New Novel.docasd

7/27/2019 New Novel.docasd

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A Novelists Guide to Waging War OnYour Main Character Because They AreAn Annoying Little Whinging Elephant

TurdBy Ryter Ortherly


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ONE:

Quick, get in the car, Cliff!We each opened a door of the discoloured rust bucket of a car and

attempted to get in without beheading ourselves on the ridiculous lowceiling.

Doctor Peabody, please dont call me Cliff. You know I hate beingcalled something that suicidal people use to facilitate their death. Not tomention the bungee jumping cords. Its like theyre attaching them to mepersonally when you call me Cliff. Clifton is just fine, thank you very much,even if it makes me sound like a rich mummys boy toff who doesnt knowhow to wash his private parts without the assistance of a maid or nanny.

Are you finished?Yes, I think so.

Doctor Peabody started the engine, rubbed his hands togetherexcitedly, and grasped the steering wheel as though it was a gift of puregold.

Today, Clifton Poole, you and I shall travel through time!Alright sure, but what rules of time travel are we going to abide by

this time? Will it be The Twilight Zone rules, in which we go to the past andwhatever we do has no impact on the present, making our trip utterlypointless, or will it be Back to the Future rules where we can changeabsolutely everything and possibly kill ourselves? Or for that matter, will itbe Life on Mars rules, where we crash this car and hope we dont end updead, but find ourselves 35 years in the past?

If by that you mean, are we operating by the grandfather paradoxand not by the predestination paradox or plain stupidity? Then yes.

Doctor Peabody was slowly accelerating, the engine of the carobviously protesting his attempts to floor it. The quiet suburban streetremained unaware of the pairs impending attempt to travel through time.

The leafy oak-like trees that shaded the road didnt move, and the fewparked cars remained dormant. As they should, of course.

So, dear Cliffy Wiffy, as soon as this DeLoreanAh, so its Back to the Future rules.Anyway, as I was saying, when this DeLoreanHey, wait! Why doesnt this DeLorean have the cool flip-up doors like

in the movie? I nearly decapitated myself trying to get in here!Yes, well I got this one for a steal and the doors fell off after Id driven

the car only twice. So I substituted them with the doors of a Lada Samara,because they were the only parts I could still afford after buying theDeLorean.

Right, so that would explain the big gaping holes in the roof wherethe rest of the doors should be. And that would also be the reason whymine doesnt close properly and Im currently trying to hold it shut.

Yes. So anyway, when this rotten egg of an old DeLorean reachesprecisely 78 miles per hour

Doc, you do realise that its meant to be 88, not 78.Yes of course Clifton, of course I realise its meant to be 88! A newDeLorean could barely reach over a hundred miles an hour, how on earth


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do you expect this abomination with questionable aerodynamic abilitycourtesy of doors produced by communist Russia to reach 88? Itll reach78, so that is the speed Ive programmed the Fucks Decapitator to workat.

Flux Capacitoris the term youre looking for, I think.

No, I couldnt afford a Flux Capacitor either, actually. So I made dowith a rival Chinese product, which I believe might have been a failedEnglish translation.

Oh well done. This is going to be a glamorous ride, I can tell.Were just lucky this is a particularly long stretch of road. The only

other place Ive managed to get it up to 78 is on a deserted runway.Right, so where are we going?Peabody turned to face me and boggled his eyes dramatically.On a journey through time!Yes, Ive worked that out. Now will you tell me where were going?Ah yes. Well, you see, thats just it.

I noticed the speedometer needle edge its way toward 70 miles perhour, on its way to the all important 78.

What do you mean?I mean, that it will be a journey.Yes, but the six hundred metres weve already travelled could be

called a journey also. Why wont you tell me?Well its a surprise.

The needle adorning the speedometer was now truly struggling to getpast 75. Peabody must have been right; his aerodynamically deficient(read diabolical) bomb would struggle to travel through time.

Youre a shocking liar, Peabody.Okay, actually, its an interesting feature that is, how would you put

it unique to the Fucks Decapitator.Which is? Is it unsafe for children, like every other Chinese

manufactured product?Its not quite that bad.How bad is it, then?Kinda bad.Kinda bad? What the heck is going on?Youre about to see.And sure enough, it was exactly as Hollywood cinematic genius had

predicted. In a series of retro 1980s lightning flashes, my body was suckedthrough the passage of time, compressing my innards to the consistencyof my nannas infamous meatloaf. We landed back into a smokyatmosphere, and I was unsure of my location in time. The thick fogsurrounded the DeLorean, and began to seep ominously through the holesin the car. The town of Sandy Bay had surely never experienced theseweather conditions in my lifetime. Unless I wasnt in Sandy Bay at all

We both climbed awkwardly out of the DeLorean, and a violentlysulphurous air quality overcame me.

