In Which You Die and the Story Ends (Part 2)

Leaning back, you gaze at the simple sentence that is packed with so much meaning.

But someone who doesn’t have a name . . . does that mean he lost it? Or that he never had one in the first place? If he never had one . . . does that mean his parents didn’t give him one? Does he even have parents? Slowly, your fingers move, and you type out a short message:

I’m sorry.

Seconds later: Don’t be. It doesn’t matter. Names are useless.

No they’re not.

Yes they are.

But what should I call you?

Weird Wizard of the Wondrously Wonky Words has a nice ring.

Gazing at the unsettlingly long name, you inwardly shake your head. Nope, not happening. However, you can’t help but notice . . .

Do you like the letter W? you ask.

And if I do? he replies.

What about William? you offer.

What about William? he retorts.

As a name.

I know it’s a name.

No, like, use William instead of the W5

Ya lost me.

No I didn’t.

Seconds pass, and you decide that what worked one way must work another.

William

William

William

William

William

William

FINE!

What, you don’t like it?

I don’t CARE

Why?

Z

Moron

Muppet

What?

Exactly.

You sigh and with one hand, pinch the bridge of your nose. This is getting confusing. You are just about to send another message – something a little mean for your own tastes, but he deserves it – when he speaks instead:

Get ready to die.

What? You reply.

You saw the chapter-title, I assume.

Yeah, but that’s what the last chapter was titled. And I notice I haven’t died yet.

That’s because it was Part 1

I didn’t see that.

Then you must be blind.

(moments later)

Nope, just checked. The previous chapter has absolutely no “Part 1” You confirm

To your eyes. he retorts.

What’s that supposed to mean?

What if the “Part 1” is invisible?

What’s the use of that?!

Did I say it had to be useful?

I think you’re just bluffing.

Ah, but that’s where your weakness lies.

Where?

“You think” is a completely irrelevant statement when associated with you.

Are you saying I can’t think?

I didn’t say anything.

Actually, you’ve been saying a lot.

And who’s fault is that?

My pleasure.

But this is still getting annoying.

OK, can we just cut the garbage? you type.

Sorry, I don’t have any scissors.

Your tongue should work.

That would be fun.

Glancing up, you observe that what used to be around 11:05 has now advanced to nearly 11:55. Lunch time soon. But you don’t want to lose this opportunity, so it becomes a question of speech or food. And everyone knows that food is much more important than speech, so . . .

Hey, where are you? You ask.

Why? He replies.

Z. you retort with a smirk.

I am in the area of my placement.

Do you know where Sander’s Park is?

And if I do?

Meet me there, 12:05. I’ll bring lunch.

A short pause, almost like a hesitation, and then:

You don’t want to meet me.

Yes I do!

No you don’t.

Since when do you get to tell me what I want?

How about since I’m your author?

After all, considering it, you don’t really want to meet this freaky person. That 12-inch sub your mom left in the fridge for you does not fancy being shared. And you can tell, from all the way in your living room, that it is begging you to just eat it whole. No one to help, no one to share with. All that delicious deli meat, tomatoes, sauce, cheese, olives, sautéed onions and peppers and . . .

Nope, not gonna work, you send.

It was worth the try. He replies. You can almost see the smirk on his face. Though you don’t know what his face looks like, so that’s kinda hard to do . . .

12:05 then? you say.

Maybe. he replies.

No, I want a definite answer.

Why?

Because I’m not going to sit in a park for an hour waiting for someone who isn’t coming!

Why not?

Stop changing the subject.

I’m sorry, what was that again?

William.

Hmm?

Are. You. Coming. At. 12:05?!

What if I can’t?

Then you would have said that before.

That’s what you think.

So you admit that I think?

Like a dinosaur. They went extinct.

And you think like a Dodo bird.

What?

Another extinct animal. You explain.

Oh, so this is a duel now, is it? He replies.

I was not aware of it being anything else?

Forgive me if I got the impression that you’re trying to share lunch with me.

Sorry, no can do.

So you’re not sharing lunch now?

I’m not forgiving you.

Such a virtuous reader.

Such a frustrating writer.

My pleasure.

I know.

This is going nowhere.

OK, how about this? You type, teeth grit in a vicious grin, If you don’t join me for lunch, I will spam you with pictures of me eating this enormous 12-inch sub All. By. My. Self.

You realize, he replies, That that would be the perfect black-mail?

Last I recall, spam is labeled with a red icon.

You know what I mean.

Do I?

Of course you do, but this guy deserves a little dodge-it after all he’s been giving.

Yes or no. You demand.

Maybe? He replies.

Definite.

‘Maybe’ is a contraction consisting of the words ‘may’ and ‘be’ which indicates that what is to happen need not necessarily happen, nor is it certain to fail-

I didn’t say ‘define it’ I said ‘Definite’! As in ‘a definite answer Right. Now.’

Seconds pass, and you resort to spam mode.

Definite

Definite

Definite

Definite

Definite

Definite

Very well. He finally replies.

A smile of triumph beams across your face, and you are just about to turn off your phone, when another message appears:

Under one condition.

You get a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

What? You reply.

I get the WHOLE sub.

Not even giving yourself time to think, you reply:

Deal.

Still excited to meet me? He says.

And this time, it’s your turn to send a very unflattering emoji.