The Grammar Games union busters
THE EMPEROR STRIKES BACK, Chapter 11
[in a private suite at the Colosseum, Day 32]
(with special thanks to Elliot Nichols)
Something wasn’t quite right, but the Emperor couldn’t quite put his diamond encrusted stylus on it. He had averted the revolt and created a new round of entertaining mayhem to slake the bloodlust of the masses. But one of his best earners, Jon Westenberg, was hopping around the stadium screaming about beer, instead of taking his place on the field of battle. This lack of guru-like confidence was starting to effect the crowd. He thought back to all their work together in the bowels of the Colosseum, a sound-proofed torture room guaranteed to pull maximum content out of his key writers. Had he missed something in training?
He thought (in his own mind) back in time… in time… in time.. [cool echo sound effect] to their last session (back in the past)… (just to be clear, this is a flashback)
In the darkened room, with only a single light bulb swaying on a brown cord, I remove a shiny Colt 45 from a beaten up leather holster, and with an audible click, cock it.
“So let’s go around the room.” I say in a steady pace.
Nervously, Jon Westenberg and Benjamin Hardy turn in their ergonomic chairs. They look at each other and then to me.
“Jon! Let’s start with you!” I bellow.
Jon jumps before undoing the elastic strap on a well worn, sweat stained Moleskine. His hands shake as he flips to the second to last page.
He thumbs the page his hands shaking.
“Any time! Come on while we’re young!” I screech, waving the gun.
“Okay, okay, Jesus. Fuck. Okay,” Jon stammered.
⁃ 10 quotes that will change your life.
⁃ The thing we don’t understand about the haters.
⁃ No one will get you and that’s ok
⁃ 8 things no one tells you about success
⁃ How journaling changes everything
⁃ What we don’t understand about socialism
⁃ 8 things winners do every night
⁃ Open doors for others…
The Emperor broke out of his reverie, mumbling to himself, “The thing we don’t understand about the haters…” “Open doors for others…” “Have some empathy. It’s free,” “That’s it!” he thought, “Westenberg is beginning to show some heart.”
The emperor frowned as this revelation crashed over his consciousness like a sea of red ink. If writers like Jon couldn’t keep readers thinking about start ups and billion dollar buy outs, they might unite and actually do something with their lives. He slapped around his minions, and gave Greg Gueldner a hot foot, but none of his usual activities could lighten his mood.
Finally, the faintest of smiles brushed his lips as a plan began to form in his brain. He convened a board meeting via a mobile app, “get your Slacker asses into the private suite… we’ll need to discuss a corporate reorganization.”
Elsewhere, 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.”
[157 feet above the unwashed masses outside of the Colosseum]
Having been in a fictional state of suspended animation for a month, the scene change brought the saga of DCI Wooderson back to life. He was accelerating toward the ground after falling over the top row of seating at the top of the Colosseum,* and reflected that it was a very typical Vandals and Visigoths kind of morning: “well, I’m no longer choking on wine from the lamb skin thingy, but I do seem to be plunging toward my death on the rough stone pavers below.” He then broke out a stirring rendition of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody:
Just as he got to the end, singing “nothing really matters, anyone can see… nothing really matters… nothing really matters to me…” the loudspeaker above the stadium crackled and the voice of James Earl Jones said:
“It’s only over when I say it’s over.”
Without warning, a giant blue pencil descended from the sky, and, in the blink of an eye, drew a giant piñata in the shape of a fluffy pillow on the ground below the falling writer. The piñata pillow instantly manifested three-dimensional mass, breaking DCI Wooderson’s fatal fall. As he crashed through the piñata, his fall was further softened by an enormous mass of Lil Peep marshmallow candies, Hostess Twinkies and [product placement space available here, check with the ad sales team!]. He was greeted by the delighted laughter of all the street children who had gathered around the piñata and a gruff “gettus offamius.”
As Wooderson got to his feet, and the children ate away at the pile of candy and snack cakes, Gutbloom stood up, brushed off his clothes as best he could from the sticky marshmallow treats, and announced that he was going to run for emperor of Medium.