It smells!Ah, said Peabody. We must be in New Zealand, then.

Thats horrible!Yep, the smell of the geysers sure is horrible, young Clifton.


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Why are we in New Zealand? I asked as I pinched my nose.You remember our special feature?Yes, I replied.The special feature is that the Fucks Decapitator will transport us

anywhere in the world.

Well thats kind of cool, I guess. Why on earth did you choose here,then?You didnt let me finish, answered Peabody, with a knowing smile.

As I was saying, the Fucks Decapitator will transport us anywhere in theworld. Randomly.

Sometimes, you can be so full of rage or angry with someone, that itdoesnt find passage to exit your body through swear words emanatingfrom your oral cavity. You just stand there, consciously aware that your

jaw is locked firmly in place, and that the tendons in your neck areprotruding menacingly.

And another thing.

I didnt answer.I dont have any control over the time mechanism. We could end up

at any point in history. Isnt that wonderful?I calmly sat back down in the DeLorean and silently waited for

Peabody to take me somewhere else. Eventually, I thought, we would turnup at a point in history that would be close enough to where we left off. Myreal life. Once I was back where I knew I belonged, I decided I would takeblissful pleasure in pulling the entire contents of Peabodys digestivesystem out of his body through his rectum. I was beginning to feel excitedat the thought.

Then I waited for what seemed like forever as Peabody attempted tofind a stretch of land large and flat enough to let the DeLorean reach 78miles per hour. I passed the time by envisioning the way I would scrapeout the contents of Peabodys small intestine with a spatula, and feed it tohim orally.

*Alright, where are we now?A creature along the lines of a Pterodactyl flew overhead the car, the

downforce of its wings sending a shudder across the frame of the car.Okay, Ill try again.

*

Whats this?This, Clifton, is 1955, where you will need to attend the school dance,and somehow set your mother and father on the course to a passionateromance, hopefully sparking the intimate moment in which you areultimately conceived.

Really?Probably not. Its just a tin shed in the middle of the desert.

*How about now? I asked, filled with the bored dread of knowing that

Peabody was surely about to crack another feeble joke. So I stared at myshoes. As you do, in these situations.

It looks like were on top of a mountain.


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I continued to examine the laces in my shoes, and didnt look out ofthe car. I wasnt going to fall for that one.

We really are, said Peabody with disbelief. Clifton, dont get out ofthe car without looking, because youll fall down the mountain.

Now he was just hamming it up.

Its beautiful. The land appears to be so fertile.A distinct rumble of the earth below shook the car, quietly at first, andthen louder.

Wait a minute, said Peabody urgently, this isnt a mountain. Itsits a

Volcano? I volunteered weakly.Oh GOD!!!As Peabody began to drive the DeLorean down the face of the volcano

to achieve 78 miles per hour and be transported from the certainty ofdeath by lava, I couldnt contain myself any longer.

Dont you think readers will find all this a bit tiresome? I mean, were

you going to fill the entire novel with this rubbish?What? Whats wrong, Clifton? Bad choice of storyline? Again?Even forgetting the fact you stole most of your ideas from a well-

known movie, and then changed all the names of everything so youwouldnt get sued for copyright? Yes, bad choice of storyline.

At this point, I feel that it is my duty to tell you, as your narrator, theworkings of author/protagonist relationships. The most commonmisconception with writing is that the author of a novel has completecontrol over the nature of their main character. This is simply not true.

In fact, it does not matter how much carefully crafted personality awriter injects into their protagonist, the reader will always interpret theircreation differently. The typical reader approach is to model the maincharacter on themselves. Regardless of gender, this phenomenon occursregularly. Its natural. So the personality of a main character is beyond thecontrol of the writer.

A main character can also converse with the writer directly, as youhave just witnessed. Another common misconception about writing is thatthe author is the sole creator of a piece of literary text. Not only is themain character involved, but a narrator like me is also vitally important inachieving completion of a collaborative piece such as this. But the authorstill gets all the credit, unfortunately. Even the main character gets their

name mentioned, quite often, during the course of a book. But you willnever ever hear the narrators name. My name, I mean. This is thestructure of literary society, and the fundamental oppression on which allnarratives are based. You will never look at a bestseller the same way, Imsure. Well, I hope, at least.

