CLIP
DREADFUL - EVENT #3
Princess Meow Pig always found herself in distress. Many times, it wasn’t even by her own doing. A wrong place, wrong time sort of situation, which the audience found amusing for a while, but now they hunger for more. They demand higher stakes and better plotting, pacing, dialogue, set pieces, and twists. The audience has evolved with The Creator.
The issue is that The Creator still enjoys the barebones narrative that made them famous. Why rock the boat when it’s content to keep floating along?
On this particular evening, The Creator had twenty, eh, maybe twenty-five minutes to craft and execute a story that enthralled and moved the fictional universe forward. A tall order for some, but not The Creator.
They’d just need to cut out some montages (although they weren’t entirely sure what that word meant) and trim back on the exposition (they knew even less about that word). The latter being harder than the former, as The Creator blabbers on the nights when it will happen. The threat of it is enough for The Creator to pack everything up and find a way to let the audience down gently. They’d grumble, groan, and stomp their imaginary feet, but they’d understand. The audience and The Creator were sympathetic toward one another.
Okay, okay. Sheesh, focus on the adventure ahead. No need to dwell on it right now.
Let your mind wander. Take yourself back to Pillow Plateau, where every story begins and ends.
The Creator closes the bedroom door and races back to their playground. Princess Meow Pig waits patiently atop her castle, gazing out into the milky, beige sky. Scuffs and smudge marks remind her of the clouds she used to see in Mountain Valley. Her memories of that place dim with each passing day. What a shame. The mind forgets with ease. She props her humanoid face against a furry arm and lets out a long sigh, hoping she can generate a wind to whisk her away from her tedium. She loves Muss Tang, even with his cracked fender and the passenger door that doesn’t close properly. But sometimes, Princess Meow Pig dreams of adventure and danger and the life they used to share. Muss used to travel to the edges of the realm for her, but now he barely leaves the garage.
For the past few weeks, as the princess paced the pathways around the pristine palace, she concocted a plan. She gathered her rogues’ gallery, both the henchmen and main attractions. She stated her intentions and how things would be executed. The bidding started at a modest amount, which she guessed was due to participant hesitation. Some worried about Muss and whether he had any gas left in the tank; others mulled over the idea whether this was just a ploy to round them up and ensure Princess Meow Pig’s safety for another millennium. With a snort and a flick of her curly tail, the princess dispelled all the rumors and set the record straight.
“I want adventure, and someone in this hall will provide me with one. For the right price, of course,” Princess Meow Pig said from atop her platform. The Plastic Pioneers had constructed the platform at her request. Their work was always exemplary, although some may argue at how derivative it has become: the same colored bricks always placed at the same intervals. Don’t rock the boat, though, right? That’s referred to as a callback, a word The Creator learned during one of the last screaming matches between their creator and friend.
After the princess’s reassurance, the bidding picked up pace. At first, the villains only offered their monetary supply, but Princess Meow Pig flailed her arms in dismay. The cotton stuffing poked out from the ripped seams. The Scotch tape The Creator used to repair the damage had lost its stickiness and effectiveness. Now, the princess had two arms that sagged and heaved with each of her exaggerated movements. One day they would fall off and the princess would be sent to Rubbish Isle along with all the previous palace tenants. She was merely a figurehead, a replica of what came before.
Between the verbal comforting and the physical display, the bids no longer offered money. The villains understood that Princess Meow Pig demanded more. They spun her tales of the adventure they’d take her on, how she would be whisked away and placed in some lonesome tower or stranded on a blustery mountaintop surrounded by starving goats. Others offered her comfort and tangible items that only the dastardly could own, like one-of-a-kind paintings or a wide collection of firearms. The bidding war morphed into a boardroom sales pitch, minus the tedious presentations. Princess Meow Pig felt invigorated by the attention and desire from so many undesirables. She listened to their convoluted plans but only took one seriously. If she were honest with herself, she knew who would win the bidding war as soon as they walked in.
Gripp Guppy.
