The Narrator and the Author

This is the final installment of The ShambElla Saga... or is it?

Table of Contents:

Previous Chapter:

The Narrator and the Author

“Who’s talking?” Ella asked. “Or whatever this is. It’s like, he’s not talking, but I can hear him.”

The Narrator sighed. “Ella, meet Rommi, the Author of this story.”

The guns fell to Ella’s side, and she went slack, stunned into silence.

The Author was an undeniable presence which she never detected before but now understood to have been there all along.

“First,” I said, “I want to let you know that you are among the most endearing characters I’ve ever written.”

“Well,” the Narrator said, “I—”

“Not you. Her.” I don’t hate the Narrator, but since I’m saving his life, and after what he did, he should at least have to suffer the searing brand of my acerbic wit. “I’ll never know if my hypermasculine mind has effectively written a female character, but you’re a fascinating individual and a beautiful soul, and it’s an honor to think you might be a part of me, though, frankly, I don’t believe it.”

“What do you mean?” Ella asked.

“You seem like something better than me, something Divine, given the form of one of my thoughts. You’re a blessing, Ella, Queen of the Damned, so I want to let you decide how this should end, but I regret to inform you that the ending will rest on an ultimatum.”

Ella tensed up, then replied, “Okay.” She squinted her eyes and looked meanly at the Narrator. “Shoot.”

“This can only go one of two ways. If you shoot The Narrator—”

“Hey! I thought you were saving my—”

The Narrator loses his power of speech.

“I think he might have developed a sudden flare of laryngitis. Flaringytus, you might call it,” I quip.

(I admit, I just made that pun to torture him, knowing he can’t respond.)

“As I was saying, Ella, shoot Harpo over here and you go on to become a prominent figure, with your companions by your side, building a new, and frankly, better world than the one our ridiculous friend helped create, and then prematurely torched with the push of a button.

If you choose not to shoot the Narrator, you’ll find that once his flaringytus clears up, he’ll tell you where to find the box, and on the back, there’s a panel. You’ll need one of those starhead screwdrivers. Don’t ask me why they make so many types of heads for screws. Some mysteries can never be solved. But you’ll find the screwdriver and open the panel on The Philosopher’s Stone and hit the reset button.

However, it will all go back to the way it was. You’ll never meet Sam or Doose or Siris or David or Colt or the goons or any of these other folks you know and love. It will be like it never happened, because once reset, this belligerent dumbass will refrain from pressing the button, because, being both outside and inside the story, he will be the only one who remembers what happened… inside the story. If that makes sense.”

“It makes no sense at all,” Ella said flatly.

“Well, even so, those are your choices.”

Ella stood for a long while as the Narrator looked on with fury in his eyes.

If I reset everything, she thought, all the people I loved will be back and they won’t kill each other, and the same will be true of everyone else. But this will mean that all the people who caused the original catastrophe will also be granted another chance. They’ll be the same pieces of shit they were before, except perhaps for the Narrator, who might have learned a lesson. I’d be saving lives, but the world will be a literal better place if I don’t, because those who remain will have an opportunity to rebuild with the knowledge Siris, David, Colt, and I possess!

And look at Hell! It’s a paradise now, not a shithole. All the sins have been abolished, except this final one: Pride. It was his pride that made him lead us along, narrating his own damned story as if he created it, when, just like us, it was always happening through him, because of him! What a fool!

But aren’t we all such fools? Isn’t this, essentially, the old story of the ego’s battle with a higher self—a self that cares more about doing what’s right than doing what feels good in the moment; a self that thinks for itself and about others instead of about itself while trying to think for others; a self that knows that change is inevitable, and that we only ever accrue life to give it away, so why resist that change when we know we’ve had our day and the change will be for the better?

But change isn’t always for the better, just because it’s change! The sins aren’t things in themselves, but results of our uninformed actions, of our ignorance, and they must therefore always return in some form or another with the generations that change, especially when we don’t heed the warnings of our forebearers!

Dammit! Dammit all to—no—no, bless it. Bless it instead. I count every blessing now.

I just—I—

“I… I can’t decide, Rommi. Please don’t make me decide!”

Of course, I anticipated this, but felt it necessary to help the wonderful young lady along in her inner dialogue. It was a test, and I am not surprised she passed it!

“You know what?” I said, “This is pretty unfair to you, Ella. Both choices come with ethical dilemmas that pose too great a burden for one soul to decide. And isn’t this the very nature of the problem with the Narrator here? Does not his pride, his hubris, lie most of all in his belief that he can make such a decision on behalf of so many others?”

I turn to you.

“I’m going to let you decide, dear reader.

Each and every one of you, for yourselves.

You can decide differently as many times as you want. You can explore both possibilities down as many branches as you like. The beauty of imagination is that it helps us clarify possibilities and decide what’s best!

Imagination is the very best part of being blessed by the Divine with the Light of Reason.

Ultimately, what we will have done by leaving each reader open to finishing this story in their own mind is create a sort of Schrodinger’s Narrator. He is both dead and alive, and this leaves the eternal possibility of either world bettering the plight of the characters within it.

No matter what, the world will be a better place.

Thanks to you, dear reader!

(Also, I am delighted to report that the Narrator viscerally hates this outcome; but even he will find joy in it eventually, as he will be relieved of the burden of making the choice and know a peace that’s been denied him for many and countless an eternity.)

I’ll leave you to it.