Chapter Fourteen

after which the author mistakenly believes he has overshot his target sufficient that he may take the ensuing morrow off

“Stop grabbing me while kicking over everything in sight,” says Billy Mitchell. “What’re you meant to be doing anyway?”

“Whatever it is, it made a lot more sense when you were still out cold. Have you seen my umbrella?”

“No.”

“Well just let me keep hold of you long enough to kick over everything in sight in the adjoining room while investigating the commotion.”

“That makes even less sense,” says Billy, removing the last embedded saw from his arm.

“Well maybe it would make more sense to you if you went back to being out cold.”

“Not a chance.” To his wounds Billy applied his secret recipe antibiotic ointment that began life as his great-great-to-the-power-of-great grandad’s hot sauce. Unfortunately it still contained enough hot sauce that it stung like the dickens. Here Billy let out an out-of-character whimper.

“We’ll do this,” you say. “I’ll keep hold of you while you follow me into the next room, kicking over everything in sight. Meanwhile, I’ll be investigating the commotion.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny,” said Billy, even more uncharacteristically, “if the commotion itself was the sound of someone else kicking over everything in sight?”

“That’s not something the Billy Mitchell VII I know would say,” you say, still ahold of him.

“It’s the hot sauce I mean the triple-action antibiotic ointment. In addition to being as hot as hot my ancestor’s sauce, it also has a cannabinoid effect.”

“Well try to stay focused. The mechano-farthing lies in ruin; I don’t know where my umbrella is; I’ve over-relocated my shoulder; and we’re potentially about to walk into the fight of our lives. Not to mention the fact that the author is already bored with this chapter, and we still have over 1,300 words to go.”

More commotion behind the door to the rest of the house. This is it. Imagine some tedious obligatory tension-building passages here. Nobody cares. Just go ahead and be on the edge of your seat without the author having to do the hard work to put you there. You’re a grownup. You can put yourself there. Now, when you read the following passage, be ready to wet yourself.

You wet yourself.

No, sorry. I mean you open the door.

Now imagine loads of passages about what you find. You know a jump scare or something. But really it’s just the chinchillas, chinchilling. Chinetflix and chinchilling.

That one was unforgivable. The author suggests you don’t forgive it. And since you’re holding a grudge anyway, the author may as well commit a host of narrative sins more. Not like the sin the chinchillas are getting up to, expressly forbidden in the new chinchilla testament. You leave the details to the chinchillas, along with their privacy, and make your way through the corridor with your hands over your eyes.

Now you’re back in the foyer, where this whole affair began. Your ermine-lined dressing gown lies on the floor in a heap. In a better story, the assassin would make a reappearance here, but thankfully the author still has to make good on those narrative sins he aforementioned. The first of which is to use aforemention the way he just did. The second of which is draw out the time between plot-advancing action scenes.

“I’m gettin’ a little woozy!” says Billy, and sits down on the staircase. “And this hot sauce I mean cannabis I mean ointment is giving me hot mouth I mean cotton mouth I mean triple-action antibiot.”

“I don’t even have anything to say at this point.” Which is a lie, because you said that at least. You lean on the banister. Whether or not there was a banister there to lean on is beside the point. And just what was the point? Over 20,000 words in and you’re right back where you started, the only difference that Super Saiyan Billy Mitchell VII is here with you, getting high off his own supply. And the postal service now considers you wild game.

But it’s still too early in the story for the all-is-lost moment. Ideally now should be the transition from the first act to the second, where the tension really ratchets up and you’re squeezed further along into the action, only ever able to react to the immediacy of your predicament. But to be frank, nothing could bore the author more. Silliness and story are antithetical, and the latter isn’t why people come to a comedy in the first place. Neither is any of this, come to think.

You take a seat a few steps above Billy and bury your face in your hands. Is this how it all ends? With a whimper like the one that just made you lose all respect for your little friend here? But every end brings a new beginning. Every door closed leaves another one open.

Sure, tell that to anyone who’s ever been trapped in a cellar. Your story seems to have found its way into a metaphorical one. If only all the chapters could be like the last one. If the author had your permission to make them all more like the last one, he might not be facing this crisis. It also doesn’t help that he’s experiencing a coffee crash, which can only be remedied by more coffee, which isn’t advisable this time of night. Just bear with him. We’re coming to something good here.

