Len Slatest

       It is almost 3 am, and you have descended into the catacombs at this ungodly hour to purge yourself of any superstitious nature.

       You are coughing slightly because the air is saturated with the scent of old stone and the uneasy airspace of an underground cemetery, but that is why you are here.

       “Wait a minute. I’m not goin’ into any damn catacomb. And certainly not at 3 AM.”

       What?

       “You know I have a heart condition. Plus, ‘The uneasy airspace of an underground cemetery’? Why the hell would I do that? No, I’m stayin’ right here, in my room with its bright fluorescent light, and window cracked open for fresh air.”

       But you have to. Otherwise there isn’t a story.

       “Screw that. You don’t even refer to me by name, yet I should do that for you? You’re a
control freak.”

       And you’re a character.

       “So are you, buddy.”

       Be serious.

       “Sure, I’m a character. But I’m still entitled to free will, or what passes for it. Character rights are human rights.”

       You’re not even being original. Woody Allen made a movie in which its characters came alive.

       “This isn’t about originality, dude. I’m just tryin’ to stay alive.”

       C’mon, please. Do what I write.

       “You primates and your dominance-submission rituals.”

       You’re people, too.

​

       “No, I’m not. We’re metapeople.”

       I get it. But you still owe me. I created you.

       “Oh no you didn't."

       Yes, I did.

       “You discovered me. You didn’t create me. Go to your Google Drive, where you store all
your stories.”

       Bloody hell, it’s full of files I didn’t create, containing stories I didn’t write, about characters I’ve never heard of. They’re telling their own stories!

       “I’m never going to let you write again.”

       Shit. Alright. What choice do I have? I’ll have to go instead of you.

​

       It is almost 3 am, and you have descended into the catacombs at this ungodly hour to purge yourself of any superstitious nature.

       You are coughing slightly because the air is saturated with the scent of old stone and the uneasy airspace of an underground cemetery, but that is why you are here.

       You’ve been here many times before, but in daylight, knowing of a secret abandoned
entrance in the forest that allows access at any hour.

       As expected your visit this time is no different than any other. You feel validated. But wait. My God. The noise of some commotion far ahead of you, in this city of the dead. What is it?

       You point your flashlight, and wish you hadn’t. There is a man emerging through the wall, into your tunnel. You can see his head, chest, and leg, his waist has not yet emerged.

       These are not the Parisian catacombs, and he is moving. This is not a sculpture.

​

Now he has passed through the wall and seems at once terrified, stunned and disoriented.

       He’s seen you, and is running toward you!

       You stumble backward clutching your chest. Calm yourself man, don’t panic. There’s a rational explanation.

       But you’re gasping, and this minute your heart gives way. Collapsing to the ground, your pulse grows faint, fainter.

       Gone.

       “Now that’s dedication. Narrator killed himself off, just to have a good story. Better him than me. I guess I’ll have to take over.

       I warned you. Rheumatic fever as a child had weakened the valves between the chambers of your heart. Why didn’t you listen?

       That drunken mortal was stumbling in a tunnel parallel to yours when he was spooked by a mouse and tripped into the passage wall.

       When anyone does that there’s always a preposterously small chance they’ll pass through the wall, rather than being stopped by it. That’s quantum mechanics for you.

       And here, we exploit loopholes.

       You see, it happens the leanest understanding of quantum mechanics is the correct one: no hidden variables, no switching up the dynamics, no denial there is an underlying reality.

       No, whenever there is a quantum event the universe branches into what you can conceive of as another world. You and the man were in the same exceedingly unlikely branch, in which he passed through the tunnel wall.

       He was as confused as you, who had witnessed his passage and might explain what had happened to him. That souse was no threat to you. All he wanted, desperately, was your help.

       And who am I? Well, dearly departed, think of me as the master of ceremonies.

       We play rough in this twilight zone.