At first glance, his name and appearance struck little fear. He was a tiny fish, after all, with a cigarette burn right in the center of his forehead so lovingly given to him in an unplanned interruption by one of The Creator’s creator’s friends. (Did fish have foreheads? The Creator wasn’t sure.) But once anyone heard him speak, they knew he wasn’t meant to be f*cked with. Gripp and Muss had tussled countless times over the years, making Gripp a fan favorite for both the audience and Princess Meow Pig. In another world, in another timeline, she would have ditched Muss for Gripp and set sails with him across the Sea of Comfort until they found the fabled lands of Bed’s Edge, a place where light and dark met, where up and down collided into a dizzying disarray of distorted gravity.
“Princess,” Gripp Guppy said from the back of this hall, “stop this nonsense. You know what I can do for you, but in case you have forgotten in my long absence, let me remind you.” Gripp flopped down the center aisle and serenaded the princess with promises of pomp and prosperity under his partnership. She would no longer be confined to the palace. Together, they would travel around in his blimp, causing terror to the peons while eluding the grasp of Muss Tang. In a display of force, Gripp Guppy would send his minions to disrupt Muss and pad out the story long enough until they had a climactic showdown. And this time, Gripp stressed, he would win. He would finally defeat Muss Tang and plant a big ole smooch on the princess because that’s what heroes always did, according to the movies The Creator had seen.
Princess Meow Pig listened to Gripp’s dazzling speech and banged down the gavel one last time, declaring him the winner. The other villains sulked out of the hall and returned to their patches of land where they still had some authority and dignity.
Except for one.
In a flash of silver, a figure streaked down the aisle toward Gripp and Princess Meow Pig. The figure screamed and hollered about how she didn’t have the right to refuse him and waste his time. The figure–an oversized elephant known in hushed breaths as Three-Ears—barreled into Gripp and slapped the fish away with a flick of his massive trunk. Gripp let out a yelp as he flew into the wall and crumbled into a mess of scales. Three-Ears stepped closer to Princess Meow Pig and threatened harm. “Blah, arghhh, rahhhh,” The Creator said, mimicking how an elephant would talk if it chose to. The princess stood her ground and snubbed her snout, telling Three-Ears how he had had his chance. “No more!” she shouted. “No more lies! No more messing around. I want you gone from this hall. You don’t deserve me or The Creator!” Three-Ears remained speechless as the realization settled in: he just wasn’t enough for her. She’d always want more, and he wouldn’t be able to keep up. Lust blinded him, and now that he stood before her, he felt smaller than an ant. And he saw her for what she was: a leech, a tick drawing blood. Gorging itself until it popped. Three-Ears knew he couldn’t persuade the princess to change or wait around long enough for something to pivot. Time lost meaning for those who lacked self-awareness. These weren’t things The Creator knew, but they were things he’d come to learn. Saying nothing else, Three-Ears turned away from Princess Meow Pig and grabbed his duffle bag off the chair. He didn’t even say goodbye to The Creator. Why would he, though? He was only a minor villain, one of dozens.
Dang it. Sidetracked again. But the backstory is good, The Creator told themself. Backstory builds character or, in this case, irreparably damages it.
Anyway, more things happened between Gripp Guppy and Princess Meow Pig. More planning. More discussions about their grand illusions. More declarations that this time would be different.
More, more, more.
It’s all anyone ever wants. The Creator learned that already in their short life. Why else would they have boxes of toys that no longer get used?
Back to the castle/palace. Honestly, take your pick. Call it whatever you’d like. The audience is okay with continuity issues. Sometimes Three-Ears is an elephant; other times Three-Ears is a Lincoln Log.
Princess Meow Pig thrums her hairy knuckles against the railing. Yes, her tedium will be abolished, but part of the surprise and genuineness of this adventure is in the timing. That was something Gripp Guppy made clear from the beginning. Muss Tang would surely smell collusion if the princess’s reaction wasn’t true to all the other times she was abducted under his watch.
So, she screams with real fright as the claw appears from above and wraps itself around her primordial pouch. Her shrieks continue as she is lifted high above toward that endless beige sky. She crests above the highest peak of the palace and continues to voice her displeasure as the most gorgeous view of Pillow Plateau becomes clear. Far below, in between the dense patches of trees, almost quilt-like in design, she spots Muss Tang racing out of the garage. He spins his tires and screeches against the pavement. He’s honking and honking, although the sound dies out before it reaches her. Princess Meow Pig looks up and sees herself zipping closer and closer to the blimp, hiding within a particularly large and menacing cloud. A voice booms from an intercom strapped to the front of the blimp.
