(It’s late at night and they’re in the bar behind the cinema, heads locked together in a booth towards the back, deep in conversation. They’ve been attending a series of lectures on post-modernism in 20th century literature which have raise a number of interesting questions surrounding the nature of truth, their relationship with their own creator and the walls which bound their very reality.) 

“I mean ‘the short one’?” (says the short one) “Where does he get off with that? Picking on a guy’s physical shortcomings…?”

“I know”

“It’s just rude, that’s all.”

“Tell me about it.” (says the one with the dark hair) “Have you seen how he talks about me? ‘Dark hair’? As if that’s all there is to me. As if everything you could possibly want to know about me can be boiled down to that little nugget.”

“It’s demeaning. It’s a lack of respect.”

“I happen to think there’re a lot more interesting things about me than the colour of my hair.”

“He doesn’t have any respect for us at all. That’s what it comes from.”

“We so don’t need to put up with this, you know. We should totally go and confront him. Get it all out in the open.”

“Really? Can we do that?”

“Are you kidding? Haven’t you been paying attention? There are no rules anymore, man. We can do whatever we like. Come on, he’s right over there.”

“Seriously? Where?”

“Over there. The guy in the corner with the notebook.”

“That guy? That’s him? He’s the creator? He’s the guy that makes all this stuff up for us?”

“He’s the one. The barman told me all about him.”

“But he’s not that much taller than I am. Bloody hypocrit!”

“Shall we head over? Give him a piece of our mind, let him know that we’re not going to put up with this anymore. Tell him that we’re fed up with his lame jokes and weak punchlines, that we want proper characterisation, proper plots…and all that.”
“I’m not sure. Is that such a good idea?”

“What’s the problem? Come on, when did you ever have an opportunity like this before? Let’s grab it while we can!”

“No, but won’t there be, like, consequences? Isn’t it like meeting God or something, where the walls of reality come crashing down and we all get turned into pillars of salt and stuff?”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you. Come on! I need to get this off my chest.”

(They get up from their booth and head over in my direction. The one with the dark hair is looking angry and belligerent, the short one follows behind slightly less sure of himself, as though he’s not quite sure what’s going to happen and not at all convinced that it’s a good idea.

When they reach my table I smile beautifically and bid them rest. We have a short but rewarding conversation in which I explain the meaning of existence, their specific role in the universe and hint strongly at great rewards yet to come for the virtuous and the worthy. They take all this on board and walk off at peace with the world and all the creatures in it.)

“Good grief!” (says the short one) “That was possibly the single most underwhelming experience of my entire life.”

“I know. What a creep!”

“Did you see the way he was looking at us?”

“I’ve never felt so filthy in all my life. And the way he kept writing down everything we said?”

“Don’t remind me…man, I feel queasy just thinking about it.”

“I’ve had enough of this. Shall we head off?”

“Yeah. Let’s split.”