An Unfortunate Disagreement

     I settle down at my parents computer, with its clunky keyboard and huge screen, preparing myself mentally and physically. I stretch my neck, crack my fingers, sit up straight and get ready to follow in the footsteps of so many writers before me. I open a fresh new word processing document and make sure spell-check is operating at maximum strength by typing “jhdjshdjhs”. The red squiggly lines display themselves prominently at the bottom of the gibberish, and I smile happy. I’m ready.
     My character, a hard-as-steel, no nonsense young warrior with a sharp wit to match his sword, trots out on the screen in a row of pretty black letters. He enters mortal combat with the antagonist, a hulking man mountain of fury and rage. My character, though agile and quick, cannot hope to stand against the berserker-
     The hero I have placed in such a deadly situation stares up into the hot, cloudless sky to glare up at me, the narrator.
     “What exactly are you doing?” he demands, angrily. The scene has paused temporarily, and I know what is coming. My character is going to gripe at me some more. Oh yay.
     “I’m writing your epic battle scene,” I declare, meekly.
     “But I’m losing!” he hissed through clenched teeth, clenching his free hand into a tight, shaking fist. “And what music are you listening to right now?!”
     I cough, uncomfortable and embarrassed. “Erm… some weird punky bubbly stuff.”
     “Aha! That’s why I’m losing! Play some battle music, damn you!” Morgan cried, brandishing his sword.
     “What the hell is battle music? Like… hard rock and metal?” I ask, truly curious as to my characters taste in music.
     “Something better than this crap,” he mutters darkly.
     “Fine,” I sigh, changing my music to something more battle worthy.
     “Better,” he admits. “But now I need to win.”
     “Patience! Give me a chance to get you really beaten up, and then have the tides turn suddenly and amazingly!”
     “You’re an idiot. You realize how cliché your writing can be, right?” he says derisively.
     “I hate you sometimes,” I say sadly, shaking my head. My mother passes by me in the living room and shoots me a hurt look. “Not you, mom!” I add hastily. She sighs and leaves the room.
     “Look what you did,” I growl at my would-have-been-hero.
     “Wait, did you just type ‘would-have-been’ hero?!” he asks, panicking.
     “Damn straight,” I grumbled, typing more of his fight scene.
     The fearsome blade of the barbarian glistened with the blood of countless warriors. It thirsted for more, it hungered to bite deep into the flesh of a would have been hero who mouthed off to his creator. The barbarian took a step forward and laughed harshly, raising his blade high above his head. The unfortunate lad saw an opening but hesitation struck and he found himself paralyzed by doubt. This pause, however short, cost him dearly… and as the blade swung down upon him, he had one last thought-
     “I hate you!” he screams at me. “I really hate you very much!”
     “Likewise, dear would-have-been hero,” I say, not without some sadistic glee.
     And as the blade swung down upon him, he had one last thought. “At least I’ll die with a sword in my hand.”
     “I don’t want to die at all! I’m not happy about having a sword in my hand when I die! I DON’T WANT TO DIE AT ALL!” he screams.
     The horrible blade sliced clean through his skull and he was really, really dead. He couldn’t abuse his creator any longer. The barbarian laughed wildly and yanked his blade from the dead mans idiot head, then leaned down to wipe his blade on the dead mans shirt.
     “You better delete this!” my now dead hero’s ghost threatens. I’m not exactly worried about it.
     “I don’t want to be a ghost! No! This is not okay!” he wails.
     “But at least you died with a sword in your hand,” I say happily.

The End

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