Anyway, the only things a writer really does have control of are theevents which take place in the story, the scenery (although I am proudlyresponsible for adjectival description) and the dialogue of the minorcharacters. Its not much, really, but some people can still get it horriblywrong. This is why a novel is a collaborative effort. So the more talentedcontributors (such as someone I know) can drag the less intelligent

contributors along with them, and hopefully construct an adequateproduct. Right, so where were we, before I interrupted?


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Oh man my publishers going to kill me if I dont have anythingwritten down by tomorrow

You can bet he will.Argh! Its easy for you to be all smug and righteous its not like

publishers can inflict doom on main characters. Even if you get sacked,

there will always be another desperate writer happy to have you for ahero. That writer wont care that youre a smart-aleck and havent yetgrasped the concept of being a gracious protagonist.

And thank you, Mr. Washed-up-old-hack-of-a-writer, for your kindcomplement.

Oh, dont pay any attention to me. I am washed up I used to knowhow to write bestsellers, but now that Im going broke and need themoney, I havent got an original idea to poke a stick at.

Clich alert you said to poke a stick at.You see? I couldnt write a great novel even if you recited one to me.

Its hopeless. And if I dont have a preview chapter to show to Mr. Big

tomorrow, I havent got a hope in hell of getting my advance payment.If youve been following these two as I have, youve probably dropped

off to sleep from all their boring bickering and moaning. If you havent, itmeans theyve confused you. When an author has a rare moment ofvirtuous inspiration (when they have a new idea for a novel, in otherwords), they pitch their idea to their contracted publisher. If the publisherlikes their idea, they will demand an opportunity to sample what thefinished product might be like. If, by some miraculous coincidence, theyare once again impressed by the writers work, they will commission thefull work.

The writer will receive payment once the full work has beencommissioned. Naturally, the amount of payment varies markedly,depending on the popularity of the author, the likely popularity of thework, and whether the publisher has a warm espresso coffee in his hand tokeep him in a good mood at that precise moment. But because the authoris contractually bound to complete the novel, now that they have receivedpayment, they will have a deadline for the manuscript to be completed.Essentially, thats what makes the literary world go around.

The writer I am currently teamed up with, however, is merely makingfailed attempts at creating a so-called sample chapter.

Listen. I dont want to hear your tragic life story. What did you tell the

publisher this book was going to be about, anyway?I said it would be a thriller. A landmark work of 21st century literature,guaranteed to leave every pair of eyes glued to its pages.

That must be rather painful, to have your retinas stuck to someprocessed woodchips with synthetic adhesive.

I said it would be seductively constructed an irresistible epic toappeal to all ages.

Okay, I see what youve done. Youve given yourself the most genericblurb you possibly could

Thats rightbecause you havent got a clue what you ought to write about.

Hole in one, Clifton. So it can be about absolutely anything, and it willstill fit.


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Providing its actually good, of course.And I need this chapter by tomorrow, because thats when we

arranged to meet. Our publisher is still a bit sceptical that Ive even gotanother good novel in me. I mean, my last one was slammed by everycritic from here to Timbuktu.

What, do you mean Honky Stonks, the story of a lovesick talking zoolion who has a secret erotic affair with his human zookeeper, but is sodevastated when he finds out that he cant actually mate with her thathe commits suicide? I read a review which said that reading it was sopainful that being tortured in Guantanamo Bay sounded comparativelyappealing.

Oh, that was nothing. I read one where the reviewer said it was so badthey actually burned the copy they were given to read. 0 stars as readingmaterial, but 10 out of 10 for bonfire material, apparently.

What were you smoking when you wrote that garbage?I told myself that I was being revolutionary. Going where no writer has

ever gone before. I figured that it had never been done before, so it was awhole new genre to explore. I thought it would be the next big thing.

You mean, you thought that doomed interspecies love affair tragedieswere going to be the next big thing? Are you serious?

Its easy to laugh at me now, in hindsight.All right, but the crux of the problem is that you need a brilliant

chapter of prose to show off tomorrow.It needs to be originalIt doesnt need to be original! All the best sellers the world has ever

seen are just better versions of old ideas. Think of Harry Potter, forexample. A boy that learns magic it had been done to death, but it didntstop J. K. Rowling! And, more importantly, remember what happenenedthe last time you wrote something truly original you wrote about afornication-deprived talking lion whose only wish was to hump the handthat fed him.

