CHARACTER STUDY

“Everybody knows the best stories start with a murder.”

Tripp looked up from the pile of French fries he was carefully stacking and grinned. “You know, that almost sounded deep. Really. Like something a real writer would come up with.”

Across the table from him, his friend Red frowned and stared down at his phone. Without looking up, he said, “Fuck you, Tripp. You're just jealous I'm getting Carson’s job. It's not my fault you got into that stink with management over your attendance. You don't show up, you tend to miss out on the good jobs.”

Tripp didn't bother responding. The two of them were sitting in their regular booth, so neither of them saw the door to the diner open and the armed man step inside. They also didn't see the gunman raise his rifle and point it at Gus, the guy working the counter.

But they did hear the incredibly loud POP POP POP of the automatic rifle and the scattered screams and shouts from their fellow diners as all hell suddenly broke loose.

Before either man could react, a flower of red blossomed on Red’s cheek and he fell backwards with a startled yelp. His eyes rolled up as he slid bonelessly from the booth and slumped facedown on the checkered tile floor.

Tripp threw himself out of the booth, rolling toward the bend of the counter as he sought cover. There was another volley from the front of the cafe and Tripp heard the buzz of a round passing close to his ear. He scrambled and fell behind the counter, breathing hard, the cacophony of screams and gunfire drowned out by the thunder of his heartbeat inside his head.

There were more gunshots and the screams were lessened, then the gunman stepped around the end of the counter and pointed a big bore automatic rifle straight at Tripp's face. He wasn't what Tripp had expected, not after years of seeing teenage or military style shooters on TV every other day.

Dressed in a baggy tee shirt and blue Jean shorts, the shooter was a paunchy fellow, with a tangle of bright orange hair and a painted face. The smear of yellow grease paint wasn't applied neatly, but it was effective. Especially combined with a pair of cheap sunglasses and a painted on Cheshire grin. The Clown smiled, showing cracked and broken teeth, before saying, “You're not scared, are you?” His voice was softer than expected, lilting and slightly accented. It brought to mind images of therapists’ offices and favorite teachers, handing out gold stars for a job well done.

Tripp was paralyzed with terror and replying was beyond his vapor locked brain. He kept his hands up and away from his body, terrified to move or say anything. The screams had stopped and the sudden silence was deafening. The barrel of the rifle pinged as it cooled and someone moaned softly, a soft sob of pain that made the clown’s smile twitch.

Seeing that Tripp was incapable of responding, the clown nodded in commiseration and said, “I get it. You haven't come to the realization yet. You still think all of this is real.” He gestured at the diner around them. At the world beyond the diner’s curtained windows. Crouching, he placed the rifle across his knees and rested his elbows on it as he met Tripp’s gaze. “Would it help if I explained why being scared isn't helpful? Why it's quite pointless, actually, once you know the truth?”

Outside, the sound of approaching sirens came from far away. The rescuers were too distant to do Tripp much good, the sound more of a tease than an actual sign of help to come.

The outside world might as well have not existed, for as much attention the clown paid it. His grin slipped away and he went on, saying, “None of this is real. This world you think of as yours. It doesn't exist.” He stopped and shook his head. “That's not quite right, actually. It's real, in so much as it exists within the mind of its creator. But that's as far as it goes. We're both just words on a page, friend. No more real than a math problem or a lost shopping list.”

Tripp shook his head, confusion finally replacing the look of numb terror on his face as he asked, “Huh?”

The black paint on the clown’s lips cracked and crinkled as his grin returned. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but Tripp knew he was staring straight at him as he said, “You're not so dumb, Tripp. You can feel the truth of what I'm saying, right? Look at this conversation. It's going on forever. Surely somebody would've interrupted by now, right? You hear the sirens too.”

“H-h-how do you know my name?” Tripp sounded like a different person to himself. His voice was weak. Broken. None of the confident swagger was there. A confidence that, to be perfectly honest, was as feigned as every other emotion he'd ever felt. “Who are you? What are you?”

The clown shrugged and said, “I'm just a character. Like you. I exist only as long as our creator is interested. But our maker isn't around much, I think. He has a short attention span." He placed a hand against his cheek, hiding his mouth from a nonexistent observer, as he whispered, "Maybe some kind of attention deficit disorder? I think I might be a sort of proxy version of them. An avatar, so to speak."

