your bed again.
‘Look,’ you say, trying to wrap your head around the situation. ‘We’re in an, er, plane flying over an, um, warzone. I don’t suppose there’s flak, or anything, is there?’
‘Oh by Jove, you’re right!’ cries the bed, as a Pop-Tart-flavoured cat nyans off to the right, and fireworks begin erupting all around. ‘They’ve found us! Hang on!’
It then begins to make a series of whooshing and nyowwing noises, evidently to mimic a plane taking evasive manoeuvres. The bed, however, maintains a rigid trajectory due west, towards the now-setting lavender sun, surrounded as it is by a choir of buck-naked baby imps with wings made of marshmallow.
‘Does it strike anyone else as odd,’ you comment loudly over the impromptu sound effects and the thrumming of a hundred unheavenly harps, ‘that a warplane ought to have such lovely sheets?’
‘Only the best for-’ your bed begins, then fakes a long, loud coughing fit. A couple of technicolour sparrows fly out of an orifice you can’t discern from your current position. ‘I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sheets? Preposterous.’
‘Well, fine then. What about my bed, sitting here next to me?’
The bed bends in ways a bed is decidedly not supposed to, weaving snake-like past an oncoming gibbon, to throw you a distinctly incredulous look.
‘Did you prepare for this at all?’ it hisses conspiratorially. ‘Blimey, boy, I’ve known people to go off-script, but it’s like you’re not even trying. . . !’
And with that, it goes back to imitating fighter-plane noises, leaving the imps to leer unpleasantly at you, twanging their harps. Somewhere, nearby, the moon rises out of a pool of disembodied larynxs, much to the annoyance of the still very much present sun.
You feel, somewhat justifiably, that things are spinning out of your control.
This feeling is only amplified by the explosive sigh that erupts from the aforementioned bed in bed next to you. It is such a sudden noise that even the tangerine cloud takes fright, soaring off through the imp pack towards a flock of its particoloured fellows, blowing peppermint-flavoured raspberries in its wake. Thenceforth, no-one acknowledges the Fanta-smelling stain on the bedspread.
The bed in your bed throws said sheets back, stretches, and -- apparently having forgotten its previous complaint with you completely -- smiles. ‘Welp, guess the jig’s up then, eh?’
‘Er, what?’
The bed waves about at the ever-changing landscape you’ve spent the last while observing and trying to refrain from commenting on. ‘You know, the jig! The fishsticks and the custard! The apple and the orange! The meat and drink! The thing. Everything.’
‘Oh?’ You scratch your chin, trying to look nonchalant as the sun and moon come to furious blows overhead, doing truly obnoxious things to the lighting.
‘Oh yes,’ the bed continues, unperturbed, as the blows transition rather naturally to passionate snogging. ‘And furthermore, I’m not your bed at all! I’m--”
And here your bed unzips itself from four or five directions at once, exploding in a whirling mass of leather flaps, balsa wood boarding and undone yarn. And from this cacophony of impossibly-proportioned-but-still-improbably-realistic disguise steps . . .
Shock!
‘You again?’ you cry, recoiling. This is not best pony; not even close.
‘Me!’ chirps Pinkie Pie with undue glee, kicking off the last of the rubber bed suit. It evaporates into a puddle of Terry Pratchett’s tears as she leans forward, bug-eyed and deadly serious. ‘And we have to talk.’
‘Couldn’t you just leave me alone, instead?’ you whimper, as the sun and moon sink behind a conveniently-placed potted plant pretending to be a nearby mountain range.
‘Ohh, you silly’, giggles Pinkie, springboarding back to her old self. She boops you playfully on the nose. ‘Why would we ever leave you alone? Then what would we give the nice people to laugh at, hmm?’
She turns to the lumpy jackanapes sitting beside her. ‘Do you want to see the rabbits, David?’
You briefly contemplate going insane. No less so after a platoon of battle-hardened cheese wizards engages the swarm of harp-imps circling your bed. Unsavoury yowls and exotic smells pour in from all sides as Pinkie continues.
‘See, normally, I’d have been having fun with Discord right about now, zapping Sheogorath’s trousers, but this time things are different. Complicated.’
This has to be the most serious you’ve ever seen her. And it’s just as unsettling as everything else going on.