Okay, I see your point. Im never going to be able to decide what Ishould write about, though.

You dont have to! Just write a generic chapter! All it has to do isseem sufficiently epic and theyre bound to put a big juicy cheque in yourback pocket. Besides, youve already demonstrated that you can suck inthose dumb publishers with generic drivel.

Youre right. This is the style I was born to write!

TWO:

A new sun rose slowly above the murky and obscured horizon, illuminatingthe sky above with a pale blue wash of light. Clifton Poole stared outthrough the rooms mouldy French windows, which cast onto his face anominous dull shadow. Fixing a piercing glare at the outside world, he could

hear the sound of his own breathing. It was uneven.He pressed his hands to the cold, forbidding glass, and dipped hishead in acknowledgment of the gathering storm clouds outside. The wind


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picked up through the surrounding pine forest, and Clifton could see theripples that formed on the surface of the lake. As his gaze turned to meetthe lake, its expressionless dark waters were tinted a glossy piano-likeblack as denser clouds moved to obscure the feeble morning sunlight.

Clifton threw his left fist at a pane of square glass in the window, and

the resultant force caused the entire house to shudder loudly. The windowwas unyielding, but the fire that had been left to burn all night finally wentout, leaving a final, dramatic line of dark grey smoke rising up through thestone chimney. There was no more light left in the room, except for theflecks of greyish blue luminance which diffused through the thickeninggloom.

Sarah placed a delicate hand tenderly on his shoulder. You dont haveto, you know, she whispered softly into his ear. I mean, are you goingto?

Clifton shrugged her hand off his shoulder and pushed her away, moreharshly than he had intended. As he stared into her pleading eyes, he

could sense the anguish in her pale face.How can you say that? he growled, head bowed. After everything

thats happened, how can you say that?You know I didnt mean Sarah fluttered her eyes nervously and bit

her lip as she paused. You know I didnt mean what you thought Imeant.

Its in the past. Its over.Sarah could only stare as Clifton strode past her, brashly shoved her

aside, and slammed the bathroom door behind him. Sarah crossed herarms in a frail manner and collapsed onto a musty lounge chair. She tookin a deep breath, and smelled the air as she was taking it into her lungs; itwas a ritual she always did when she tried to calm herself down. Gatheringthe courage to move again, she rose from the chair and pressed her backagainst the bathroom door, feeling the texture of wood grain through hernightie. Succumbing to fear and despair, she slid down until she wassitting on the floor, and placed her head slowly into her hands.

Im scared, Clifton.Clifton didnt answer. He was staring at the cracked mirror he held in

his hands, but only the gaunt, expressionless face of a soulless, miserableman stared back. He searched his light blue eyes for any sense of sorrow,of grief. But there was none; only two cold, unfeeling retinas, stranded on

the surface of a broken mind.He walked over to the water faucet, and slowly turned on the cold tap,which made a protesting, creaking sound. He watched carefully as the firstfew drops of water splashed onto the surface of the mirror, and then lateras it became a steady stream, travelling down the large crack just right ofcentre.

He smiled at the sight of the water; so transparent, so unassuming. Herealised that he could see his own reflection in the mirror far clearerthrough the steady stream of water than he had previously. And hisfeatures told the story of a much different person than he had seen only amoment ago.

This person was angry, enraged, yet completely calm and in control.He kept his cool in a serene, peaceful manner, but was secretly sinister,


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dangerous, and lethal. He was excited, yet anxious; utterly exhausted, butperpetually sharp and alert. Was this the Clifton Poole the outside worldsaw?

Leaving the cold water running, Clifton placed the mirror carefully inthe sink and pressed his hands and left cheek to the door, listening for any

sign of Sarah on the other side. A restrained whimper alerted him to herpresence outside.Sarah, fly away from here.She sniffed meekly in response.Fly, fly far away. Away from from all this. And me.Sarah choked on her feeble words. And you?I want to save you, replied Clifton, trying as best he could to keep his

voice steady.But youre all I have.Clifton sighed deeply. Get up, Sarah. Let me open the door.He felt the pressure lift from the door, and he was able to turn the

knob to open it. Standing before him was Sarah, fidgeting with her hands,her face displaying the same pleading expression she had worn earlier.

