The Preface to 'The Prey of the Penman'

Before he took a leisurely sip of his frothy coffee, the man we are speaking of had a thought to himself. He knew that he was reading, or rather, he was about to embark on a literary adventure which told the story of another man.

This other man - who was very much absent of pride, fuelled by ravenous guilt, and unashamed of his dreadful plagiarism - set out on a long and daunting trip to the depths of his very small and quite simple mind, where he was to explore the deadliest of thoughts about people, the most detrimental of thoughts about society and the universe, and his unrelenting desire to be found funny. He was keen to write a satire, inspired by those very thoughts that were hidden away in his small brain. This man knew that such a trip should be documented in scriptures (that were to have an uncertain page count), which he felt would one day be treated similar to the precious manuscripts of ancient Pharaohs, even after the effects of hundreds of years of weathering, withering, and spilling of coffee. And so, he wrote the satire he so dearly spawned from his mind.

Unfortunately, the man was only able to see his work for what it really was (and not an attempt at art). His perception became exactly the same as the perception of everyone else that read it. He thus, quite unfortunately indeed, could only ever see it as a cheaply typed story, that somehow seemed to make sense only in his mind, that was to be sold on a very cheap platform (that no one really used unless they were very cheap). This platform only really became successful after the innovation of the internet, which was innovated purely to allow people to create cheap platforms with the hope of fruition.

And while nothing really seemed to be going his way, this unfortunate man was at least fortunate enough to always have the last laugh, which everyone else declared was only because he was insane. He begged to differ, upon hearing this, in the same way that any perfectly reasonably insane man would. He certainly always ensured that his lungs filled themselves with all the air the atmosphere had to offer (to him), before his bellowing diaphragm were to let out a raucous laugh. It was a pity, that the only lucky witness to these laughs was the mirror he confoundedly enjoyed staring into while he reassured himself that everything was wrong with the world, and nothing was wrong with him (similar to what any perfectly reasonably insane man would think).

After another incredible search through the deep canyons and chasms in his mind, he learned something about himself. He was able to make a simple, but very likely, prediction about the future of his life, if he were to write this amazing satire. The projection was such that he felt that his mere skin and bones were not enough to contain his potential self. It was indeed this very same man that identified he had a spiritual self - someone he was, but only in his own mind - in exactly the way any perfectly reasonably insane person would. He had to accept the simple, sober, and humbling truth that he was a god, the growth of which he felt his mere skin and bones had no control over.

And so, this man used a very cheap computer to type the story of this ghastly adventure into a place no man (including himself, because he felt he was a god) has ever explored - his mind. He would soon find himself amazed at how incredibly stupid and mindbogglingly boring he was, after choosing to literally hear himself out loud. He then escaped the devilish depths of his mind, and instead felt it was a better (and a less insane choice), to bury himself in the depths of other minds. And how staggeringly wrong he was. 

His work soon showed many resemblances of other works that were deemed unanimously as ‘good enough for the platform’, leaving him to accept a truth that was much harsher than accepting his reasonable insanity. It was the truth that he had no character. 

And so, to rid his mind of the devastating thought and feeling of guilt, he chose to publicly accept and address his insanity, while using very convincing stories that people could sympathise with. He did so, only because he felt that this was what any perfectly reasonably insane man would do. And so then, without a worry in the world, he went back to the cheap computer, the price of which had depreciated even further in the time that intertwined, and continued typing his book.

He made his mind up about how the very same platform, that made the lives of hundreds of capable men, could very much not make the life of his very incapable self. And so, to feed his unearthly ego and mountainous pride, he set out with one target in his mind - to not allow the platform to have the last laugh, by writing a satire on the harsh ways of the publishing company. Unaware he would find himself in a situation once written about extravagantly, by a man whose name he believed rhymed with ‘Chosen Fella’, he set out to make his fortune on a platform (which would then make its fortune off him). He had the subtle feeling, that something could be going wrong.

