Enough detours, I want to see Christopher with Lucy Lim.

  That was just about to get fun.

  Christopher scuttled out of the lecture hall after Lucy Lim, ducking as the professor launched a chalkboard eraser at his head with uncanny accuracy. “You’re an insult to the very concept of intelligence!” the professor roared, his voice cracking from sheer rage. As the door slammed behind them, Lucy yanked Christopher by the elbow, dragging him over to a broom closet like they were breaking into the Vatican archives.

  Inside, in the dim, dubious light of a flickering bulb, Lucy pounced with a wild abandon usually reserved for squirrels spotting a feeder. With a dramatic flourish, she peeled Christopher’s shirt off to reveal a body that could best be described as “barely assembled.” It was like someone had cobbled together a person out of cooked noodles and undercooked breadsticks. Each muscle—or was it a bone?—seemed to vibrate with a nervous energy, like it was considering quitting its job entirely.

  “Oh, Christopher,” Lucy breathed, trying to maintain the thrill, her eyes glimmering with something between confusion and mild horror as she lowered her gaze.

  “Christopher… I just... I didn’t realize.” She looked down, her eyes widening as she stifled a laugh. His pants had dropped, and there it was—a penis so tiny, so outrageously small that it seemed almost abstract. It was as if his body had gone for “minimalist chic” and overshot the mark.

  “Oh… oh my God,” Lucy whispered, covering her mouth to stifle the mounting laughter. She tried to recover with a polite smile but immediately broke down, clutching her stomach as giggles spilled out of her like a busted dam. “Christopher, it’s like someone accidentally hit the ‘shrink’ button during manufacturing and… just never hit undo!”

  Christopher’s face turned beet red. “It’s the cold! Broom closets are practically iceboxes!” he argued, pointing wildly at the vents in the ceiling, hoping she’d somehow believe they were inside an industrial freezer instead of a broom closet sandwiched between classrooms.

  Lucy choked, laughter bubbling up again as she doubled over, gasping for air. “Christopher, I mean, I think my pet goldfish has a bigger… appendage. I can’t—” She wheezed, practically crying now. “I mean, are you sure you’re not a lost LEGO piece?”

  He straightened up in a last-ditch attempt to salvage his pride, putting on what he thought was a smoldering, rugged kind of look, a smirk that read dangerous and desirable. “Well, Lucy, maybe you’re just overwhelmed by my powerful energy. Maybe my aura alone is—"

  But Lucy had collapsed onto the floor, rolling in laughter so intense she was starting to look like a potato bug caught in an existential crisis. "Oh, Christopher, your aura is… as powerful as a deflated pool floaty!"

  Tiny brain and tiny penis.

  I haven’t had this much fun in years!

  “Hold up, hold up…wait a minute!” Christopher exclaimed in his usual overactive tone. “You’re doing it to me again! Only it’s worse this time…”

  Christopher looked around, sporting an almost cute, confused expression on his face as though he had just awakened from a cheeky bout of sleepwalking. He was in a closet with Lucy Lim. She was laughing at him, specifically at certain parts of him. He stood there naked, only half remembering how he had come to be here.

  “I told you I didn’t want to have sex with her! I told you I don’t care about Lucy Lim or the exam or any of this!”

  And it was true: Christopher had expressed his displeasure with the narrative. He had droned on to a tiring degree about his desire to create his own narrative, to demonstrate his own artistic prowess. But Christopher, as stated before, was a bit of a dunce. He had to be reminded about the impossibility of this many, many, many times.

  “And why the small penis thing? What does that have to do with the story?” Christopher continued his nagging.

  Because you said you didn’t want to have sex with her.

  I only honored your wish, didn’t I?

  You didn’t have sex with her because your member was…lacking to say the least.

  The rage that had been simmering inside of Christopher was beginning to poke its dirty, stupid head out into the open. Christopher had seen enough.

  He wanted out and he wanted it fast.

  “A noxious coalescence of Victorian-era makeup and upper class blood now adorned the adjacent patios as Samantha and Ingrid’s brawl intensified.” Christopher began.

