The First Minute: Prologue
This is a novel, otherwise known as a collection of neatly organized letters that form words strung into sentences, then into paragraphs, then into chapters forming a cohesive narrative. All this in a format rigorously dictated by arbitrary academics who I would assume said, “yes, this is good”.
In my not particularly infinite wisdom, I have strong reason to believe this novel does not exist. However, you dear reader provide proof that it does. Which means most things I understood about the world and it’s ‘laws’ of reality are thrown straight out the window. What window? Not sure, I wasn’t briefed on the origins of that idiom. I could pretend I went back in time to Prague in 1618 to coin it, but you know what, I didn’t.
Of course, being one of those novels, you may be curious as to what this is about? Perhaps you were clever enough to read the short synopsis (which may not have been very helpful anyway). Maybe you were devious enough to peek ahead. It could also be, through some miracle, you heard about this book from a trusted friend (stop trusting that friend immediately). There is quite literally an infinite number of possible situations that led you to this very moment in time to read this this. If you decide to proceed, despite having little to no knowledge of the contents of this book (electronic, or otherwise) you may be braver than you think. And foolish, definitely foolish, no doubt about that.
Like most stories, this story revolves around a protagonist. This protagonist happens to be a most unfortunate man, and unfortunately that unfortunate man is, as fortune would have it be, me. It is imperative I write of my experience; however, I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of writing this novel as the things I am about to describe have not happened… yet.
I’m absolutely confident I didn’t write any of this, but if I did, it would be this…
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TITLE TBD: Excerpt of "The Back Alley Between First and Fist"
“Oh…” A dry, single-syllable expression was all I could mutter as Thor’s metaphorical hammer struck. My arm went limp and that overwhelming sense of dread washed over me in a second tide.
“This is first street and—”
Before I could finish, a fist landed squarely on my right cheek. Though the initial impact was hard and heavy, the follow through was a literal trip, as if being shoved through time and space.
“I remember…”
“So Mr. White, tell us what compelled you to write that scene? Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed reading it, but you made me sympathize with this fictional character!”
With that, I was faced down on the pavement. Now, like most people, I wasn’t a fan of being punched in the face, so my little friend, let’s call him Rage, began taking control of my body.
“Well Bob, I wanted to keep pushing Alexander as far as I could. And see that was just the start, as you’ve all read, I’m sure,” Mr. White turned to engage the audience mid-sentence as some of them cheered, “it gets worse…”
With my rage induced body I faced a random group of street thugs that had assaulted me, wrong place, wrong time. My brain being was barely more than an adrenaline factory, as I curled my fingers to form fists. With that, I saw an opportunity and sucker punched the closest to me. There was a satisfying crunch of bones, fractures, both from my fist and of the face of my now opponent. My sense of dread was replaced with manic joy. I felt a swing of a bat land on my right thigh, a crowbar land on my left shoulder, a knife skim my right arm. The thrill of the fight was very real. But it wasn’t long nor was it mine to win.
“It had to get worse, but I wanted to keep things grounded, something that could happen to anyone. The type of thing people occasionally see or hear but feel is too distant from themselves, like we’re immune to these sorts of troubles till it’s us down on that pavement, till it’s us in that accident. We think of other people as exactly that, other people, not that it could be ‘me’. Alexander represents that.”
I'd be a bad liar if I said I didn't feel any form of excitement, but the sensation of pain was overbearing. I understood nothing more than primal rage. It was only a matter of time before enough swings of a bat, crowbar, and knife, would turn rage into a feeble plea for mercy. I could hardly understand why this all had to happen.
They paused on their assault to laugh at my pathetic state. I could barely make out what they were saying; at that point, it sounded more like static, white noise. I felt one of them reach inside each of my pockets and take anything they could find. Peering through what i could from my swollen cheek, I could see people looking in horror from across the street, some in disgust, but none of them did anything. I saw a couple kids recording from their phone. How long have they all been there?
I was slipping out now, things were going dark, but I could feel them dragging me to the back of the alley. Ready to pass out, i was struck with a few slaps that jolted me awake momentarily. Now, clearly seeing the face of my assailant my body wanted to run, fight, do something, but my body refused to cooperate. It was a terribly memorable face given that it was perfectly normal, unless of course you consider normal to not have eyes and have a large gaping hole for a mouth at least twice the size of a regular one. It struggled to articulate the following:
“Here’s your… package. Say… hello… to Mr. White… for me.”