Wooderson looked at him in shock, given the fact that Gutbloom had been erased off the arena floor,** and asked “how did you come back from the dead?”
Gutbloom replied, “just like you, I appear to have benefitted from another ‘Stoneus ex Machina’ moment. We must be wanted back inside the arena to further the story line or patch up some plot hole. And our timing is perfect.”
With that he ran off to join an unruly crowd of unwashed writers that started to line up below a large sign hanging above one of the entrances to the arena.
Wooderson remained motionless, pondering the sign, and then pondering the fates which had conspired to bring him back unwillingly into a story he had forgotten long ago.
From within the waiting crowd, R.Dinasky shouted to no one in particular, “do you think they have donuts inside?” and Wooderson jumped on a passing construction truck returning from the deadlands, so he could catch up to the panting Gutbloom.
As he jumped down off the truck, he was joined by a now sober Dave Grigger, looking lean and hungry after his sojourn to unseen lands.
As they entered the stadium in search of snackii delectamentum, they were forced to climb a “Stone” hewn spiral staircase all the way to the top of the Colosseum.
As she climbed with the others, Michelle Stone panted, “why the f*ck didn’t I dream of elevators?”
“Au moins, ce n’est pas aussi haut que le Sacre Coeur,” responded Paul Reney. But there was just something aboat his accent that did not sound quite French…
Wooderson couldn’t believe he was being led back to the place where he had unceremoniously fallen, and tweeted out to his last remaining follower, “DCI ‘Sisyphus’ Jones.”
[157 feet above the area floor]
(with apologies to Michelle Stone)
As the clouds swirled over the coloseum below, high up in the publications and editors suite, a group of writers queued up at the door.
Nurse Ratched stood at the door holding a basket.
“All electronic devices to be placed into the baskets. You hear me? Any Medium displaying device IN THE BASKET NOW!”
As each of the unwashed writers, plus Emperor nominee Gutbloom passed through the door, they found another sign reading “WRITERS WORKSHOP: Donuts Ahead!” with an arrow pointing downward.
The crowd hurried their pace, but were forced to stay in an orderly line since they now descended another “Stone” hewn spiral staircase leading them to the dark underbelly of the Colosseum. Down they went, until they came to a locked dungeon door, guarded by the Emperor’s henchman known as the mighty [naming rights available now on Kickstarter!]. A soft moaning came from within the cell,
“lo, the freedom of mediocrity.”
The henchman opened the door marked “Medium Content Lab,” and motioned to the group, saying “the boss says the donuts are next to the coffee table set up at the back of the lab, just between the rack and the iron maiden. Please take only one donut until everyone has gotten the chance to have a snack or I’ll have to shoot you in the knee cap.”
The bleary eyed bunch shuffled past an unshaven and wild eyed Elliot Nichols who mumbled
“You know I also have a day job right? This is such a waste of time, I could be using this time to write. Anyway, I am NOT conversing with anybody here, period. Especially about periods. Fiction and tapestry that’s what I’m here for.”
“Well I have no idea why I’ve been dragged into this whole saga. I feel like I need a shower.” grumbled DCI Wooderson
“I know what you mean” said Savanna D'Amato, “I’m in Two Minds about this whole thing myself.”
“It seems like one Glorious Mess” to me too, sympathised R.Dinasky “ But hey, lets give it a try. Besides I’ve brought H. Nemesis Nyx and she’s part cyborg, you know. Now that’s pretty awesome back-up, don’t you think?”
“Well we’re all imperfect writers, let’s just admit that and get the help we need” says mark-john clifford .
“I agree” said Aura Wilming “I have this press publish button thing.”
“As long as they are kind” said Alexainie to Michelle Stafford “I’m in.”
After everyone got coffee and a donut, they all settled in their seats. The ghost of Jennifer Smith started handing out green heart-shaped notepads and began to speak:
“Welcome one, welcome all. I have called this group therapy session today, because one of ours has highlighted a problem that affects a lot of you. We are here to talk about it. Could I ask that we talk about it really fast,” she says looking at her watch, “I have some rum cocktails and mango salsa calling my name.”