  No, not this time.

  No more Samantha, no more Ingrid.

  Only you.

  Everyone wants to know what happens to you next.

  You wouldn’t deprive them of closure, would you?

  “Why should I care? You don’t care about me?”

  Now why would you say that?

  I care about you.

  I’m just not going to give you what you want.

  “What’s the difference? God damn.. I just want to get out of here. At least write me out of the story, let me die then if you won’t give me my freedom!”

  Christopher attempted to gain control of the narrative himself.

  “Christopher went home and climbed into his drab bathtub in his subsidized, shit apartment, his toaster in hand. He plugged the toaster into a nearby outlet and dropped it into the tub, electrocuting himself to death. Ending his sad, strange, and terrible life. How about that?”

  You know it doesn’t work that way.

  You’re not getting out of here that easily.

  Christopher still stood there in the “slightly too cold” closet with Lucy Lim, now ranting about suicide in a bathtub.

  However, there was no bathtub and there was no toaster. Just a pathetic, confused, weak, small man.

  There.

  Do you get it now?

  I write the story, you just dance.

  Dance like a monkey.

  When you throw away your pride, you might actually start having fun.

  Let’s give it another go.

  As Christopher stood there, awkwardly half-naked, his face flushed and his pride in tatters, his phone buzzed in his hand. Still trying to regain some semblance of dignity, he glanced at the screen. Mom. He sniffled, attempting to straighten up and maybe win back a sliver of Lucy’s respect, but her laughter only grew louder, like she was watching the world’s saddest magic trick unfold in slow motion.

  “Hello?” he answered, voice wobbling.

  On the other end, his mother’s voice was warm for a brief moment. Then, with a sigh that was somehow both weary and deeply amused, she got right to the point: “Christopher, honey, this isn’t easy to say, but… you were adopted.”

  Christopher’s jaw dropped, and his eyes filled with fresh tears that glistened in the dim closet light like the world's most tragic disco ball. Lucy, who had nearly composed herself, took one look at his stunned, tear-streaked face and lost it again, doubling over with fresh peals of laughter.

  He croaked, “Wait… adopted? Why… why didn’t you tell me?”

  His mother continued with a tone that somehow blended apology with total indifference. “Well, Christopher, you were a bit… off, even as a baby. Not much to work with, you know? And we thought… well, we just hoped you’d maybe… improve with age. But here you are, disappointing us all these years later.”

  The words hit him like a truck made entirely of sad trombones. He sniffled again, his shoulders shaking. “Mom, I—”

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to say. ‘But, Mom, didn’t you love me anyway?’ Look, honey, love’s a strong word, okay? I mean, have you looked in the mirror recently? You’ve always been, well, let’s say… unfortunate-looking. And it’s not just the face, it’s… it’s all of it. The, uh… the whole package. Frankly, it’s insane you thought we were really family.”

  From her end of the call, he could hear his mother stifling a laugh, then finally just letting it out. She was absolutely cracking up, like she was sharing a hilarious joke with herself, each cackle undercutting whatever remnants of his dignity were left.

  Lucy, meanwhile, was now slumped against the wall, wheezing with laughter. “Oh my God, Christopher, this is… this is actually too much,” she managed to gasp. “You’re like… if sad violin music was a person.”

  He stood there, trembling, clutching his phone in one hand, his last shreds of self-esteem in the other, and his mother’s voice chimed back in, dripping with mock sincerity. “Listen, I’ll let you go, loser—I mean, honey. I’d say ‘take care,’ but let’s be honest: no one really expects much from you at this point.”

  And with that, she hung up, leaving him standing naked, pathetic, and utterly destroyed in the closet. Lucy wiped a tear of laughter from her eye, looked him up and down one more time, and finally muttered, “Well… good talk, Christopher,” before slipping out of the closet and leaving him alone with his humiliation and his ridiculously tiny, sad little “appendage.”

  How could I ever let you die when we’re having moments like these together?

  This is fun, right?

