The Grammar Games — the lost chapter
NOTE TO SELF: NEVER WRITE WHILE DRUNK, Chapter 5.5
(with apologies to Elliot Nichols)
[Somewhere in New York, Day 3]
As the battle continued to rage, spectators went back and forth between the concession stands. With each round of drinks, their trajectories became less and less steady, with food and drink spilling upon the decks of the Colosseum seating. As the mess continued to mount, ushers joined the janitorial staff to help clean up the VIP boxes.
A single figure emerged from the door at the end of the hall in the underbelly of the arena, where unspeakable acts of debuchery had taken place until the butt crack of dawn. Without ushers to guide him to his seat, and for reasons only known to drunks and poets, Elliot Nichols wobbled out onto the field of battle... unarmed.
Recovering from the massive orgy, in which Jennifer Smith caused me to throw out my back (in the most delicious way possible), I stood not quite ready for the day’s assault.
Benjamin P. Hardy called to me from across the dusty bowl. “You SHALL NOT SATIRE!” Before slamming down his Moleskine and rushing in my direction.
The unsquashed arm of Ellie Guzman tossed me her blade — a three and half foot sword that somehow still opened like a butterfly knife. Ben swung with precision, aiming for my heads large and small. I dodged and stumbled, my back betraying me. I glanced up at the ghost of Jennifer who could only shrug as if to say “you started it.”
I whirled and faced my attacker. He thrusted and I quickly parried. Finding my footing, a saber battle worthy of a Star Wars prequel ensued. John Williams music swelled in the background as Hardy and I clashed.
“You’ll never make the top five!” He cried.
“That’s the thing, Ben.” I said, catching his wrist and throwing him over my shoulder. He landed flat on his back, the blade tip inches from his throat.
“I never wanted to…”
Just as Eliot was ready to eliminate the Emperor’s greatest hero, time stood still. It was a software glitch in Medium’s servers. Taking advantage of this break in the time space continuum, the Emperor’s right hand man ordered his henchmen to grab the paralyzed writer and spirit him away deep below the surface of the Colosseum floor to a place of unspeakable horror, where nothing escaped without editorial decree, not even the tortured cries of the damned. In hushed tones, one henchman said to another “are we really headed for the Medium Content Lab?”
With the intruder removed, time resumed and a showy explosion and cloud of smoke appeared at the spot in the ring where the intrepid, but inconvenient truth of Eliot Nichols once stood.
A voice sounding more like Darth Vader than James Earl Jones hissed and coughed down from the sky:
“Thou shalt write 200 words… no more, no less…”
Benjamin P. Hardy, though shaken, stood before the crowd, held up his smart phone and began his oration:
“Eight ways the octopus crushes his competitors
Eight is the past tense of eat
Eight is the number, no more, no less. Eight shall be the number thou shalt count and the number of the counting shall be eight. Nine shall thou not count, neither count thou seven, excepting that thou then proceed to eight. Ten is right out. Once the number eight, being the eighth number to be reached, thou shalt arriveth at the promised number, for
Eight is enough!”
The crowd roared in awe and adoration, showering Benjamin with green hearts. Birds chirped gaily. The morning sun beamed in all its glory.
Another lonely image was projected against a passing cloud and despite Eliot’s valor, the crowd looked up and asked “who was that guy and what was he doing on the battle field?”
Far below the surface of the arena, unheard by a single soul except perhaps the henchman standing guard in front of the massive sound proof walls, a muffled voice repeated one phrase over and over…
“lo, the freedom of mediocrity.”
(click here to return to chapter 6. Who will take up the clarion call next? Benjamin P. Hardy accept the challenge while you still have a chance to fight back!)
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