The Characters Are Aware That They’re Fictional [FICTOID]

“An oil rig. Seriously?”

“Seriously,” said the one-eyed nymphomaniac.

“What the hell does he know about oil rigs?”

“About as much as he does about Chinese dynasties.”

The sweaty lumberjack rubbed his jaw, his beard scratching like sandpaper.  “I can’t figure out why he does this,” he said.  “It’s a lousy way to make a living.”

“You call this living?” asked the nympho.

“What would you call it?” asked the lumberjack.  “At least it’s a better job than being a lousy migrant worker at harvest time.”

“How would you know?  Have you ever worked a harvest?”

The lumberjack stayed silent.  “I’m a lumberjack,” he said at last.

“Are you? What about last week?  You were a military deserter with a dishonorable discharge.

“Or the week before that?  Or the week before that, when you were a pole vaulter addicted to pudding?”

“mmm, pudding…” said the lumberjack dreamily.

“Stay focused!” the nympho yelled.  “None of this is real!  Got that?”

The lumberjack blinked, shook his head.  “No…I’m a lumberjack.  I’ve always been a lumberjack.”

“You’ve always been a pawn to a supreme power here.  Don’t you get it?  We’re fake!  Phony!  Ersatz!

“We’re just characters -- paper dolls for our creator to make and modify and cast out at will.”

A long pause, then:  “Nooo…I’m a lumberjack.”

“You’re nothing but what our supreme being says you are,” said the nympho.  “A cypher.  A missing link.  A figment of his imagination.”

And with that the nymphomaniac was deleted.

© Buzz Dixon