Pinkie leans nonchalantly to the left as a wheel of gouda sails by, nearly taking off your ear. ‘What I’m saying is, this is big. And something this big can only mean one thing.’
The bed you’re both sitting in rumbles noisily, hacks up a hairball at the narwhal, and is suddenly a vintage steamship -- built to scale! -- chugging along an icy river of clattering porcelain spoons. Yes, still forty-thousand feet up. The wizard-imp war proceeds unabated.
‘What I’m saying is, everything that’s happened up till now? It’s all been leading up to this. And now it’s happening.’
‘And . . . how do you know this?’
‘Look around, silly!’ She flaps at you. ‘Look at the sun and moon! Look at the pirouetting gophers! Look at the Lazy Susan filled with angry kumquats! Look at the little angry cherub things beating up those Starswirl the Bearded impersonators! The sky is chartreuse! What more evidence do you need?’
You refuse to look at these things, and focus as best you can on Pinkie, past the antennae of the lobster that’s crawling out your nose.
‘This sounds like the lead-up to some kind of X-Files reveal. Please God don’t be Mulder in a Pinkie suit. You’re not allowed.’
‘Aliens!’ grins David Duchovny from not far off. And sure enough, a few raygun-toting things you once saw in an episode of DS9 show up in defence of the retreating wizards.
‘Gah!’ cries the pinkest one, in mounting frustration. ‘Listen! I’m trying to tell you there’s still a way out of this!’
‘Alright, fine.’ Another flaming cheese whizzes over your head, this time accompanied by something shaped exactly like a twangoodle. ‘Shoot.’
Pinkie gives you a dead serious look. ‘We have to find the authors.’
‘The authors?’
‘The ones who wrote all this up. You know, the Authors.’ She makes a spooky hoof-gesture.
‘Uh-huh.’ You are most sceptical. So is your second head, growing primly alongside the one that just spoke.
‘It’s absolutely true!’ says the pink rhinoceros, waving its tiny arms for emphasis. ‘I mean, really, how else do you explain all this?’
‘Discord.’ The second and third heads nod sagely.
A long pause from the salmon-coloured hippopotamus. The imps are become trousers, lazily thrumming out smarmy rock ballads on winged electric toasters, and appear to have made peace with the wizards.
‘Yeah, okay, maybe,’ the fresh strawberry milkshake finally relents. ‘But it’s not. And I’ll show you.’
And from a hitherto-unknown fold of space-time, Pinkie Pie pulls a wad of what appears to be chewing gum -- it’s hard to tell around the screaming iguanas -- and pops it in what would, were she not a milkshake, be her mouth.
There is a mild susurration in the surrounding surreality as she does so. The trousers flap their zippers in protest, the sun and moon pause in their ethereal snog, and even the bed grumbles to a halt, hanging suspended in the chartreuse sky. Your three heads, and the pair of eyes sprouting from your leftmost toe, watch in horrified fascination as Pinkie begins to blow a bubble from the gum she’s heartily chawing.
This, it should be well noted, is no ordinary bubble: it glistens with an irregular sheen, like oil, and smells ever so faintly of cotton candy. Thick, too -- a good ⅛-inch skin on it. But most worryingly, it’s been expanding at a prodigious rate, almost of its own accord, after the first blow, and where it meets another object, it continues unabated, phasing right through the obstacle and ultimately swallowing it whole. In a matter of seconds, Pinkie is gone, along with a good chunk of your bed. Your three heads have barely enough time to take in a collective breath before the expanding pink wall is upon you, and then . . .
You’re through.
It’s remarkably pink here, and Pinkie Pie is no exception. And it is, indeed, Pinkie Pie, not the cheap dime-store knock-off. You, yourself, appear to be back to normal as well -- a shame, as the heads were starting to grow on you. You’d even been considering names for them.
Pinkie Pie looks you over a moment, and, apparently finding you satisfactory, produces the largest knitting needle you’ve ever seen, and raises it threatening over her head.
‘Cover your ears!’
And she brings the needle down into the pink.
Bang.
A thermonuclear detonation inside your head, and suddenly the world is a kaleidoscope of colour, sound, and indistinctness. Not the strange surrealism of the world before the pink bubble, but that which accompanies the end of dreams -- a palette of light and colour, a rainbow variance across an invisible spectrum see only by an inner eye. A beautiful, shapeless, dimensionless void, devoid of any perspective, replete with wonderment beyond imagining.