“I have taken your beloved, Muss. You will waste gas from here to the Sea of Comfort and still never find the princess. This is it. This is our final encounter. Be gone. Be well. Try to find meaning in your meaningless. I have won. Ta-ta, Tang.” A heavy void remains in the air after Gripp Guppy ends his statement. Princess Meow Pig watches the dot below that is Muss as he desperately races in circles. He can do nothing. He can only watch as his world is pulled away from him, proving once again that a car isn’t a very suitable hero.
Princess Meow Pig struggles against the mechanical arm. Her screams have ceased as something new settles in: regret. “Oh Muss, I have made a huge mistake,” she says to herself over and over for the remainder of her voyage to the blimp.
Once inside, she is taken away by a couple of land sharks (Gripp’s minion of choice) and thrown into a padded room.
“Hey. Hey! This isn’t a part of the plan. Where is the room full of candy and ice cream? Hey! Hello?” No answer is returned to her. The princess stomps her feet against the padding until she tires. She rips at the walls, hoping to tear into the material. No such luck. She whimpers and paces around the box room until she curls up into a ball in the corner.
Hours later, the locks disengage and Gripp Guppy steps inside. “Did you honestly expect me to abide by your little game? Ha! Ha ha! You have made a mockery of me for YEARS! Always the butt of your jokes. Always the one left to rot while you and the hero skip off into the bliss of a warm sunset. It ends today. Your life . . . ends today. No more Princess Meow Pig. There will be nothing left of you to find.”
A gasp from the audience. Betrayal! Oh no, this has gotten dark. Darker than The Creator has ever ventured before. Threatening the princess with physical violence is new. A development that makes everyone uncomfortable. Continue, please. There must be a resolution to this madness. There must be a reason for this shift. Yes, The Creator and the audience have evolved and expanded, but this . . . this is nonsense. The princess is precious, a symbol for hope and peace and . . . and . . . Well, what has she actually done except complain and drive away everyone she ever held dear? She holds Muss Tang hostage because without him, she’d be nothing. Fine. Fine. Fine. But the audience dema—
The Creator freezes. He untethers himself from fiction, only to replace it with another. In this slice, The Creator has less power, less control. He is only five.
And he is terrified of Mother.
He tosses the toys aside, letting them scatter across the Sea of Comfort, which is nothing more than a stained, disheveled bedsheet. Covered in dried piss, remnants of vomit, and streaks of come. Each reminder is displayed like graffiti tattooed onto the side of a building. Mother doesn’t clean when she knows more will show up in a short time.
The toys return to being nothing. They always were. Only a distraction from the inevitable.
The boy runs around the bed and presses an ear to the door. He hears the apartment door unlock, open, and then slam shut. Keys scatter across the kitchen counter. Shoes are torn off and tossed against the wall. Murmurs of displeasure rise throughout the space. The boy reaches a hand up to the doorknob and pushes the tiny circle inward. It clicks and locks. He hears the fridge open, and items shuffle. More muttering. More disgust. More, more, more. It’s always the same with her. It will always be the same with the boy.
Like Mother, like son. Cycles don’t end. They extend. For generations upon generations until a plague wipes them out or bad genes become no genes or a realization that kids just aren’t worth the da*n hassle or that the church was right about abstinence.
The boy steps away from the door, knowing that he still has time. She still has more motions to walk through. More steps to carry out before she remembers her son. More sputtering to do before she finds him and carries through on her promise from this morning.
More, more, more.
He grabs at his hair and feels its stringiness, along with the grease that has compounded since he woke up. Kids make jokes about him at school because he looks dirty, even though he isn’t. They don’t particularly care about facts. They need a whipping post, someone to make themselves feel better. Like their parents do to them. Cycles, remember?
The boy sticks a hand up to his scalp. It gets buried within the tangled mass. He grabs his hair at the roots and tugs. A slight jolt of pain radiates out, but no strands pull loose. He continues to tug as he paces around the bedroom. His options are limited. He could hide under the covers and pretend to drown in the Sea of Comfort. Or he could squeeze under the bed and pretend to slip away into the Forgetful Forest. Or he could break the glass and jump into uncharted lands. Such ideations haven’t formed in his mind yet.