Im sorry, Sarah. I truly am.Clifton strode past her with a new purpose. His brisk feet carried him

back into the kitchen, where he rummaged through the cupboards anddrawers. He could no longer breathe through his nose, such was theanticipation of what he was trying to find, and each breath he took with hismouth yielded a puff of watery smoke from the cold environment. Heclattered the forks, knives, spoons tossed aside large pots, but hecouldnt find it.

Clifton, what are you doing? Sarah poked her head around the cornerof the hallway and into the kitchen.

Clifton stopped his hasty rummaging to look deep into Sarahs eyes.Clifton considered her question rhetorical, and his thoughts wereconfirmed by a sudden infinitesimal dilation of her pupils.

You know very well what I am doing.Clifton continued his search until he saw exactly what he was looking

for. Silvery metallic, it didnt reflect the image of his face, even thoughCliftons nose could have touched it, he was so close. It was riddled withvarious cuts, bumps and incisions, like a secret code expressed on humblestainless steel. The handle was shaped to fit perfectly into his hand, and

Clifton grasped it, feeling the power of the object surge through his arm.Ive found it.Sarah bit her lip. Dont do it, Clifton, they want you to. They want you

to give in.Clifton did not listen. He held the stainless steel cheese grater high in

the air, and began to smile broadly, taking three slow and deliberate stepstoward the door.

No, I wont let you, Clifton. Sarah reached to hold him back. I WONTLET YOU!

Clifton pushed Sarah hard into the wall opposite, and she squealed asher back hit the brick wall. She was cradling her right arm; the cheese

grater had scraped off a mangled layer of outer epidermis. Her wounds,like Sarah herself, began to weep.


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But Clifton did not see. Clifton did not want to see. He ran to the door,pushed it open with barbaric force, and darted out into the bitter morningair. The leaves of the surrounding pine trees rustled as a gust of wind torethrough him and untidied his hair. Clifton held the cheese grater above hishead defiantly, and roared at the leering forest before him.

I AM READY!

THREE:

I am incredibly tired. What kind of moron does thatto their poor narratoranyway? I slept poorly last night after writing that drivel. Not because itwas horrible writing (although it was), but because I was so exhausted. Ididnt have the energy to get to sleep. I could throttle my writer.

Nevertheless, I learned something. I learned that writing drivel is probablythe most difficult thing you will ever write. That entire chapter was a blurfor me, and, if I succeeded, it was for you too, dear reader. But if our writercomes back today with a contract from Mr. Big the publisher, you can betthat I wont get the credit, even though I wrote most of it. Even though Iwas the one who made the drivel drivelly. Drivelly? I really am tired.

So, how did you go, washed up old man?This washed up old man just secured a contract. Mr. Big ate it up.

Sucker!I told you, didnt I? Now, what do you say, what do you say?Um Thank you, Clifton?

How about: Thank you, Clifton, for saving my career?Ha, ha. You are unbelievably arrogant, but I have to say, you saved me

big time.Thank you, thank you, I know. I am the best thing since vertically

segmented bread.I told you this would happen. I told you, I told you, I told you. Why am I

not a bestselling writer? Why am I a subservient narrator? Surely my owntalents should not be wasted. If I had real talent, I suppose.

So please, do tell me what happened. What did you tell Mr. Big thetitle was going to be?

I came up with it this morning: Black Sunrise. Its quite evocative,dont you think?

Stunningly and descriptively evocative of absolutely nothing at all.Perfect!And what did he say about the chapter we wrote?Correction, I wrote, thank you. Oh, they cant hear me anyway.He said it was one of the most truly original pieces of work he had ever

read. He said it could be my big comeback novel. He even said, and Iquote: The cheese grater metaphor was particularly ingenious.

Metaphor? What metaphor?I dont know either, but I still smiled and nodded and accepted my

big fat pay cheque!But the cheese grater was just bizarre! I was going to stop you whenyou mentioned it, and tell you to rethink that idea!


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Yeah, there you go.But what in the name of the omniscient creator made you think of a

cheese grater when you were writing it?I was making myself a late-night snack of nachos, actually. I love

nachos.

Ah yes, of course. Because deep fried processed corn smothered incoagulated dairy product is a staple food of the intellectual.I was grating the cheese.And naturally you think your epic novel of intrigue and mystery needs

to glorify a cheese grater.It was a stroke of inspiration.Well you can grate your nachos, or stroke your cheese, or whatever

you like to do, but the fact is that we need to get started on a real novel.Not just drivel.