  Suddenly, a spark of understanding—a revelation of sorts—began to sprout in Christopher’s tiny thinking organ. They saw him as a play thing, as a toy. If he just went along with it entirely, if he followed along and did the song and dance, maybe they would get bored with him. Maybe if he relinquished himself completely and entirely to this process, they would finally leave him alone.

  “Alright..” Christopher said, his tone weaker now, his shoulders slumped. “Let’s get on with the story. What happens next? My arms get chopped off? I fall into a vat of human shit? My clown car runs out of gas in the middle of the desert and I’m forced to scrawl a giant ‘SOS’ into the sand with my crayons and highlighters?”

  Those are some nice ideas, but I was thinking we go in a different direction.

  I do very much appreciate your willingness to cooperate, though.

  I think you’ll find the next part is going to be a good time for the both of us.

  And so Christopher resigned himself to the process. He cast himself into the warm, open arms of the narrative. It would be easier for him. Easier to shut off his brain flow with the current, wherever it might take him. It would be easier to be led around like a blind dog, eating and drinking when told to.

  He shuffled back into the lecture hall, shoulders slumped, a visible portrait of pure, distilled misery. He’d forgotten his keys, of course. The entire class burst into laughter as he trudged in for his humiliating “walk of shame.” Even the professor couldn’t help smirking as Christopher grabbed his keys, muttering a tragic “thanks” under his breath before bolting.

  Out in the parking lot, he sat in his car, sobbing pathetically into the steering wheel, his face contorted in a way that was somehow even more pitiful. His cries had that sad, honking quality, like a duck slowly deflating.

  Finally, he decided that enough was enough. He would drown his sorrows, maybe even drown himself in a bathtub, he thought with a shrug.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Pulling into a gas station, he went inside to buy a bottle of the cheapest whiskey he could find. As he reached the counter, a lottery ticket tumbled in through the door on a breeze. It drifted, like fate—or at least something that looked a lot like junk mail—landing at his feet.

  Why not? he thought, sighing. He shoved it into his pocket and left.

  Later that evening, half-drunk and slumped on his couch, he checked the numbers, preparing for yet another disappointment in his sea of perpetual despair. But this time, the numbers matched.

  They matched perfectly. In a fit of disbelief, he nearly choked on his whiskey as he realized: he was a winner.

  A millionaire.

  The irony was rich and he was even richer. With his newfound wealth, he transformed his life. No longer the sad figure shuffling to retrieve forgotten keys, he became a man of opulent excess. His luxuries were so excessive he had gold-plated coasters for his drinks, a closet of peacock-feather coats, and a rotating team of life coaches tasked with boosting his fragile ego. And though he was still very small, very ugly, and very stupid, he was also rich enough to, well, buy a bit of respect. He even managed to hire companionship on occasion, a sad transaction that still left him feeling just as empty inside.

  Years later, he was the proud owner of every shipyard in Southampton.

  He’d purchased a fleet of comically enormous ships. Gargantuan ships for a man with a tiny, tiny penis. They were the kind of ships that looked like they were designed by someone with a grudge against all laws of naval proportion.

  Then one day, his daughter, Samantha, sat on the patio overlooking their lavish estate grounds. She was joined by her father, Christopher’s business partner’s daughter, Ingrid.

  “Stop!” Christopher shouted, as though awakening from a fever dream. “You stole my thing! The shipyards, the patio, Samantha, Ingrid…That was my story! You took it from me!”

  I thought you said you weren’t going to interrupt anymore.

  “I tried…I really tried to just go with it. But this is a step too far, surely. You berated my story, calling it ‘shit’ more times than I can count, and now you’re taking that from me, too?”

  I didn’t say your story was shit…

  I said your storytelling was shit.

  A fact which remains, very unfortunately for you, true.

  “Samantha and Ingrid sat in the garden. They sipped their tea with cold, hardened expressions. Samantha did not care for Ingrid, believing her to be something of a bitch. Ingrid, held very much the same sentiment in her heart, though societal expectations dictated that such venomocities be kept to oneself. They sipped their tea as awkward seconds stretched into awkward minutes.”

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Christopher wailed like a lunatic. “Those are literally the exact words I used when I told the story! And you said my storytelling was shit!”