Instead, the boy opts to hide in the closet. A classic solution to a classic problem. He shuffles around some boxes and shimmies in between long flowing coats and other outerwear that his mother never uses. He pulls the clothes back to their original position and holds his breath, thinking that it’ll make him disappear. Once his lungs ache, he realizes he can still see his hands and legs and the shaggy hair that tries to block his vision. He exhales and squeezes his eyes shut. Ah yes, a much better technique. The world goes dark, and the boy returns to Pillow Plateau or some other figment. He speaks to himself slowly, counting numbers and reciting new words he has learned.
His voice doesn’t drown out the scraping that starts against the bedroom door. Faint at first, like a cat looking to shelter itself from a storm. Then, the door handle shakes for several seconds before stopping. Complete silence now. The boy no longer speaks. He knows that a cataclysmic wave is due to crash.
“BRYSON, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!” Mother screams. “ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT!” She bangs against the door. It bends inward. The hinges groan. But the door holds. Bryson knows it will. If a house can withstand twenty hurricanes, wouldn’t you bet on it surviving the next? Mother continues to assault the door, colored an off-putting shade of gray like all the other interior doors within The Amorphophallus. He knows the neighbors can hear this. He knows they will do nothing. He knows nobody in the building ever questions when a five-year-old wanders the halls late into the night to find sanctuary. No different from any other complex. It’s what happens when you cram hundreds of individuals into tiny spaces and then build five replicas on the same block. Insanity creeps in and takes over. It seeps through the vents and drips from the ceiling. And bubbles up over the fake hardwood floor and the cheap carpet and settles up against the imported cabinets. It clings to the furniture. Latches onto the appliances. Hides in the pipes. Scratches within the walls. Mother isn’t unique. Her mind warped from the years of neglect and abuse she suffered. She never wanted kids. Resented them, actually. But life has a way of giving you everything you don’t want. So here she is trying with newly discovered might to break down the bedroom door. To grab Bryson by the hair and drag him out into the living room. To punish him for making her miserable. When it’s over, she will plead insanity. She will blame the unending cycles and the ooze that covers every corner of the apartment.
Because that’s the easiest answer.
No.
No.
No.
It’s not insanity. It’s something more fundamental, more embedded. (More, more, more.) It’s something that eradicates and dismantles and rebuilds with the same result. Sure, you may think that would be insanity. But the answer is much simpler. Archaic, even.
Nature.
Human nature, to be more precise.
That’s what dismantles forests. That’s what eradicates relationships and rebuilds without difference after a disaster. It’s the idea that the cycles end and that actions don’t trigger consequences. It’s the idea that becoming untethered from what was will make you greater for what is to be.
Sure.
Whatever helps soothe you on this extraordinary night.
Mother throws her entire weight against the door. Again and again. And again. Relentless pursuit of her pain. The door bends further inward. The hinges no longer groan. They scream and snap off. The door splinters and swings like a drunk. Mother gives it one last shove and lets it fall away as if the act were as easy as swatting a fly. It appears that the assurance about houses and hurricanes was premature. Our apologies.
Bryson still has his eyes shut. The closet door is wide open. He should have closed it, although without a lock on it and nothing worthwhile to shove against it, the act wouldn’t have stopped the raging beast. He doesn’t watch Mother take half steps toward him. Her physique isn’t intimidating until the bad chemicals churn and crank. The bad chemicals always outweigh the good ones. It’s human nature. She shuffles as if she is stepping free from a car after an accident. Her urgency is diminished as her son has nowhere else to go.
