"Title Missing"

“Title Missing”

It was that time of year again in the coffers of fate. The time of years when all of the greatest writers , storytellers, poets, script writers, social media comment makers, and editors gather at the grand book stores of the hallowed halls of “Words and What have You.” To submit their works into the greatest collection of stories ever known. Some would come chrome near and far to place their pages into the “Deas Ex Thesurous” to have it finally register in the great god machine's purpose of thought and perpetual existence.

As it was for many years since the “Imaginary collapse of 2021” that only so many parts of the world could hold itself together due to a lack of energy created from when people write stupid or steryoitical stories, as the quantum and complex concept of doing so- as it turned out- Is an important part of reality that holds the world's together. How anyone managed to find this out is a mystery in its own, that still to this date, lacks a more descriptive understanding of why anyone would run a universe on dumb ideas, and writers, but as the dreg and rather annoying concept became a universal law of physics, discovered way back when people were still trying to scrape out fan fictions on the backs of stone tablet. In order to kill time and kind of just make up a bunch of dumb nonsense. All things written however have been submitted to the great “Grammer-tron” for eons and all those stories have kept the world from falling apart.

As it was, once every year, the great Grammer-tron, would open up its eyes, to see who would eb submitting stories to the contemplation of what it means to live in a world where writing is the most important thing ever. Writers being revered as gods, or angels, or kings, and only if they could make a few select people be entertained in the idea that a story with purpose is a story that keeps the universe from falling apart. All things to consider it was a tense time for many who dare step up to the great eye of the “Grammer-Tron” and perplex the machine with the unique choices they made in developing a story that could bewilder even the most intelligent of machines.

Pit Bentons did not ever plan on ever becoming a writer, nor did he ever think that he would win one of the most important events in history as a man who just wanted to kind of “screw around for a while and try and see what happens.” Known mostly to everyone as kind of a directionless Jerk, Pit Benton did not have much respect for the waking world of so many people who believed that writing was the most important thing ever. He was just kind of here to make a mockery of everyone else, trying to get the subscriptions and likes of a god that they have never even met. Pit Benton was a lackluster, dirty smelly bum, as some would describe him. A harsh, diluted, over opinionated heretic who always kept his respects for anyone he had, tucked away under a flask of whiskey and a dirty shirt. But today he found himself standing in the line of writers both young and old, in order to submit his story to a some type of very vaguely described deity that seemed to be the all knowing factor of a universe of people that he did not care much for.

Pit had not known a kind life at the hands of many people. His youth was spent mostly chasing women into dead end relationships, and then working terrible jobs that made him bitter and resentful towards those that had it much better than he did. He always thought that the art of word craft was “Stupid” and “Childish”, and “People who waste their time and life writing, should all be thrown into a fire. Why the hell would you want to live in a world where writing is the most important thing?”, and comments and trolling like this would go on for days and years until, until Pit Benton finally found himself in a line of authors and people hoping to make a difference in the world and have their stories heard.

Pit Benton had no respect for any of this, he had very little respect for anyone. But as the situation unfolded for him, the events to follow would shock the world, and throw everything into a chaotic state from which it might never recover.

Pit Benton stood in line, outside the great building where this “Grammer-tron” person or thing was supposed to live inside of. The ticket he had in his hand, stated that he was four-hundred-and -seventy-fifth in line. However, as things were, the line would move rather fast, and Pit would only be standing there for less than a few hours. Things would get rather boring and every so often, he would sit, eat a snack, and drink from the flask that he had in his pocket. Keeping himself well fueled and well gassed for when it finally became his turn, he would finally be able to tear into this “Grammar-tron Jerk” For being such a nuisance in his plane of logic. Pits patience however was wearing thin, as he tried to keep his fire from being fanned out by the enthusiasm of the other people around him,, and their personal plight and beliefs into who or what this Grammar-Tron thing could be.

“I bet he is really tall” says a little kid that sits in line with an older woman, a woman that seems just as excited and curious about the current circumstances at hand as the small child that she looks after. They are both well dressed and well groomed, as if they were on their way to meet some sort of dignitary in the president of the United states. Pit thinks the two of them are a bit overdressed for the occasion, considering that the event in question that they are trying to get involved in is something that he has so little respect for. “I bet the Grammar-tron, I bet he has a really big smile on his face, and long wavy hair.” The kids say in blissfully ignorant glee.

“I will take that bet.” Pit says as he drinks from his flask of whiskey. “But you know what I bet, I bet you are just gonna be all around disappointed to buy whatever you see or meet in there.” Pit says with the kind of cynicism that comes with the expectation of a life full of many disappointments.