And, for some reason, a bunch of old crisps and beer cans.
Pinkie taps you on the shoulder. ‘Perfect! We made it out, just in time.’
You simply stare at her.
‘Total creativity collapse. Could’ve gotten very messy if we hadn’t got here when we did!’ She’s suddenly distracted by a shiny thing. ‘Ooh, what’s that?’
‘What? I don’t see anything.’
‘W-well . . . stand here and look.’ She manhandles you slightly through nth-dimensional space.
‘There’s nothing there’, you say, folding your arms as an errant crisp packet pirouettes lazily by, ricocheting off your head with the sound of a kettle drum. ‘Just a bunch of old junk from under my bed.’
‘No!’ Pinkie admonishes you again. ‘Look!’
So you look. Not just a look, but a look. A long look, a deep look, a thrusting, grinding, intimate look.
And then, at last, you see. Past the infinite corona and the whirling pentacles, past the streamers and ribbons, past Stygian depths and Lovecraftian horrors, and the deeper, darker ocean green, there, under your bed, in the centre of the room beyond, you see.
It is a room. Your room. Dirty, sparsely furnished, the stains and craters from your many recent exploits on prominent display: the room you’ve always wanted. And there, in the centre of the room--
A bed. Your bed. Stained and matted and still burned in places, sure, but it is your bed.
And within your bed, lies your bed. Your bed. Stained and matted and still burned in places, sure, but it is your bed. Yes, it is your bed, and within that bed lies your bed, and within that bed lies your bed, and within that bed lies your bed.
And as you look, and as you see, you notice there is something in the middle of your bed. Many somethings, in fact, and as you squint to see to the centre of your bed within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, within your bed, you can just barely make out--
‘My God’, you say, tears welling as a poignant mix of emotions surge in your chest.
‘It’s full of authors . . .’
And so it is. They are all there: the technicolour butterfly, the broomstick-riding Sweetie-wizard, the man with the rising sun, the bashful blue stallion, that one bloke from Chicago, another Pinkie seeking hugs, the indistinct silhouette, the red-lit neon sign, the howling drake, the spike-haired blue pegasus with the bitchin’ coat, and there, there, in pride of place -- there, in the centre of it all, the mastermind, den Überkeks himself, resplendent in his bicorne hat. And as the whirling kaleidoscope of your own beds comes more sharply into focus, you can see that they are all, to a one, smiling at you.
Congratulations! they all seem to say. You won!
Thank you! you seem to respond. Thank you all!
And then, still smiling, one of them reaches over and turns out the light.
Everything goes black. The room, the kaleidoscope array of beds, the whirling prism of possibility -- all dark. And it is not merely the absence of light -- this darkness feels complete; neither menacing nor comforting, but somehow . . . final.
Then, a resounding voice from on high, every word resounding like a cloister: ‘‘It’s been fun, but we’ve all got other stories to write, ‘kay? Thanks! Bye.’
A moment of deafening silence.
Pinkie: ‘Welp, so much for that, I guess.’
Silence. Then:
‘ . . . Pinkie?’
‘Yeahuh?’
‘What happens now?’
‘Oh, we just wait. This happens every so often; don’t worry. They’ll be back, and when they do, the party starts up all over again!
‘Really?’’ A note of optimism.
‘Well . . .’ A shifting of hooves. ‘For me. I dunno about you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it too much, though -- they liked you. I could tell.’
A further silence. The blackness cloys a bit thicker around you.
A cough. ‘Any telling when they might be back?’
‘Nope, no idea. But -- ooh! Hey! That totally reminds me of something! I just remembered, I had something for you.’
‘Mm?’
She gropes for your hand, and places something soft, round, and slightly fuzzy in it.
‘What’s this? A kitten?’
‘Can’t you tell? It’s a peach, silly!’
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Oh, my, god. That was perfect.
...What.
(No emoticons. This transcends mere emoticons.)
Chicago Ted, reporting in!
Qij vërtet unë jam!
Someone keep Discord away from this...
.... I don't want to clean up whatever comes out of his reproductive organ(s?) if he finds this.