Time suspends itself for a zeptosecond—a unit so small that scientists decided on such an uninteresting name. The hitch is unrecognizable and nobody in The Amorphophallus feels the blip. Bryson, however, begins to hover above the ground. He floats out of the apartment and passes through the apartments above as Mother rips away the clothes shielding him. That useless, senseless barrier. Bryson continues to rise past the plumbing and electrical work, beyond the air conditioning units that sit atop the roof as Mother drags him from the closet. Bryson would have screamed and resisted if he wasn’t elsewhere. Regardless of his location, there wouldn’t have been tears. Those had dried up a year ago. Bryson keeps pushing higher, past the clouds threatening violence, past the point where he would struggle to breathe. He watches himself being pulled into the kitchen where Mother scavenges through cabinets until she finds the bowl. She then rummages through a drawer until she pulls free a pair of shears. With two handles and steel edges that glimmer in the light, they look formidable. They could lop his head off with one snip. Bryson resigns himself to what will happen, for no logic resides in it.
That morning, as he sat on the floor picking at his cereal, Mother looked at him and said how tonight would put an end to his fear. She spoke of how tired she was of his childish games. “Are you retarded or something? It’s only a fucking haircut. You look like a girl.” The words were meant to sting, Bryson guessed. She had said worse things before, though. Far worse. She flicked a piece of cereal at him. It hit him in the forehead, and she fell back into the sofa laughing and laughing and laughing as if she had just invented comedy.
Yeah, it was true. Bryson hated getting his hair cut; individuals forcing him into the chair and choking him with the smock amplified the fear. Whispering in his ear that it’ll only take a minute. Pulling the shears from the liquid and flexing them several times to prove what they are capable of. The audience told Bryson to stay calm, and with each mention of the terrible advice, he grew more agitated. He squirmed in the chair and tried to wiggle free. One time, the barber had actually cut into his neck, drawing blood that ran down onto his shoulder. A dozen times Mother brought him to a salon or barber shop, demanding a different outcome. But the fear never receded. In fact, it worsened. Each time, Mother devolved into a tantrum, hurling words and items throughout the shop. Each time, they were escorted from the shop as she continued her verbal assault all the way to the car. Mother couldn’t control herself. She didn’t view it as a negative, though.
Bryson exits the stratosphere. He looks down at Earth and thinks about school and cartoons and the toys buried deep within totes he’d never unearth. Nothing seems important. Nothing needs to be rushed as Mother takes her time. She places the bowl on Bryson’s head, mutters some meaningless words, and places the hedge trimmers against the portions of hair that stick out from underneath. All hesitation is removed. She cuts. She cuts again. Bryson pursues another galaxy and eventually comes across Pillow Plateau. The kingdom is situated high above all else and exists on its own. Princess Meow Pig is brought out onto the blimp’s platform. Gripp Guppy bursts into a magnificent speech, elaborating further on motivations and intentions.
“It is time to usher in a new age,” Gripp Guppy declares. “For too long, our bellies have been limited. We have been at the mercy of the palace, dictating our every move and stopping rebellion at its source. No more, I say. Bring on the Age of Regression. We shall return to nothing since nothing is greater than this something.” His laugh is mechanical, rehearsed, brief. He powers onward with his grandstanding and over explanation. It’s as if he has been waiting for eons to enrich someone with his ideologies. Eventually, and with great mercy, his endless words are replaced with the sounds of a scythe swinging into Bryson’s overgrown hair. Mother hums to herself and taps a hand on the bowl between her movements.
With one swing of his fin, Gripp pushes Princess Meow Pig off the platform. It’s unceremonious and anticlimactic, but it’s refreshing to see a villain follow through with their plan. Bryson watches the princess fall with a small gasp and then resignation to her fate. Bryson floats alongside her. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.” The princess looks at him and smiles. “Nothing about this will ever be okay. You did this to me.”
“I can fix it,” he says.
“Don’t bother,” she comforts.
Bryson obeys the command. Even in a fictional world such as this, a hierarchy exists and deserves adherence. And, apparently, a princess outranks a creator.
Princess Meow Pig descends for a long time. Long enough for Mother to finish with the shears and place them aside as she assesses her work. She removes the bowl and ruffles Bryson’s hair like an older sibling would do in jest. Bryson remains paralyzed, existing in a state beyond fear or discomfort. He’s, perhaps, undefinable. A deadly cohort of diseases is fighting tirelessly to poison his core and bring along an Age of Regression (read: suppression). “Not enough. Not enough,” Mother says. She leaves the room and disappears into the bathroom. Bryson could run. The door is right there. He could burst out into the night and flee until his legs give out. Mother wouldn’t follow.
