The Allbook, chapter 1 (non-SW)

The Allbook- chapter 1

Prologue

This is the prologue, and it goes like this:

There was a boy named Frank. Frank Cartwright, to be precise. He was born, as are all boys (and girls), and grew up, as do most boys and girls, doing the things typical to children: going to primary school followed promptly by secondary school, annoying his parents in the summer holidays with incessant requests to go to Alton Towers, watching Transformers, He-Man and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, playing Transformers, He-Man and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the playground.

Frank got chickenpox, measles, diarrhoea, the ”˜flu, and a host of other non-life-threatening ailments over the course of his young life. Like most children, he got over these, and encountered nothing more serious than a few run-ins with typical school bullies.

Later, Frank grew up. He lost his virginity at a college party to a girl named Sarah Pollitt, 17, blonde, a bit chubby but quite pretty. He got drunk more than a 17 year-old should but about as much as any 17 year-old does. He went to university after getting mediocre A-levels, did a degree in media studies, and drank and partied his way to a solid 3rd-class degree.

Frank left university, entered the ranks of the British workforce, and drifted aimlessly from one 12k a year data-input job to another. He was living the life of hundreds of thousands other reasonably intelligent underachievers stuck at the bottom of a graduate job ladder with far too many climbers and nowhere near enough rung. Frank came to realise, with a certain level of bitterness, that simply having a degree means nothing when everybody else your age also has a degree, some of them in real subjects.

It is here where Frank enters our story properly, currently working as an administrative assistant for an unscrupulous utilities company which promises to give their customers electricity and gas bills of 40% less than British Gas, and then promptly draws their attention to clause 38b of the verbal contract they just unwittingly agreed to in an ambiguous but legally watertight telephone conversation.

Bored and directionless, Frank fills his free time with Xbox360 games, DVD's bought from HMV's three-for-twenty-pounds line, and the occasional novel.

It is his penchant for novels that leads Frank not into a second-hand bookstore, as most prologues of this ilk might take us for an encounter with a wizened and mysterious old man (probably Chinese) and a dust-covered antique grimoire.

No, instead Frank is led into a branch of Waterstone's, all rows upon rows of the latest Harry Potter book or the most recent Tom Clancy thriller, literature en masse to appeal to the masses.

The book which Frank ends up purchasing wasn't overly eye-catching. If anything, it is its distinct lack of character, of personality, of well-crafted, colourful drawings of youthful wizards or menacing Soviet logos, which draws his attention to it. In a store filled with eighteen shelves of the same book and bright yellow stickers proclaiming how cheap everything is, the unremarkable suddenly becomes the remarkable.

The book is a rather dull, and yet wholly incongruous, brown colour. It isn't dusty or tattered or clothed in human skin; it's brand new, fresh in from the printers, its dust-jacket-jacketed hardback quite slender compared with the other z-list ”œauthors by letter”

Fascinating. Purely fascinating, Lee. Well written (as I would expect from you) and I actually enjoyed reading it. I loved the setup and how it is written.

What's with all the product placement!?

Chapter one

”˜Ahem.'

It is an ”˜ahem' charged with meaning. Frank can tell this even through the layers of sleep still festooning his consciousness. It is an ”˜ahem' which demands that the recipient of said pointed cough sit up, pay attention, and start listening to what its owner has to say. It is an ”˜ahem' which infers absolute disapproval of its chosen target. If it could speak, it would tell you what an indolent, freeloading waste of space you are and that if it had its way, you'd be out on the street looking for some other sap to put up with your slothful, work-shy ways.

”˜F've m' minutes,' mutters Frank, turning away.

The pointed silence which follows is, if at all possible, even more reproachful and disapproving that its articulated brother which followed before it. If the ahem was a ball hammer applied with a moderate amount of force, then the absolute lack of sound which follows is a noiseless sledgehammer right between the eyes. Suffice it to say, Frank gives in under the fierce soundlessness.

He turns slowly, blinking in the soft light, his annoyance at being awoken threaded with a vague curiosity as to why somebody was in his room.

A heavyset woman with a thick head of mousy brown hair is looking down at him sternly. Her unsmiling face reaffirms what her voice (and lack thereof) has just made very clear to Frank: yes, I do think you're a worthless slacker, and if you don't get up and off that couch in five seconds flat, my slipper and I are going to see what we can do about shaping up your bottom and your attitude, in that approximate order.

One immaculately maintained eyebrow climbs up slowly. Frank, despite himself, begins to feel very sheepish.

”˜Er”¦ do you mind”¦ that is”¦ I really”¦ you're in my room?' he begins, apologetically.

”˜Your room?' says the matron-like character. The words twist and squirm from her unimpressed mouth as if glad to be free of the totalitarian mind they have heretofore inhabited. ”˜Does this look like your room?'

”˜Er”¦ well”¦'

Frank looks around. It most certainly does not look like his room.

