Character Color Index:
Narrator’s lines: Black Text
Author’s lines: Red Text
Harold’s lines: Snorted hours ago
Begin your journey where you’ll meet Harold’s Tails. Stagger forwardish through Harold’s HTB Chronic-ills: Collection of Current Crimes, Vol. III the first two are in hock at the pawn shop (just like Spielberg when he started Star Wars with Episode IV). Meet Harold the Bum and his assortment of sordid sorts; mostly habitual, usually criminal, one magical, another non-corporeal, and a couple are exclusively cranial. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw up blood, and die. It will be fun, you’ll see. Follow me, I’m the Narrator who knows all and sees all. You’d be amazed at all the stuff I know. Being a Narrator is about as close to being God as any entity can achieve without being the Supreme Being. So, if you have any quest…
(Indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)
Well, I just thought it might be nice if the audience could participate in a dialogue with the Narra…
(Much louder and angry indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)
No… Very well. Okay then, we’ll do that then…
(Narrator resumes his PROPER function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things unlike narrators)
Yes, we’ll since the audience has read all that, I’ll just continu…
(Indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)
Well, I just thought it might be nice if the audience could participate in a dialogue with the Narra…
(Much louder and angry indecipherable grumbling from off stage.)
No… Very well. Okay then, we’ll do that then…
(Narrator resumes his PROPER function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things unlike narrators)
Yes, we’ll since the audience has read all that, I’ll just continu…
As written! As written!
Okay, I get it. I get it. (In a tone of exaggerated sincerity, the narrator resumes) Narrator resumes his proper function sharing his nothing like God, limited scope of knowledge with the audience as written by the author, who is much closer to The Maker, being a maker of things himself, unlike narrators.
(Narrator snaps) There! Was that good enough!?
(Author’s turn: Sounds of a backstage brawl which carries on for several minutes as audience listens to the pleading and alternate screams of the narrator, and then concludes with the narrator’s whimpering and sobs. Finally, thank Author, the narrator continues his narration after being penned a good thrashing in a “come to Author” encounter. A thrashing which could be easily and almost infinitely repeated should Author so choose. Anytime, anywhere, buddy.
Now, begin again.
(In a tone of serious fucking contrition, the narrator resumes)
Now, begin again.
(In a tone of serious fucking contrition, the narrator resumes)
Meet Harold the Bum *sob* and his assortment of sordid sorts; mostly habitual, usually criminal, one magical, another non-corporeal (narrator motions an imperceptible finger at his undetectable self), and a couple of them are exclusively cranial. *sob, sniffle* You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll throw up blood, and die. It will be fun, you’ll see. Follow me, to the land of dry heave, stomach churning thrills, millions of rats, and unidentified pills, catch the latest, easily-transmitted and always terminal case of The HTB Chronic-ills.
You go ahead. I’m not feeling very well. I’ll catch up later. *sob* And now a word from our sponsor…