Instead, Bryson returns to the princess. She hits the ground with a soundless impact. Her limbs remain intact. Her brain isn’t leaking from her eyes. She appears to be alive.
Bryson floats above her and waits for her next move. Maybe a word. Perhaps a request. She may need directions back to the palace to alert the staff that dinner needs preparing for her and Muss. Whatever Gripp Guppy expected to happen did not take hold. The princess liv—
The ground beneath her deadens from a vibrant green to a distressing brown. A pit forms and she is swallowed into it. Princess Meow Pig scrambles upward and digs her claws into the shifting earth. She snorts and coughs, inhaling all the dirt and grime that is following her down. Bryson grabs her arm and pulls with the minimal strength he has. He grits his teeth and avoids biting down against his tongue. He can be the hero of this story. He can undo the grief he has caused the kingdom. A creator such as himself has dominion and control over all subjects. The audience yearns for happiness. Something positive needs to come from this day. So Bryson braces himself against the ground and pulls harder. He thinks about the celebration they will have. They will fawn over their creator and spend another generation speaking about his heroics and selfless nature. He becomes lost in the ending.
Escaping his present is Bryson’s best trait.
With his mind splintered, his grip slackens. Princess Meow Pig’s claw scrapes against his hand, immediately drawing blood. He recoils from the burst of pain. As he crashes down onto his butt, the princess disappears into the pit. Swallowed whole. Bryson regains his footing and frantically scoops away dirt. He still hears her. She is no longer snorting and coughing. Chokes and cries now carry their way to Bryson. He can still save her. If anything, this will make for an even better story. He becomes lost in this new ending.
It takes Bryson too long to notice that with each flick of dirt and worms and mud, the choking and cries lessen. The more he tries to uncover her, the further away she is. He continues his unnecessary exercise until the night sky takes over. By now, the princess is long gone. All memories of her begin to recede.
When Bryson finally relents and steps away, new grass sprouts and returns to its marvelous color.
He closes his eyes and cries. In this world, he can still do that.
It appears that Bryson does not have as much dominion or control over his creation as previously suggested. Our apologies for any frustration this may have caused. You were warned of continuity errors, though.
Mother shakes him back to reality or, at least, back to The Amorphophallus. She beams with excitement as she guides a hand up to his head. He feels the slight stubble that he’s been reduced to. He looks at the mountain of hair underfoot. “Clean it up,” Mother demands, returning to the sofa where she will spend the remaining evening hours. She will fall asleep with her mouth open, hands resting on her stomach, and legs drifting apart. The same as always.
Bryson obeys. He has no choice. He bends down and sweeps his hair into a neat pile using his hands.
He finishes the task and retreats to the bedroom. The toys are still scattered across the sheets from earlier. Bryson picks up Princess Meow Pig and rips off the loose arm. It requires little effort. Stuffing falls onto the bed. Not as much as expected. She wasn’t filled with much of anything. He tosses the limb aside and tears at the other arm. This one proves to be sturdier. With more force and the help of his teeth, Bryson gnaws into the seam until the arm separates. More stuffing falls onto the bed.
More, more, more.
The princess is disfigured and no longer of use to him. Bryson picks up the pieces and discards everything into the box. Rubbish Isle, if you recall.
Bryson reaches across the bed and grabs Gripp Guppy and Muss Tang. They can still be of use, but he also rationalizes that they shouldn’t exit this affair without suffering. Bryson opens one of Muss’s doors and bends it back until he hears a snap. Into the box the useless door goes. As for Gripp, he sustains a massive wound down the length of his back. The fabric peels back to show the stuffing inside. Far more than what the princess had. For extra measure, Bryson tears into one of Gripp’s fins until it hangs by strained threads. Just a preparation for the future in case things take a turn.
Bryson places the two toys off to the side, alongside the other villains who showed up to the hall earlier.
The Creator returns to the bed and falls back into the pillows. Somehow, he finds sleep, even though the audience is stirring for answers, for any indication of where things may go next.
His mouth hangs open, allowing all the nastiness of the day to flutter away. His hands are sitting atop his stomach. All his fingers are interlaced and bent at odd angles. His legs are apart, mimicking an open pair of shears.