“Hello?”
From the other end of the line came the voice of a suave, sophisticated Yankee playboy.
“I say, Young Duffer. Any chance you might be headed home soon? We’ve eaten all your food and I dare say no one’s delivering a pizza what with all the creepy crawlies afoot.”
It was Sid Monroe, the protagonist of the 1920’s classic novel of fortune seeking, hard-partying ennui, The Incorrigible Monroe.
Or rather, a tiny version of him.
For those just tuning in, I’m the owner/caretaker of a magic bookshelf. Whenever I put a book on it, the book’s characters come to life in tiny versions of themselves who then proceed to take up residence on my bookshelf and battle one another over limited shelf space.
Rarely a night goes by when I’m not woken up by the sound of itty bitty literary protagonists going to war.
“Sorry Monroe,” I said. “I’ve been bogged down by the zompoc out here. I was stuck in a mall, then I had to try to find my Aunt, then I…”
“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, Young Duffer,” Monroe interrupted. “But what about my needs? Anara hasn’t had anything to nibble on for quite some time now and unless she gets a snack I fear she won’t be nibbling on me anytime soon.”
If you’ve read the book, then you know that Monroe spent his life chasing money and throwing elaborate parties at his mansion for the sole purpose of winning the heart of his beloved Jenny, only for her to choose the conniving Gustavo instead.
F. Scott Fitzgerald? Never heard of the guy.
Anyway, after my quest for the meaning of life, Monroe took my advice that “there’s more fish in the sea” and began seeing Anara “Annie” Mistwake, one of the main characters of Joel L.L. Torrow’s A Dirge of Murder and Betrayal series.
I’ve always admired Torrow’s ability to kill off a dozen characters every morning before he polishes off his breakfast burrito.
George R.R. who? Stop asking dumb questions, 3.5. You people make no sense.
I was glad that Monroe had moved on, but it made what I had to say next that much harder.
“Monroe, you guys might have to go back into your books for awhile,” I said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get back to the Bookshelf Battle Compound.”
“Well that’s a fine how do you do, isn’t it?” Monroe asked. “Hold on, Young Duffer, Tessa wants a word.”
“BQB?”
It was a tiny version of Tessa Fireswarm, protagonist of the Young Adult series, Arrowblast. The series, and the resulting eight movies, were based on the adventures of a group of plucky teenagers who, with little to no battlefield experience, were still able to take down the cruel dictator who ruled their dystopian future with an iron fist.
“Hey Tessa,” I said. “Are you getting along with everyone?”
Tessa was the shelf’s problem child. The slightest insult made her reach for her bow. It was a bad habit. We’d been working on her anger management skills for awhile.
“Everyone except the guy from that new book you bought before you left,” Tessa said.
“Who?”
“You know. That guy from the sequel to that classic book that was a staple of high school English classes everywhere.”
“Oh that guy,” I said.
“He used to be so nice,” Tessa said. “But now all he does is sit in his rocking chair and spout racist gibberish all day. I really want to put an arrow in his ass.”
“No one’s putting an arrow in anyone’s ass,” I said.
“But BQB!” Tessa whined.
“Violence is never the answer.”
“Ugh! Fine!”
“Put on Bookshelf Q. Battledog,” I said.
“Hold on,” Tessa said.
I waited a minute before I heard a “woof.”
“Battledog?”
“Woof.”
“Status report.”
“Woof woof. Woof.”
“The Bookshelf Battle Compound is secure and my arch nemesis, the Yeti, remains imprisoned in my basement?”
“Woof.”
“You’re a top notch security chief, Battledog.”
“Woof woof.”
“What?” I asked. “No, I don’t have time to talk about philosophy.”
“Woof.”
“Yes, I realize that Descartes, famous saying, ‘I think, therefore I am,’ or ‘Corgito ergo sum’ is trite insomuch as those who do not think continue to exist, but is there ever a time when anyone is not thinking? Open up the mind of the lowliest dullard and you’ll find even he is thinking about something, even if it is not anything meaningful.”
“Woof.”
“You know very well that Descartes never qualified his saying with a mandate that thoughts must be substantive in order for existence to occur.”
“Woof.”
“Really? Fine. I’m just going to hang up now if you’re going to be a dick about it.”
I swiped right on the space phone and cut my furry security chief off.
“Am I the only one to realize that we’ve had access to the fortress-like compound that is Bookshelf Battle Headquarters the entire time?” VGRF asked.
“No,” Alien Jones said. “I realized it October 1, but I wanted BQB’s stats to climb so the Mighty Potentate will see an improvement in the Chosen One’s writing career so I can avoid meeting the business end of a vaporizer.”
“That gives me an idea,” I said. “VGRF, tell Mario and Janet to call a survivor’s meeting tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do now?” my dear video game loving girlfriend asked.
“What I do best,” I replied. “Interview another zombie author.”
Bookshelf Battle 