Oh god, not another one of these really stupid meta/author-trying-to-be-clever-and-failing chapters.
Technicolor? What is this, the 60s? It's blacklight! That's 70s at least!
Hmph. Total research failure, right there.
Ah shit, she's onto us.
5758130
. . . you . . . are joking, right?
This isn't clever. It isn't intended to be clever. It's the stupidest shit I could come up with after a full night spent awake and damn near half a bottle of scotch!
And you know what? I love it.
5758254
Guilty as charged, I'm afraid.
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Wat.
Uhmmm
Should read "der Überkeks himself"
Besides this nitpicking: Strange read, if you are sober. Should re-read it after the other half of your bottle of scotch...
5758766
Ah, yes. That Muslim terrorist organization. al-Qahol.
5758766 Huh, now I know how Douglas Adams came up with most of his shit. This chapter keeps bringing me back tothe Infinite Improbability Drive
5759724
Huh. Don't know why I thought that was akkusativ at the time. Drat.
Trotzdem bin ich zufrieden, dass es Sie gefallen hat.
5759998
Nah, I think he had the benefit of just being wired that way. Alas, some of us require a little more . . . mental lubrication to get those particular gears turning.
5759974
Crafty bunch, that lot. Fighting the rest of humanity one brain cell at a time. A devious stratagem, truly.
what is this I don't even?...
5760060
I'll send Seal Team Six out for Osama bud Weiser.
5760239
Yes.
I am so confused my brain actually hurts.
My life is complete now.
5772378
You're welcome.
5773524 Dat wall of comments, tho.
5761334
'Seals', you say?
pbs.twimg.com/media/BhboBg2IIAANGk4.png
5758766
quickmeme.com/img/fb/fb4821a55878e400ce303c79cd0aff6a97bc6ac5e61181e7598338deff5bc8f5.jpg
Let the alcohol and randomness floooow through you...
Oh and also...
It's not just a man...
It's THE Man.
i0.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/166/745/queen-rock-group-freddie-mercury-in-concert-at-st-james-park-in-newcastle-1986.jpg
5779132 I meant the girl from the previous chapter who the changelings made their new queen, sorry if I didn't communicate that well
5781074 oh right from Pacific rim, I see.
~Leonzilla
5778212
I knew I recognised it from somewhere! Thanks for clearing that up.
Incidentally, this makes you the third person to recognise themselves in that passage. Maybe I characterised you lot better than I thought!
WHERE?! Where did I see this?! I know I've read that exact ending somewhere before
Done.
...this is to meta fiction, what meta-fiction is to normal fiction
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Now, the real question is, is that a good thing or not?
I actually took the liberty of counting the perpetual beds within beds, and, correct me if I'm wrong, Fifty-Four (54) beds
and before you say anything, no I don't have a life
I actually got a headache from trying to understand this.
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Eh. I’ve seen weirder. Probably helps that I’ve seen that one scene at the end of 2001.
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No, no, no, my dear sire. This is beyond meta-fiction. This is the tardegrade of meta-fiction, the umpteenth power of the ultimate level of pure, unfiltered meta-fiction.
Your average fiction pales in comparison to the unadulterated, unfiltered might, that is this meta-fiction. To gaze upon it is to gaze upon the eyes of god himself, and to see it, is to see unto the very core of one's own being and grasp its bussom in awe of all that is right.
For the mind to grasp and wrap itself around the scale and magnitude if this meta-fiction, to bathe in its presence and bask in its glory, to thrust their lobes upon it and embrace it in its loving struggle, has left any lesser mortals a jibbering, slobbering mess -- their bodies empty shells, their souls ripped to shreds and torn asunder by the blazing, unyielding, purifying force of this glorious piece of literary mastery of the forces of nature, the mind, and the body itself!
The untold, uncountable, battered, husks of a man, lay dormant in the wake with only one thing to be said:
"Eh, 's alright."
(loved tha chapter, to both Admiral and Cygnus
)
(Excuse me whilst I go mop my brains off the ceiling)
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This chapter was, beyond a doubt, the very epitome of what this story represents, and insanely brilliant. You can read it through several times and still find more layers of it within itself. Honestly, I'll have to poke Cygnus with it and see if I can goad him into writing something random again.