Tripp blinked and tried to swallow. His throat was dry. There was a glass of water on the counter above, glistening with condensation.

The clown reached up and brought the glass down, holding it toward Tripp. “Here. This will help.”

“H-how did you-?”

“How did I know you were thirsty?” He shook his head. “I know because he knows. He wants me to know. Just like he wants you to take the glass and quench your sudden overwhelming thirst. A thirst that isn't even real, Tripp.”

“I don't understand.” The words came easier after taking a long drink of the deliciously cold water. Tripp didn't hear the sirens anymore. Which should've worried him or at least made him nervous, but he found himself growing calm now. The fear and panic had lessened. He could think now.

The clown, whose name was Flash Stickman when he wasn't out teaching life lessons with an M-4 Carbine, scratched at the unruly orange hair on his head, shifting it enough to reveal it for the wig it was. He could feel time running short as the word count grew. “You will. It won't help or make any difference, whatsoever, but you will understand. And when you do, it won't matter. I'll be gone and you’ll be in the same boat as me. Burdened with horrible knowledge that you can either share or hold onto like a piece of poisoned candy.”

Tripp didn't respond. The truth of the other man’s words had affixed itself to his consciousness, leaving him numb with terror.

The universe opened itself and showed him the terrifying unvarnished truth of it all in one bright flash of understanding.

“We're all just characters in some dumbass writer’s story. Some piece of bullshit late night fuckery that will probably never even be published or read by anyone other than the author. And it's not even very good!" His voice was shaking and he felt like taking the rifle away from the clown and using it on himself. Instead, he shouted, "FUCK!"

The clown let out a relieved sigh and said, “And this is the part where I leave and you have to go on without my guiding light, friend. But, just think, on a quantum level, way deep down in the writer’s heart, they know that they're just as screwed as we are.”

“What do you mean?” But Tripp already knew. He knew because the writer knew.

Flash Stickman answered anyway, though he could see the understanding in the other man’s eyes. He said, “A lot of people talk about quantum physics as if they understand it, but do they? It's all about size and relativity in space. Humans think they're hot shit and the center of everything, but compared to the size of the earth and sun and the billions of trillions of other supermassive structures that exist in our universe, a single human isn't even the size of a basic subatomic particle. And when you get into those kinds of scales, it makes existence pretty much theoretical, yes?”

Tripp felt the terror that must grip every sentient animal once it realized that creation itself was more or less a crap shoot. Was anything real?

The clown nodded again and stood up, slinging the rifle over his shoulder as he stared down at Tripp and said, “Do you understand now? Do you know what you need to do?”

Tripp didn't answer. He didn't have to. The clown smiled. “Tripp, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendsh-”

The clown’s head jerked sideways and a spray of blood, brain, and bone splattered across the diner. He fell sideways, catching the edge of a nearby table, and crashed to the floor in an unmoving heap.

Suddenly, the diner was filled with the sound of shouting as a SWAT team unit appeared. They moved through the space quickly, checking downed people as they reached the unmoving clown. One of them kicked at the clown with his boot while another knelt in front of Tripp. They were outfitted in tactical gear and armed with rifles that looked identical to the one the clown had used.

“Are you injured?” It was a woman who asked, outfitted like someone from a superhero movie and holding her rifle like she knew how to use it. “Are you hit?”

Tripp shook his head. He should've been more shook up, but his newfound realization made his earlier fear and panic seem worse than foolish. He slowly got to his feet, letting the policewoman help him up, and got his bearings. There were police and EMTs all over the place, some working on people that were still holding on, while others secured the diner.

Flash Stickman was an unmoving shape on the floor, his orange wig matted black with blood and spotted with chunks of brain matter.

Tripp let the SWAT officer lead him through the charnel house, stepping around the dead and wounded. As he left the scene of the brutal attack, Tripp couldn't help but think of the clown’s words.

Was any of this real? Did it matter if it was? If we're all just words on a page, is there a final creator sitting at the center of the universe? Or was it just some other character who thinks they're the one telling the story. What if it turns out that they're just as insignificant as the rest of us?

Just a character in someone else's story.