Well, maybe not good, per se. But something, to be sure. And that something is the 900-word mark. Only 800 to go. A celebration is order, in the form of a realization. That’s a realisation for those of you in countries where they spell correctly. Whatever your poison, it dawns on you that while every closed door might not bring about another open one, a closed wardrobe can always be re-opened. You rush up the rest of the stairs and fling open yours.

The cavalier outfit awaits, precisely as you left it. Why, you could even use your current fake mustache with it, just as was suggested in the opening chapter. But do you dare give up on your current adopted persona? It has gotten you out of more than one jam so far. And you haven’t even really worked out how to use the umbrella yet. However, you could give your current ensemble to Billy as a hand-me-down. You could swap clothes, for that matter. It would be just like the Prince and the Pauper Saiyan. Or if you don’t like any of your other choices, you could pick up your ermine-lined dressing gown and maybe make a crown from a piece of cardboard. All told, you have four options. And Billy has four options.

Remember that the mechano-farthing is wrecked, so if you decide to carry on in your current state, it may have to be with a thematically inappropriate form of transport. But it occurs to the author that he planted a dirigible with the phrase ‘pretend everything’s great’ spray-painted down the side in the distant skies of chapter one. You were meant at some point to pilot that, but the author only remembered it just now. If you choose to remain in raiment, as they say in Rhymo-literatown, no different than the raiment you’ve remained in up to now—that is to say, the same outfit—just forget everything I said about the dirigible after you make your choice to avoid spoilers. Remember it up until then, though, because it really should inform said choice.

“I’ll wear whatever you want, Cindy!” Billy is talking in his sleep, evidently dreaming about someone called Cindy, but you take it as his permission to be told which option he’ll be wearing henceforth.

Not that he’ll necessarily be your sidekick from now on. Don’t let that be your deciding factor. He may die immediately after changing clothes. In fact it may be the case that he has a rare condition like the Boy in Who’s Just in a Plastic Bubble Because He Likes Plastic Bubbles, whereby if he changes clothes it’ll kill him. Stranger things have been known to happen. Just don’t base your decision primarily on what Billy should wear, is all the author is saying. Regardless, though, you are also tasked with deciding what Billy is to wear, so remember that when your non-bionic parietal lobe needs to produce a choice. It’s really two choices—what you’ll wear and what Billy will wear. There are four options, and you must select one for yourself and one for Billy.

Also you can’t pick the same one for both. There isn’t room in any one set of clothes for two people. If somehow you want to wear any given option exactly as much as you want Billy to wear it, everything will explode. It doesn’t mean the story will end, just that every single thing you’ve known up to now, including yourself, will explode. What comes next is anyone’s guess.

Now… having said all that, let’s discuss your options, shall we?

A. Your current garb, which, despite only just having been cleaned, is looking rather worn out after the crash and the acid pelting. But it does have some rather nifty accessories—the umbrella, for instance—and don’t forget it’s thematically appropriate to piloting the dirigible. Oh wait, do forget that. But only after you’ve made your decision. And if you don’t want to wear it yourself, you can always give it to Billy.

B. The cavalier outfit. Comes with a sword; you’ll get to re-apply the mustache. But keep in mind that finding an appropriate mode of transportation may prove challenging. It certainly rules out any of the classic cars in the garage.

C. The Billy Mitchell Special: Black button-down, tone-on-tone black denim jeans, severed American flag necktie. Maybe some hair extensions for the mullet if the chinchillas are chinwilling to donate their surplus. I’m sure we can at least scrape up enough for the beard. Heaven knows there’s plenty of spirit gum. Or Billy can just carry on dressed thusly. Or drussed thesly, as they say in Rhymohyouknowwhereeverthehelltheysaystuff.

D. The ermine-lined dressing gown, the thing you were wearing when we first found you. What you’ll have underneath is anyone’s guess. Most likely your Walt Whitman birthday suit, but that’s not yours to decide. The dressing gown option comes with no guarantees. It also comes with no enthusiasm from the author. He just needed a fourth option to hit his word count target.

Remember that you’re not just picking your own outfit, but that of renowned fashion plate Billy Mitchell VII. So what, then,

do you:

both wear?

The voting period for this chapter has ended.