Our Business Here is Done

"Our Business Here is Done" is the Seventh and final installment of an Interactive Serial Novel, inspired by the word verification feature of blogger. The story is centered around "words" that were created by the word verification feature of blogger, but defined and submitted by readers of this blog. You may want to refer to the dictionary from time to time as you read this story.

Click Here for Part I

Click Here for Part II

Click Here for Part III

Click Here for Part IV

Click Here for Part V

Click Here for Part VI

Between the excitement of the day, and the ‘entertainment’ of the evening, it took me a while to drift off to sleep. But once I was out, I slept like the dead. The next morning, I was awakened with a startle by my body’s new co-host.

“Wha..?” Then I remembered what had transpired over the last day. “I thought that was a dream.”

“No, that was very real,” my inner voice assured me.

“Hey! I thought we needed to use the salt and vyrioclr for you to be able to communicate,” I observed.

“No. That’s a one-time procedure that aligns our essences. Now we can communicate freely.” In fact, if you don’t want others to hear, you can just will the thought, a voice in my head explained. Wow! That’s COOL! I answered.

“It is, isn’t it,” my voice finished?

“It’s what,” Tammy asked quizzically?

“Well, I found out that my body’s new co-host and I can communicate telepathically.”

“Isn’t that just special,” quipped Tammy’s boyfriend? “Speaking of that, we need to figure out a way that we can tell when you are talking and when it’s talking.”

“Oh, I hadn’t though of that. I guess it had been pretty clear to all of us up to now, eh?”

“How about if I talk like Yoga from Star Battles,” my inner voice offered. The imitation was crappy, but we all got the point.

“Okay,” we all agreed.

The next several months were spent training me in the ways of the intergalactic superhero…

“…You must vipyu before you actually use your superpowers…”

“….Oooooh, that one was particularly flowery. You smell like a lilac bush…”

“… You can’t use the maxazaps setting – whether it’s your fafkmno’s laser, or your power of flatulence, unless your life is directly in danger. If you are not in danger, you must only seek to incapacitate…”

“… So many rules…”

“… So much concentration…”

“… You must hold your pinkie up when you drink a fjdaq…”

“… You need to save civilians in this order. The kuwrty women are first. They get us the most headlines. Children are second. They will tell our story and propagate our legend. Old people are third. They are grateful. Men are last. They should be able to take care of themselves. This one is more of a guideline than an actual rule…”

“… How will I remember it all…”

“… You must maintain focus at all times…”

Before I knew it, I had my first assignment – A local franchise owner required his female employees to wear DQXiers, and it was impacting the cleanliness of the store. I scoped out the establishment; after days of undercover work (Tammy really enjoyed that part of her new job) we were ready to strike. I boldly entered the store when the manager was there, pulled some zyzax out of my utility belt, and cleaned a large film of piieul from the counter.

“Mr. Manager, this must stop. Your women are so uncomfortable in their DQXiers that they can’t perform their jobs. Your establishment is becoming unsanitary, and you are driving away customers. You must renounce your ways of poor fashion sense – for both you and your employees – or you will drive yourself out of business and into madness.” The manager was dumbstruck.

“Wow! You’re right. I had never thought of it like that.” The manager had seen the light. “Ladies,” the manager continued, “effective immediately, you are no longer required to wear your DQXier. In fact, if you’d like to, you may go out to the dumpster and burn them. And oh yeah, who wants to cut my mullet?”

“Allow me,” I offered, pulling out my handy-dandy shears. I belched the scent of pumpkin pie, to put him at ease, and before he knew it his mullet was gone. In its place was a beautiful coiffe, created by yours truly.

“That’s soooo much better,” one of the franchise’s young women cooed.

“I know. Well, Tammy, our business here is done. Zbugi!”

“But wait,” cried the manager, as we stepped into my fafkmno. “I must know who you are.”

“I’m Fashion Avenger Guy. You can call me FAG for short.” I actually felt fwufx inside as I drove away from my first successful endeavor.

Since then, I’ve been known as FAG, and I’ve been dedicated to truth, intergalactic justice, and the fight for great fashion sense. The five gay guys you see on TV? They’re my agents. I know that my tenure in this job will be limited. There have been many FAGs before me, and there will be many FAGs after me. Eventually, I will grow older, start wearing last year’s clothing, and eventually {gasp} start wearing golf clothing, and dress socks with sandals. At that point, the spirit will leave my body, find a new host, and break in a new FAG. But at least I’ll get to keep my fafkmno as part of my retirement package.

Author’s Notes:

I’ve read several books where the author writes a few notes to readers, so I figured I’d do the same. It’s not that I consider myself an author per se, but since I’ve gone to the effort of taking a full week to write something, I guess that gives me some semblance of authorship, and dammit, I’m going to take advantage of it while I’ve got a chance.

First and foremost: This is NOT a serious piece of work. The whole thing was created in response to the nonsensical “words” created by Blogger’s word verification feature. It all started when one of my readers told me that my blog’s word verification called him fuckwagy. I decided to randomly assign it a definition, and from there it took off. I told people that if I got a list of 100 words that I’d write a whole story around the list of words. Thank God I got impatient and wrote the story at 50! Otherwise, I’d quite possibly have been involved in writing a story that I’d actually have to keep track of, and it would have kept me busy for a month. I think a week is plenty of time to devote to a nonsensical non-event.

For the record… I had no idea where this story would go until I started writing it. Okay, that’s not quite true. I knew that it would have to involve some sort of aliens, time travel, or alternate universe in order to incorporate the words. But other than that, I didn’t know what would unfold. On day one of my writing, I sat down and wrote the day’s story from start to finish, and posted it. Throughout the rest of the day, I got a very basic idea of how the next day’s plot would unfold. The next day came, and I wrote that day’s story, start to finish, and posted it. The entire story was written that way. I knew basically what would happen the next day, but that’s it. The story was written around the words that were submitted. Nothing more, nothing less.

I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope you were as surprised as I was by the events that transpired. Maybe someday down the road we can conspire to write another absurd story.