Okay, great. What kind of thriller should we write?Something glamorous, I think. A novel where I play a character that is

the last word in cool. But I dont just want cool, I want icy-enough-to-be-liquid-nitrogen cool.

Since when where you in a position to be so demanding?Since I saved your miserable career, or as you so gracefully phrase it,

when I saved you big time. You owe me this, you know.Okay fine, Ill let you have a cool character. What kinds of characters

are cool?Hmm Ill give you a tip. Not a talking zoo lion.Ill ignore that. You just wait, in a hundred years time, Honky Stonks

will be in vogue.Oh, what a shame you wont be alive to make a profit from it. What

will it be, the next Gone with the Wind? Or will teenage girls stop theirfoolish fantasies of vampires, and begin fancying talking lions?

I can think of more unlikely scenarios.Spare me. Besides, you need to think of a cool character for me to

play.Ive got one! Trust me, I think youll like it. Itll go well with this epic

thriller thing were doing.You do realise that your novel doesnt have to be even remotely like

the sample chapter you gave to Mr. Big this morning, dont you?What do you mean? Of course the sample chapter has to fit in to the

story.No it definitely does not! Why would you want that awful chapter inyour novel, anyway? Mr. Big wont remember what it was about even Idont remember what it was about, other than the cheese grater.

Thats true. Oh well, this idea will be great anyway. Your character isawesome.

Its not an animal, by any chance?No, but he is an animal, in the you knowNo, I dont.Hes an animal in the sack.Oh, how gracefully formulated. I dont know whether I should be

trembling with excitement or running in the opposite direction scared. Butyou certainly have piqued my interest.


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I knew Id lure you into this idea.It had better be good.It is. Youll enjoy it.

FOUR:

The surly faced blond man tightened his belt buckle and looked sidewaystoward the bed. The previous nights conquest lay fast asleep, a flowingwaterfall of long, reddish-brown hair and smooth, porcelain coloured skingracefully spread beneath the sumptuous hotel sheets. All but atantalising hint of the curvature of her ample breasts was hidden beneaththe white cover.

And naturally, despite all your creative insight, you couldnt possibly

have written about last night, could you?Oh, shut up. This is serious writing, not Mills and Boon for men.Satisfied that he was properly dressed, the blond man searched her

handbag. He did it carefully, so as not to wake her with the sound of itsrustling contents. After examining her wallet, and discovering with dismaythat last nights conquest was in fact 49 years old

That serves you right for being horny.At least she isnt a talking zoo animal.It can be arranged. he returned to her handbag to search for her mobile phone. It had a

large, glossy screen, and a sliding QWERTY keyboard which, of course, was

still far too small to be functional. Turning the key lock off, he noticed thatthere were two missed calls and a message. All three were made by acontact named Colby Parmesano. With no other security protecting herphone, the blond man read the message:

I miss u babe I need u for op. Caseus but I could use u inbed rite now 2 ;-) dont b home 2 l8 2nite tho

She doesnt miss you so much, kid, the blond man whispered tohimself with a smirk. He navigated his way through the phones confusingoperating system, and transferred Parmesanos number to his ownpersonal phone. On the surface, the blond man appeared out of touch with21st century technology; he did not seem to own a mobile phone. Hedialled the number into his watch-phone by rotating the minute handaround to each number in sequence, alternating between clockwise andanticlockwise rotation. After the final number was recorded, whatappeared to have been an analogue watch dissolved into a digital screen.Contact name? flashed a message on the screen. The man held hiswatch close to his mouth so he could whisper Colby Parmesano into theconcealed microphone. OK. responded the watch, before morphing veryconvincingly back into a plain analogue watch. It was 4:15 am.

Wow. Thats not bad.Youre not meant to be surprised, Clifton. Keep acting, youre doingwell.


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The man slipped out the hotel room door, carefully making sure that itdidnt slam shut. Suddenly, the hands on his watch-phone span wildly; thehour hand clockwise, and the minute hand anticlockwise. A large Greekletter zeta lit up from the middle of the watch face. Holding the watchclose to his ear, he muttered:

What is it, Zeta?Thats Agent Zeta to you, young man.Oh, I apologise. Trust me to forget the polite but ultimately

unnecessary and implied five letters before your codename. I wasattempting to act spy-like. What is your real name, anyway?