“Let me get the ball rolling…” she says “Everyone repeat after me — live your life with intention!”
As everyone begins the chant. She claps her hands “Ok, enough of that. I’ve got places to be, people. Without further ado, let me introduce Lon Shapiro.”
A figure appeared at the door.
“Jeez Luuuweez!” whispered Michelle Stone to Jules “He looks like Magnum PI!”
“Oh God, I hope so!” smiled Jules “He’s so clever…”
A disco ball started turning, and the beegees start crooning “You should be dancing”
Lon Shapiro stepped into the room.
“He walks like a crab that’s just been pulled back into the bucket,” whispered Michelle Stone “Oh well, there go my dreams”
Shapiro sidled up to the podium with all the grace and physical presence of a professional athlete turned crab, and wrote on the black board “Welcome to Medium’s 12-step program.” He turned off the disco ball, and switched Pandora over to the Cars, because this group was just what he needed:
Then he began to share:
“Hi. My name is Lon, and I’m an addict…”
I am here to talk to you today about medium addiction. Yes medium addiction is a real thing.
The writers began to squirm in their seats and a low hum of dissent is heard.
Oh, come on!” shouted Lon Shapiro “Face the truths, speak them — you can’t tell me you haven’t been jonesing for green hearts? Must I bring the elephant into the room, before you will see?”
Actually, there already was an elephant, actually two, in the room and they were still in the back eating donuts. The male arched his eyebrows and whispered “hey, good lookin’ whatcha got cookin’?”
The female said “beat it, wise guy. Do you know how many guys I’ve got chasing after me?”
The male sniffed, said “your loss, toots” and took a seat at the back of the seating area, crushing eight writers who were furiously taking notes.
Sensing the crowd was beginning to get restless, Lon Shapiro and the hologram image of the ghost Jennifer Smith called for some community building.
alto stepped in “Ok so let’s get to know each other better shall we, Sherry Caris give me a hand to give these questionares out please” the lights went down and Rodrigues started to sing ‘well I wonder, how many times you’ve had sex, and I wonder do you know who’ll be next..”
Suddenly the lights went up again, and Todd Hannula 🤓 strutted into the room, disco ball in one hand, dancing trophy in the other. “Hang on a minute, that’s the wrong kinda therapy. Don’t you know what we need to bring peace?”
He struck the pose with H. Nemesis Nyx (her cyborg arm looks spectacular under the disco lights) and before you could say disco ball, everyone was up on their chairs doing the hustle…
…including the elephant, which allowed the eight crushed writers to get out of the way and start singing “Staying aliiiiive yeah!”
“At the next therapy session, Todd Hannula 🤓 will be showing us all how to break dance” chimed in Gloria DiFulvio to Colette Clarke Torres and Jack Herlocker still swaying to the fading disco beat.
“I think it’s time for some mimosas” said Sean Howard handing them out to all. “Sorry, they may not taste right, I’m just not that kinda guy”
A little crowd had gathered in one part of the room, Randomly Me was singing ‘that’s me in the corner..’; Insideout was blinding everyone with the flash from his camera whilst Tremaine L. Loadholt was busy writing on her green heart notepad “This is going to be some amazing imagery in a poem.”
Victoria Easterday whispered into Sean Howard ‘s ear “Is she writing a listicle or a testicle.? Hang on let me get my dictionary….”
“Let me show you the things you can do with google” said Jeffrey Field to her.
“Ahem, pardon me. Lets get this therapy session back into order shall we. What I do know.” interjected j.s.lamb “Is when the crows leave, Medium will fall.”
The medium addicts’ faces crumbled “We miss Charles O’Meara. We miss Kel Campbell. We miss Emily Friedel “
“This whole thing is starting to get sad” whispered Dave Grigger to Gutbloom “can’t you cheer things up a bit?”
“You’re all invited to join me and the now paper thin Ellie Guzman*** who is going to demonstrate BELLY dancing with cows on the farm” said Gutbloom.
As the writers begin to cheer … j.s.lamb said “Don’t worry guys, medium won’t fall; the crows haven’t left yet. I’ve got it sorted. Russell Crow is here to help.”