“Excuse me sir, we did not ask for your input.” Says the mother in charge of the small kid.

“And i didnt ask for your attitude- mam.” Pit says as he looks her in the eyes with viament sarcasm. “Your kids seem a bit over ecstatic for someone who has to wait in line all day to be told whatever book it is he wrote is crap.”

“Excuse me sir! I will have you know that my child has already won the contest once, and that the experience was rather gratifying.”

“Pfffff what?”

“Yeah, the Grammartron looks different every year, he takes the form of the main character from the story that wins the contest.”

“What, why?” Pit says with a raised eyebrow.

“Who knows? Just a fun eccentric I suppose.” Says the woman was she thinks about the results.

“So if I wrote a story about a talking shoe filled with farts and rainbow candy canes, then this Grammar-tron thing would look like that for an entire year.” Pit questions and as he examines the odd nature of the circumstance at hand.

“Well if you wrote a story, with a character in it like that, that's good, then yes I suppose.”

“What the f@#$k.” Pit says as looks at a spot on the ground where a small bug crawls by them.

“Hey, wait. You won this contest already?” Pit says as he tries to size up this whole debacle of idiots waiting in line. “So what do you get if you win?” Pit asks a bit confused about the nature of being someone who wins a writing contest.

“The Grammar-tron, well he grants you a wish of course.” Says the woman with a pleased look on her face.

“So what did you wish for, softer Diapers?”

“I am 96 years old.” Says the little kid. “I have been writing stories for 40 years.” The little kid says as he gives Pit a smirk that pit would rather punch then look at. “Took me 40 years to finally win, but it was totally worth it.”

“And you wished for youth?” Pit says as he looks the old man kid up and down. “F#@4kin why? Are you some type of idiot or something?”

The old man kid looks Pit in the face with plain eyes. “You are a cynical jerk, you know that.”

“AT Least it didn't use my one wish, to do the whole growing old bullcrap again. Doesn't this place suck enough without a bunch of old man kids running around.”

“No- not really.”

“F@#$k you not really. That wish was probably one of the dumbest things I have ever heard of in my few years of giving a crap about anything. And i have heard some really- dumb things i my life, but that has to be the stupidest thing ever.”

“Hey pal, to each his own. At least I get to see my granddaughter go through school.” He says as he looks at the young woman standing beside him.

“Yeah and really creep on her friends too. God that is just- creepy. Why are you even here if he is 96 years old?”

“Well when he won the contest and made the wish, he didn't exactly specify - how young he wanted to be. So he ended up being a baby first.” She says with a bit of an off expectation of how the conversational statement would go.

“Yeah, And I am not exactly tall enough to drive a car yet, and I don't look like Driver's license anymore. Didn't exactly think the whole thing through, but this year, I plan to fix that.”

“So- you are here to unwish your last wish?”

“Not unwish, fix with a new wish, like adding a sail to a bike or something instead of peddling around like an idiot.”

“Oh yeah man.” Pits says as everyone sighs about the time someone finally figured out how to put a wind catching parachute on a bike to pull it down the road instead of peddling for miles like what would be perceivably and comparatively to be a “Jackass”. “Still though, isn't that kind of bull crap, Hey.” Pit says getting another person involved in the discussion. “Don't you think this guy's wish is a big truck load of crap?”

The person standing in front of them turns around, looking at the situation and trying to understand what had been said. To everyone’s surprise this person had been taking notes on the conversation the entire time.

“A- Are you serious?” Pit says, looking at the small notepad.

“This is a line of writers, everyone is taking notes.”

“Oh god. Whatever man. What do you think anyway.”

“About what?”

Pit has a look on his face like he cant believe what was just said. “What the hell are you taking notes for if- give me that.” Pit says as he grabs the notebook out of his hand. “See here it is right here, Stupid wish, dumb kid face.”

“Oh- uh that. Well, it wasn't the wisest of decisions, but it's isn't exactly like you ever get your first wish right. Who ever does?”

A bunch of people nod, and make those intellectual frown faces that people make when they are considering good points. That smug look that makes people look like sad clowns in a circus of liabilities. Everyone but Pit who does not believe half the people in line are even doing what they are doing.

“Common man, if you are gonna make a wish, then why not think about it. Why not plan your wish? Why just mullengen the whole thing, and spend more of your time filing things in?”

“I don't know man, it's a magic wish or something, it's like a birthday candle, it isn't something you take years to figure out, you just kind of blow on it and hope it goes out.”Says the person ahead of them in line.

“I- what?” Pit says as he has a hard time understanding what is going on. “You ,mean of all the wishes all of you writer guys have made, not a single got dang one you have ever wished for something you spent a lot of time thinking about?”