Dont be smart, operative. You know that my name is a federal secret,and one day, when you too develop the intelligence to rise up from yourmiserable rank and obtain the prestigious rank of an agent, your name willbe secret too.

Wait, that doesnt make sense. If you were once an operative likemyself, you must have told quite a large number of people your name.

How can it be a secret now, when it wasnt before?Clifton, you dont need to point out inconsistencies in the background

plot. You have a name, Agent Zeta doesnt.The truth was, the blond man loved his name, and loved being an

operative.Oh, is that right?Clifton, Im warning youSomehow, becoming an agent had no glamour. The blond operative

was free to do whatever he wanted, when an agent could not. An agentwas too important to travel the world, shoot the bad guys, and sleep withtheir sexually frustrated girlfriends and wives.

What did you find out from Mozzarella, then? Agent Zeta asked in aclipped voice.

Do you mean the 49 year old woman Ive just slept with, theoccurrence of which I have absolutely no recollection?

I did not need to know that, but yes, Halloumi Mozzarella. What didyou learn? Is she involved with Operation Caseus?

Halloumi Mozzarella? Colby Parmesano? Have you been grating yourcheese yet again?

I have to admit, Im a little bit of a connoisseur.You cannot simply make names for characters from the names of

various varieties of cheese!I believe I can. You immediately know that the characters youredealing with are Italian, and therefore possibly Mafiosi.

And this definitely could not be achieved without resorting to namesof cheese? How can my character seem cooler than liquid nitrogen if hesleeps with women who have names like Halloumi Mozzarella? Im anattractive man, I have no need of intercourse with hybrid cheese women.

As far as you need to be concerned, hybrid cheese women are thesupermodels of your world.

That isnt what I care about! I care that I dont seem like the MountEverest-like pinnacle of ultra-desirable masculinity, thats all.

The operative paused before answering Agent Zetas question, andpeered at his reflection in the large ornamental mirror on the opposite side


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of the hotel hallway. He had the rugged look of a man well travelled, aman who enjoys life. He looked down from the charming waves of blondhair and piercingly glacial blue eyes, to his angular jaw and the short lawnof darker stubble. His powerful shoulders held his muscular arms and torsoin rigid balance, the sharp contours of his chest immediately visible

beneath his bespoke Turnbull and Asser dress shirt.Im satisfied, but I cant help feeling that I now sound more vain thanthe witch in Snow White.

Aw diddums.The dress shirt made the operative think immediately of his charity

work, helping young Somalian orphans construct water wells in theirtowns, and providing them with vaccinations against lethal diseases. Hedidnt care about his appearance back then; the happy smiles of theorphans faces were always satisfaction enough. His fancy suits did notplease him anywhere near as much, although they did serve a noblepurpose: discretion in bourgeois settings.

Good, good, but too wishy-washy. I need to be a bit tougher.Thinking of it fondly, the operatives favourite food would always be

barbequed crocodile steak, especially if he had first wrestled the animal tothe ground himself. His favourite method was cracking the crocodiles jawopen with his bare hands.

This is getting well and truly out of hand. Its time to stop Clifton;therell be plenty of time for character development later.

Okay, okay.What did you find out from Mozzarella, then? Agent Zeta asked in a

clipped voice. Is she involved with Operation Caseus?Shes definitely involved with Colby Parmesano, the operative

whispered, moving down the hallway toward the elevator. I found amessage on her mobile phone which indicated that he needed her forOperation Caseus.

Do you think she is working for him?I have no doubt about it. It smells like Parmesan.You colossal idiot.It smells like Parmesano.

The operative repeatedly jabbed the lift button, indicating that he wantedto descend, and waited for the lift to arrive at his floor.

Good work operative, well have Mozzarella tracked. We now need

you to find out exactly what Parmesano is up to. But Im warning you, hewill be dangerous.Never mind that, Zeta. Danger is my middle name.I think your character would actually have two middle names. Like

those upper crust English people.Never mind that, Zeta. Danger isone of my middle names.Hmm....Doesnt quite have the same ring to it, does it? Doesnt sound so

pleasing to one auditory cavities, does it?No, it doesnt.Then please leave the whip-crackingly snappy dialogue to the

expert.Oh snap. You sure told me.


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Dont patronise me!Danger may be your middle name, operative, but respect certainly

isnt. This is your final warning. Next time, you will be excommunicatedunless you can manage to address me full title. Goodbye operative, andgood luck.

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