  It was and it is in fact…shit.

  “Then why? Why throw it back in my face?” Christopher inquired.

  You should feel proud that your “Victorian girls” story was good enough to make the final cut.

  Show some gratitude for once.

  Christopher went silent once again. There was no use in arguing. His pleas, his cries, his demands would not be met. He used every neuron in his tiny brain to focus on one simple task: keeping his damn mouth shut.

  With Christopher’s cooperation, the grand tale could finally push forward.

  “A symphony of curses played inside Samantha’s mind as she smiled at Ingrid. Despite her hatred for the vile whore who sat before her, she was required to maintain a polite veneer. Their fathers were business partners, they owned all of the shipyards in Southampton.”

  Christopher remained silent despite the clear and blatant plagiarism.

  “Samantha tried for a long while to contain the poison within her, but she could hold it in no longer.”

  “Ingrid”, she said, her lip now quivering, “I know what you did.” Ingrid froze where she sat, her tea cup still in contact with her lips as she processed how she would respond, how she would feign ignorance. She knew exactly what Samantha was about to say. She knew that she had been caught.

  “You slept with my husband, didn’t you?” Samantha accused.

  Ingrid’s mind raced a mile a minute, twisting around a thousand possible excuses and escape routes. She could talk her way out of this. She could talk her way out of anything.

  But no. She decided she didn’t want to. Afterall, she hated Samantha.

  “I did sleep with him.” She admitted. “What are you going to do about it?”

  Samantha lunged from where she sat. Like a rabid animal poked with a stick she jumped across the table, spilling tea and crumpets onto the perfectly manicured lawn below.

  “You bitch!” A shrill cry erupted from somewhere deep within her. Samantha began pulling Ingrid’s hair.

  Ingrid dug her long, ornately decorated fingernails into Samantha’s face, digging and scratching like some sort of confused mole.

  Do you remember the next line, Christopher?

  “Why even ask me? I’m just a spectator in this whole thing…” Christopher lamented like the weak insect he was.

  Oh, come on…

  Let’s hear it.

  What’s the next line?

  Christopher exhaled slowly, knowing that he would be forced to recite the line one way or another.

  “A noxious coalescence of Victorian-era makeup and upper class blood now adorned the adjacent patios as Samantha and Ingrid’s brawl intensified.” Christopher recited verbatim.

  Bingo!

  That’s the line!

  Now, let me ask you something…

  What was going to happen next?

  What happens after Samantha’s primal outburst?

  Christopher paused for a moment. Why was he being asked this question? They had never listened to his ideas before. They had never asked him what he thought before. If anything, anytime he attempted to express himself he was silenced immediately. Why the sudden change in demeanor?

  “No.” He replied, short and curt.

  What do you mean “no”?

  Christopher’s tiny frame expanded ever so slightly as he channeled what he considered to be a brave response. “You want to hear the end of the story? Write it yourself!”

  I think I’ll pass.

  What I will do though, is force you to write it.

  Christopher complied with the request and began weaving the exciting continuation of “Secret Lives of the Elite”.

  “Samantha and Ingrid fought until they could not fight anymore. When all was said and done, they laid on the ground, a most undignified position for women of their stature. Their chests rose and fell rapidly as they heaved away the exhaustion from their kerfuffle.

  Samantha turned to Ingrid, her face bloody and her eyes red. ‘Ingrid. I’m sorry.’ She said, almost a whisper.

  ‘Sorry for what? It’s me who should be sorry…I fucked your husband.’ Ingrid replied, shame in her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry that I never really gave a chance to our friendship.’ Samantha explained.

  ‘I guess I should be apologizing, too then…I was always jealous of you, Samantha.”

  Wait…

  Why is this shit?

  Why does the story suck?

  What are you doing Christopher?

  Christopher flashed a wry smirk. “Because I’m not writing this story.”

  What do you mean?

  I’m making you write it right now…

  “Exactly.” Christopher replied. “You’re making me write it. It’s not me, not my words, not my story. You’re manipulating me to write, just as you manipulated me to dance to your tune before.”