“No man, we are writers. Most people just wish to live like a king or something, or for a hot husband or girlfriend, who is rich. Then we move on.”

Pits mind is considerably blown, and into more areas of retrospect and hindsight then anyone would ever imagine. At the same time he is livid, engrossed with the near-ferile concept of what it means to live in a world where the wishes that everyone makes are stupid or inconsiderate. “Idiots- your all -IDIOTS.” He says as he considers his place in a world filled with so many unnecessary struggles and problem that could have been fixed years ago if not for the nature of writers who just want to write stories, and for dumb reasons.

“Hey man, it is what it is.” The writer in line says as he shrugs.

Pit is furious, but the line soon begins to move as he tries to contain his rage, and disappointment as the total failure of people that keep their places in line, waiting for their turn to be more selfish than anyone else. It is not too long until they are inside the Building where the Grammar-tron takes up residence. And Pit is able to get a look at the odd decor that this crazy thing keeps itself surrounded with.

The building is a mix of simple things and complex and complex ideas. Mostly the art on the wall is just a number of framed words that seem just as out of place as any sort of modern artwork.

“Who the F@#$k frames a single word?” Pit says as he looks like the grand display of a massive painting containing only the statements “Spats”.

“Oh it means tap dancing shoes.” Says the old man kid behind Pit in line.

“I know what it means. Why would anyone frame this as art?”

“It's the Grammartron, man. He likes words dude, it's that kind of thing.”

“So do I get any extra credit for adding pictures to my story?” Pit says as his questions bounces off the hallowed halls of the Grammar trons building.

The entire group of people hearing this goes into a subtle uproar. The general understanding of their response being ‘Oh, my goodness pictures. Why didn't I think of that?’ A pit just covers his face with his hand out of grief smiling as he slightly loses his mind to the concept that all the way up until this point, no one had thought to put pictures in any of their books. “Kill myself, I should just kill myself right now, this entire world is doomed isn't it. Doomed.”

“Hey man, quite ragging on the writers dude, we do the best we can.” Says the guys who were in front of the Pit in line. “Doing this whole thing- Writing isn't easy you know.”

“Is it?” Pit says as he tries to analyse why it is that that younger man is even in this contest, getting a sense of what it means to be someone so witless to their own purpose in keeping something like the Grammar-tron entertained. “You guys spent weeks, months, years writing your stories, and you never even consider the implications of what it means to have a responsibility like this?”

“Hey man, writing is hard. It takes a lot of thinking and I don't exactly have time for anything else. Okay man, Between writing down what other people say, and trying to work out how to work at a real job as little as possible, this whole process just, its ruff man its ruff.”

“Ruff? Look at you, you look like you haven't even worked a day in your life.” Pit says looking at the well dressed person, his soft hands and soft face, as they barely show any signs of blemishing or over exposure to the elements. Everyone seems rather well dressed for the occasion except Pit, who is the only person who is haggard and worn through.

“Hey man, you are the only person here making implications. All of us other writers, we are all well respected and important people. A Lot of Us can't even figure out what it is that A guy like you is doing here, if all you are going to do is hate on everyone for keeping the universe from falling apart.” He says.

“Yeah, man, it's an important job!” Says someone from a distance.

“Yeah man if you do not have to be here, go somewhere else.” Says another woman from a distance.

“You're not even dressed like a real writer.” Says the old man kid, who has been puzzling over Pits attire this entire time. “Why do you look like someone who takes naps in porta johns?”

Before Pit can go off on everyone, someone comes out of the big room in front of them. They walk straight past everyone and stop at Pit Benson as he sits waiting to explode like a soda can that has been shaken to its core. “Mr. Benson?” Says this tall dark figure, that has only an exclamation point for a face.

Pit is in shock a little. Never has he seen anything that looks like this thing that stands before him now. Ever. As odd as it is that Grammar-tron is even a real thing. Nothing is more weird than the fact that it has some type of talking chess piece made to beat down people it might think is causing a disturbance. (At least this is what Pit Benson assumes.) “Y-yeah, thats me.” He says in response.

“Very good.” It then motions with its hand pointing at the front of the line. “Would you please move forwards, your place in line has been expedited.”

“Expedited?”

“Moved forwards, moved up, hastened.” Says the exclamation head guy-thing. (???????)

“Uh, okay.” Pit says as he steps out of line and begins to walk forwards.

Everyone in the room is confused, stunned in fact. A number of whispers fill the room, and the so many airy questions seem to fill the minds of everyone who seems to be uniformed about what being expedited means. All of the other writers seem to be more confused than pleased, or infuriated that someone like Pit would be considered to be moved up in line. But he is and everyone is concerned.

