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Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Okay, What’s next?

Okay, What’s next?

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


“He’s not going to stop.” said the Farsh-nuke as he entered the safe space.

“Yep...” The writer, dealing out a game of black jack for two players.

“Godwinson is obsessed.” said the Farsh-nuke as he took a seat.

“Not there.” said the writer when the Farsh-nuke tried to set before the opposite hand.

“Well who are you playing against?” asked the Farsh-nuke as he pulled up a different chair.

The writer stared across at the image of Adam Godwinson. “Nobody. It doesn’t matter.”

The Farsh-nuke grimaced then he shrugged. “He’s going to try and rape you. Rape your whole family. Every ally and asset of his in the whole multiverse will be devoted towards tormenting you.”

“I know...” said the writer as he studied his hand.

“He’s going to accuse you of bestiality, rape. If he could paint you as the devil he would.” said the Farsh-nuke with careful calmness. “He is so determined to prove to you that he owns you.”

The writer looked up at the Farsh-nuke. “I know. In his head I am his bitch.”

“And in yours?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

The Ghost of Godwinson smiled a toothy grin at the writer.

“I have bad days. Worse nights.” said the writer.

“How can you be so calm?” asked the Farsh-nuke. “Damn it! How are you not insanely fucking angry?”

“Because I can’t beat him.” said the writer. “Because he knows it. Because the coward can crush me like a twig when I don’t even know his real name or gender. For all I know Godwinson is that self same trans woman who decided I was not welcome in the feminist safe space I helped found.”

“Find him.” said the Farsh-nuke. “Goad him into revealing himself!”

“And do what?” asked the writer. “Kill him? Try to get him arrested? On what fucking evidence? No. He’s won he’s fucking won. I am beaten entirely.”

“Then what the fuck are you going to do?” asked the Farsh-nuke.

The writer rose from the table and walked over to a window. “I want to die. Right now. I really fucking want to die.”

The Farsh-nuke shook his head and rose to meet him. “You’re not going to kill yourself Alex. You have not endured so much to give it all up now.”

“No, you’re right, I’m not.” said the writer. He looked out over the city. “This doesn’t actually change anything. It kills dead some meagre naiive hope. It ensures that there will be more dark days ahead when Godwinson realises that he can never hope to win when it comes to my mind. It ensures that I will be investigated on bullshit charges at some point when the desperation of the pathetic and obsessed gets too much. As for me, now. It doesn’t change a fucking thing.”

Godwinson laughed.

“He will die, Farsh-nuke.” said the writer. “He will die as all mortal men must. He’s fucked me good and hard and he will continue to fuck me but I am still a writer and I have work to do.”

“He’ll get you fired from any job you try to get.” said the Farsh-nuke.

“I know.” said the writer with a shrug. “This isn’t a game or a dance or fucking courtship. This is a pathetic worm deciding to ruin my life. The good thing is, he can’t actually claim most of the credit. My parents did most of that.”

The Farsh-nuke laid a hand on the writer’s back. “So you’re going to write then?”

The writer grinned and he stared at Godwinson. “That cunt used my words to9 torture someone I respect greatly. I shall enjoy tormenting him in the pages of my fiction.”

The Farsh-nuke laughed. “Fucker doesn’t stand a chance.”

“And anyway. Like any nazi he’ll slip up and doom himself.” said the writer.

Godwinson stared at the writer. “You are my bitch and I will always defeat you!”

But the writer wasn’t listening.

“I said -!”

Godwinson heard a coughing sound.

He turned before him stood a beautiful woman with ice blue hair.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Godwinson

A man in tweed jacket and a red bowtie stepped out of the shadows. “Congratulations Adam Godwinson, you have successfully attained immortality inside the mind of the writer!” The strange man clapped then he frowned. “Unfortunately you aren’t alone in here and we don’t like nazis much.”

The writer sipped a glass of whiskey with the Farsh-nuke as Godwinson stared to scream.

The End