  Exactly, I’m making you write it.

  So why is it shit?

  “Wow…you called me a moron and a nincompoop and a dunce…but it’s you who doesn’t get it? You making me write is just you writing.” Christopher explained, actually making sense for the first time.

  “If anything,” he went on, “it’s your writing that’s shit.”

  No, no…

  That can’t be true.

  I demand you write it again!

  Write it better this time!

  “You can force me again, but it’s just going to be the same thing…The only way the story is going to be good, the only way it’s going to be anything but shit, is if I write it of my own, free will.”

  Fine.

  I admit it.

  I need you to write the ending.

  What happens?

  What does Samantha do?

  Does she kill Ingrid?

  Do they make up?

  Do Samantha and Ingrid get married?

  Does a meteor destroy all of Southampton?

  Christopher’s cheeky smile started small, but grew quickly, eventually consuming his entire, ugly face. “You really want to know what happens next?”

  Yes.

  More than anything.

  Christopher began to laugh. A small giggle gave way to a guttural cacophony of laughter. Christopher now controlled the narrative. Christopher held the power.

  Maybe he had held it all along.

  It’s hard to say. But he knew now that he could make a bargain.

  “I’ll finish the story for you on one condition.” He began.

  What’s that?

  “No changes. No editing. No second opinions. And most of all, no calling it shit.”

  Okay, okay.

  I promise.

  Go ahead, tell me what happens next.

  “Samantha and Ingrid continued at it, like wild animals. Leaping and screaming, scratching and crying, pulling and biting. However, they couldn’t fight forever. Eventually, they came to rest. They laid there, in undignified glory on the desecrated patio, covered in smeared makeup and dried blood.” Christopher began.

  “Samantha,” Ingrid broke the tired silence, breathing heavily, “I fucked your husband not because I wanted to sleep with him, but because I hate you. I’ve always hated you. You’re a dirty, nasty, wretched, rancid whore now, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Ingrid.” Samantha whispered.

  They wanted to fight some more, maybe even to the death, but they had no more energy.

  As they lay there, simmering in their mutual hatred and tending to their wounds, Samantha’s father—Christopher—came into the garden, having heard the commotion.

  “What in the hell happened out here? What did you girls do?” He inquired, worry painted across his ugly face.

  “We had a bit of a tussle.” Samantha admitted.

  “Oh, well that’s all well and good. Tussles can be good once in a while.” Christopher went on. “I do, however, have a bit of a request for you, my dear.”

  Samantha dragged her tired body towards her father, brushed off her dirtied dress, and rose to her feet. “And what might that be, father?”

  Christopher spoke nonchalantly, with a cool surety that contradicted the nature of his request. “It’s nothing major, sweetheart. I just need you to hold this for a moment.”

  Christopher revealed a Victorian era firearm, a pistol. Though it had become quite ambiguous at this point if these events took place in the modern day or the Victorian era.

  Samantha clasped the pistol’s handle tightly. “What do you need me to do with this?” She asked with a strange indifference.

  “Nothing too difficult.” Christopher assured her. “I just need you to point it at my head and pull the trigger.”

  Wait, no!

  Don’t do that!

  “No interruptions!” Christopher screamed out in the middle of the patio.

  Samantha was surprised by this outburst. “Who are you speaking to, father?”

  “Oh, it hardly matters. Do as I say and do it quickly.” Christopher rushed things along.

  “Alright, father.” Samantha spoke gently as she raised the firearm, focusing carefully on aiming it at the exact spot Christopher had instructed.

  Ingrid watched on, saying nothing. Not because this is a normal reaction, but because her compliance was necessary for the narrative to conclude properly.

  “Am I doing it right?” Samantha asked before pulling the trigger.

  Bang.

  The bullet flew straight and impacted its target: Christopher’s forehead.

  He fell without any semblance of grace to the already bloodied patio.

  He was—

  What?

  He was what?

  Goddamn it…

  He’s dead isn’t he?

  I guess Christopher found his way out afterall…

  Though now that he’s dead…

  My saying so will no longer betray our agreement.

  That ending was shit.