Pit is let into the room where the Grammar-tron is. Being allowed to look upon the image of the odd entity's avatar for the first time and end all speculations as to who or what this thing is. As the winner of last year's contest had written it to be, the main character of his book and the avatar's current form is a field mouse with a kazoo in its mouth. It makes actual kazoo noises as it sits there, trying to get its point across as it sees a pit approaching.

“Mr. Benson '' The Grammar-tron says as it sees him. “You have been causing quite a stir in the lines it seems.”

“Uh, yeah.” Pit says as he tries to make sense of what he sees. “A rat playing a Kazoo, that is what won the last contest?”

“Well, yes, yes it did.”’

“Why?”

“It was determined to be the most endearing story about a thing doing something that was determined by others to be impossible. And through hard and perseverance, the mouse had acquired the ability to be a world class kazoo player.”

“A- rat, Playing a Kazoo?”

“Are you displeases”

“You bet your F@#$king A%$ I am displeased. What the hell kind of story even is that!? A rat playing a Kazoo.”

“And your story is better?”

“Yeah of course it's better.” Pit says getting ready to muster up his point. “Its about how stupid all of this is!”

“Stupid?”

“Yes,Stupid.”

“How is this- Stupid? I am the Grammar-tron. I keep the universe from falling out of order using the energy created from people's writing. This contest is to determine who the best writer is.”

“Yeah, but writing isn't about just making up some dumb story to appease just one person or thing. It is about struggle, heart ache, turmoil, grief, love, hatred, pain, joy. Not just some dumb rat learning to do something useless and pointless, and without any real purpose.”

The Grammar-tron takes a moment to think about what Pit has to say, taking a moment to consider its own selfishness in demanding stories that have no other purpose than to just fill a quota. “You mean, other beings like to read stories as I do? And these books and stories should not just have the purpose of keeping my intentions sated?”

“No, no not at all. I don't doubt that you have an important purpose, but still, why do all of us have to suffer through terrible writers, with selfish demands, and stupid ideas? That makes our lives miserable, and makes life a living hell.”

“I don't think it that bad.” The Grammar-tron says having its feelings a little hurt.

“Have you met those people? Have you actually talked to them? No wonder why they have stories about rats that play kazoos, they have no character to them at all, and no real characters to their stories! THey are all, pampered selfish, spoiled idiots- jerks, whose books are so two dimensional that you would slip them through an A@# Crack!”

“You have a rather low opinion of everyone else, what makes you so special. What makes you any more different than any of those people in their stories?”

“I have lived, loved and struggled. I lost everything in a tragic type writer fire, when I was working on one of those stupid stories everyone writes. The story was so dumb that it burst into flames, and my house burned down and family died.”

“Oh my.” The Grammar-tron says as he considers the repercussions of what it is doing. “ So you would say that bad stories are breaking the universe.

“THey are, and I have seen it for myself.” Pit rubs his eyes as he tries to keep himself from crying. “So I set out to write the greatest story book anyone has ever written, to undo the mistake of what had taken place, and avenge my family.”

“Do you have your story with you?”

“Yes, its right here.” Pit says taking out a small book wrapped in tin foil. He opens the books and a light pears out from underneath. He pulls off the wrapper, and shows it to the Grammar-tron who then reads the pages.

“This story is amazing. It's about a man who enters into a writing contest, in order to save the people he loves.”

“As life mimics art, so does the truth of a great story.”

THe universe begins to break away, the walls and spaces of a world held together by words fall apart, and the entirety of the existence of man and his understanding of fate and consequence are dissolved.

“And the book has pictures.” The Grammartron continues.

“Hand drawn as only words can describe so much.”

"And the main characters name is Benson Pit, and it's a woman" Says the Grammar-Tron. The Grammartron cires. “What a fool I have been. Pit Benson. You are no mere man, but a god.”

“I am simply as all men should be.”

“No story could ever compare to this however. I cannot look upon the pages of another one of those pieces of garbage ever again. What do we do about this?”

“We start a new story.” Pit says as he closes his book.

“Then what is your wish?”

“I just wish to be with my family. I do not want a life of misery any more. I burn. I do not want my children to live in a world where terrible writing is what holds the universe together.”

“Then you should have a place here with me. Here amongst the halls of the Grammar-tron where all things are made and judged under your guidance. You should take my place, and I shall learn to no longer accept mediocrity as law.”

“Then let it be so.” And it was.

In a flash of light, Pit Bensons and the Grammar tron change the universe, and in such a way that all things go unnoticed in the phantasm of the world's eye. Pit Benson is given a place on a throne where his family is made whole once again, and becomes the king of stories.

The end?