He is in what appears to be a rather drab hotel room. Old red velvet features prominently; the heavy, dusty curtains are drawn against the outside world, the reddish-brown furniture is chipped and faded, the lampshades are dark red and cast red-tinged light on the cream wallpaper. Frank is lying on the only couch, a dark brown leather affair. Several other people are sitting around in armchairs or on stools, gazing despondently into space.

”˜No,' concedes Frank, ”˜this certainly isn't my room.'

”˜Hmmph. Given that it is not your room, I suggest that you stop treating it as such and permit a lady to sit down.'

It will be noted that the large, matronly woman has the ability to italicise spoken language. The words grate on Frank's ears as every syllable drops clangingly into place, designed to make one sit up straight and feel generally worthless.

Frank sits up straight, the last tenacious cobwebs of sleep falling away, and does his best to avoid the gimlet stare of the woman as she heaves her bulk into a comfortable position next to him.

”˜Thank you,' she says. She could have remarked upon the dubious nature of his parentage, in addition to calling into question his virility, and still have not sounded more scathing.

Frank barely has time to wander what the hell is going on before the door's single room is pushed open and another person enters the room.

A young woman, maybe in her early twenties, walks in and fixes the assembled group with a distracted smile. She is carrying a clipboard and conducts herself with the air of one who has far too much to do and far too little time to do it.

”˜Right, ok, everybody here, are they?'

The seven or so people in the room exchange dubious glances, with the exception of Frank's new friend, who gazes stonily at the young woman.

”˜Where exactly is here?' says one man. He is smoking a cigarette as if he wants it gone from the world as soon as possible, sucking ferociously at it expelling jets of smoke every ten seconds or so.

”˜Good question, good question,' says the young woman, favouring him with a brief smile. ”˜This, ladies and gents, is the Allbook. You are all here because you read it. The Allbook, that is.'

There is a brief pause whilst everybody digests this information.

”˜I'm sorry,' says Frank, feeling that he really has to say something to this, ”˜are you saying that we're in a book?'

”˜Yes, that's right,' says the girl. The smile flutters across her face briefly.

”˜I see”¦' he says, not seeing at all.

”˜Look, I appreciate that you're all probably wondering what the hell is going on here,' she says, echoing Frank's thoughts exactly. ”˜You're most likely not seeing at all what this is all about. In saying this, I'm quite possibly echoing your thoughts exactly.'

Frank ponders this. The girl does seem to be saying pretty much exactly what he's thinking.

”˜All right, I want a goddamn explanation, and I want it right now,' blusters one man, a florid middle-aged type with an immense moustache.

”˜Look, you're all here for a very good reason. Some of you are here because you practically scream ”˜archetype'.'

”˜I really don't see how-”˜ begins blustering walrus man.

”˜You, for example, are a pompous, opinionated, blathering old goat. You'll bounce quite nicely off-”˜

”˜Hey, man, we need to chill out and take it easy, man-”˜

”˜”

Ha ha, I love it! Although the concept seems a little cliche and I can't say it's a wholly original idea, but it's still awesome. Can't wait to see where this is going.

I like it. Very well written, and an interesting storyline. I'm curious about the young woman with the clipboard. Who is she and what is her role, other than to inform the other characters about what is happening?

I look forward to reading more.

Are there going to be any more updates to this? I'm a big fan of what you have so far.

And a very interesting book it is! Except it definitely arouses curiosity and then leaves it hanging! When will there be and update?

”˜You just killed him!' gasps the matron.

”˜No, I didn't,' replies the young woman levelly. ”˜He is- or was- a fictional character, and a badly written, trite one at that. Much like the rest of you.

”˜Allow me to explain- my name is Chorus. I'm a sort of liaison between you lot and the author. Through me, the author can talk to you. I have this whole extradiegetic perception thing, means I can pretty much break the fourth wall at will. Although I have to say, I really got the short straw ending up in this particular story. Of all the possible fictional universes to materialise in, I get this one. It's typical, it really is.

”˜Anyway, this is the thing. Our author is looking to make his big break, enter the market with a bang, leave an impression on the public's imagination and maybe write the first in a series of books which will make him rich. That's where you come in.'

”˜I have a real problem with this idea that we're all just characters in a book-”˜ begins Frank.

”˜Ok, fine, I'll prove it. You ready?'

”˜Ah doubt that ye c'n prove much o' anythin', dahlin',' said the matron.

Frank looked at her suspiciously.

”˜Since when did you have a Texan accent?' he asks, still eyeing her as if expecting her to explode.

”˜Since the author just wrote her a Texan accent,' replies Chorus, grateful for the opportunity to have a name. ”˜What kind of name is ”œChorus”

‘It’sh gonna take more than a couple o’ petty changesh to my appearansh to break me, mishter-‘

 

And herpes.

 

‘All right, all right, you win,’ subsides Chorus, eventually submitting to the all-encompassing mystical power that has the power to alter any aspect of her, or even erase her completely from existence as if she never was, and she’d better not forget it any time soon.

Rofl... that was funny. Very British humor. I enjoyed it.

Welcome back.

Wow! I really thought you had just dropped this! But you didn't, and the dry humor is wonderful - but that's hardly a surprise.