“Hey now!” Shouted Lon Shapiro “Russell Crowe is who got us into this crazy situation in the first place!”
At the mention of her heart throb, Russell Crowe, Michelle Stone felt her eyes begin to close.
“Stay awake!” the writers began to shout. Paul E. Roberts tried to wave her favourite green heart cappachino in front of her nose to keep her awake.
“Nooooooooo!” the writers screamed. “Don’t you know what happens when you sleep. Lon Shapiro dreams about you dreaming about — ok this is confusing…”
“Above my paygrade for sure” said the hologram of the ghost of Jennifer Smith with one foot on the plane.
“I can’t help it” yawned Michelle Stone “Don’t you know I’m from Africa, it’s damn well 3.00 a.m. in my time zone!”
Jules picked up her ukelele and started to play ‘I bless the rains down in Africa’. Michelle couldn’t stay awake, and closed her eyes.
In her dreams, a gladiator stood in the coloseum ….
Lon Shapiro yawned “Oh crap, here we go again. Okay people,” he said shoving them out through the door, “green hearts are available at the exit. Everyone is invited to The Grammar Games but no one is safe…. Hurry up, before I lose interest, dammit.”
Suddenly, the people were pushed back into the content lab. A shot rang out and the disco ball shattered. An angry voice thundered, “Todd, get the f*ck out of here and back on the field of battle. The show must go on.” Todd ran past the frightened masses and said nothing, but flashed a surreptitious peace sign to all who could see.
The voice continued, “You, too, alto, what the hell are you doing with these scrubs? Get out on the field and show us what you can do.”
Alto was too focused practicing levitation as he sat in the lotus position, and didn’t move, so a henchman gently guided his floating body out of the door, like a child playing with his pet zeppelin.
The Emperor entered the content lab with a full cohort of henchmen that pushed back the crowd and forced them into their seats. The lights went off, except for one dangling light bulb for dramatic effect. The Emperor pulled out a bullhorn that still was way too powerful for the cavernous content lab and addressed his captive audience:
“I’m glad you could all attend this writers’ meeting. There are three orders of business. First, Tribune Gutbloom, your candidacy for Emperor is hereby revoked until the end of time.”
With a subtle nod by the Emperor, a group of henchmen grabbed the beloved George Clooney lookalike, bound him and then proceeded to cover his body with wet papier mâché. By the time there were done, all that was left was a Medium-sized piñata in the form of a dwarf — or perhaps a garden gnome — that muttered muffled insults toward the Emperor, “take you me for a sponge, sir? There’s no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune! And so I mock thee sir, and throw back your cursed green hearts!”
“Business order, number two,” continued the Emperor, “you will all have to reimburse the corporation for your donuts and coffee.”
The crowd roared in anger and tried to storm the podium, but were beaten back by the henchmen, armed with cattle prods, cats o’ nine tails, and dog eared copies of “Cyrus the Great.”
“Don’t you understand anything?” the Emperor hissed. “You are online writers. You don’t get paid. You should be paying us for the privilege of writing for Medium. Perhaps we should discuss selling disk space for your articles at the next board meeting, now that they are permanently and securely stored on our servers,” snarled the Emperor.
The crowd gasped and fell silent.
“And for our final order of business, let me introduce our esteemed corporate trainer. He will teach you how to get more green hearts than your pitiful little hearts could ever desire.”
The crowd ohhhhed and ahhhhed in appreciation and started whispering amongst themselves.
The Emperor nodded at his corporate trainer, saying “I will be back tomorrow to check your progress,” and walked out of the content lab, closing the dungeon door with an ominous and reverberating thud.
“I hope everyone has refilled their coffee,” started the trainer, “we’ll be studying my easy to read guide ‘how to become a best selling author in twenty-four hours… twenty-four straight hours…”
[To be continued. Who will take up the clarion call next? alto, accept the challenge while you still have a chance to fight back!]
Notes:
*Chapter 5 of The Grammar Games
**Chapter 2 of The Grammar Games
- **Crushed by a giant hamburger in Chapter 7 of The Grammar Games
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As always, “Will write for donuts.”