This sensation caused his mind with infinite wisdom to avoid the deep and dark sensations, that arrested and halted his flow, as any perfectly reasonably insane man would. He instead looked at the brighter side of his mind, which was flabbergasted for most of the time by the dullness of his life. And so, this man came up with what was the greatest and brightest idea he had ever thought of. He knew so much about the world, that he was able to predict accurately that there did not exist another person who had the same idea. He was so sure of his prediction, as the supporting evidence told him that the only other people in the world that could have had such ideas were deemed by society as perfectly insane men, and were locked away in rooms that had soft padded walls, a gracious amount of light, meals that were served and made for them, and mind bending social interactions, which seemed to him as quite a good way of living.

And so, the man continued typing away, unaware of the impending doom that was certain to follow him. His idea was too good, and he knew that the creators of the platform (that was very much made only to sell things) would find themselves in a state of indefinite perplexion and worry. He knew that these people were only really mere mortals that hadn’t a thing they could do to prevent the impending doom that was certain to follow them - the book he was writing. His mind reminded him that the only thing those creators wanted was to have the last laugh. He knew for a fact, that by accepting his god status, and by typing away, he would soon achieve the unachievable, which was immortality.

After a very high page count, word started spreading, quite literally, as the echoes of him reading his own work out loud to himself bounced off everything that mankind had ever made, and made its way up to the heavens and through the pearly gates. The gods there, that sat on large marvellous chairs, made from the scavenging of all the misplaced jewellery in the world, heard of this very mortal man who was on course for achieving immortality. 

The gods, at first, did actually take very kindly to this news that they just heard, as they felt it was nothing more than just the actions of a perfectly insane man. But, they had not imagined the lingering thoughts they would have in their own godly minds, and soon started to find themselves afraid and frightened of the future that could unfold, if this man were to achieve immortality. They had these thoughts, of a man becoming immortal, which are quite similar to the thoughts that any perfectly reasonably insane man would. They realised a holy truth - the platform the gods made, that was very much only made to sell things, known more commonly as Earth, had one very peculiar person using it, that would end up having the last laugh!

For their very greatest and deadliest weapon was almost certain to shut this stupid man’s mouth and mind, they unleashed their very carefully and intricately crafted weapon. But, the writer’s block they instilled upon him failed to work, because they forgot to account for one small detail - that the man in question wasn’t perfectly insane, but rather, he was perfectly reasonably insane.

Pondering and brainstorming followed in the heavens about how their plan failed miserably, as the man happily kept clicking away at the keys on his keyboard. They couldn’t find an answer themselves, and so, after a long elevator ride, the gods found themselves at the barbed and rusted steel gates of hell. They explained very quickly to the devils that there was a man who must be put down, before this man could achieve immortality. The devils refused, of course, as they strongly believed in saying ‘no’ to anything and everything. The gods explained how this man’s future would not allow them to have a very cinematic battle between the angels and the demons, the encore of which included guest appearances by very famous people such as Jesus, Lucifer, the virgin Mary, Adam (who, at this time, wasn’t a virgin anymore), a slithering snake, two of many animals, a massively large breasted goddess of lust (who everyone called a whore), Zeus and Neptune, George W. Bush (who everyone also called a whore), and of course, no one had forgotten about the very indestructible Popes (who all seemed to be named ‘John Paul’).

The devils were soon left confounded themselves, and the idea of never actually having this battle was something ghastly. The devils and the gods started plotting together on different ways to take down this perfectly reasonably insane man. It was a soft voice in the corner that suggested of slyly infiltrating his vast and luminous conscience. And so they developed what was to be the greatest weapon that had ever been conceived by any form of intelligence - something even greater than the writer’s block.

“Isn’t this incredible new weapon a little too maniacal?” asked Satan.

“Now we’re all sons of bitches,” said God, who then used his dashing good looks to hide his shameful plagiarism.

And so this weapon, with many wishes of good luck, was sent along its merry way. It soon infiltrated the man’s conscience, but he was too incompetent to spend time thinking about it, as the weapon appeared to this man in the shape and form of a simple housefly. He noticed the housefly buzz around his ears, and sit on his nose, before fluttering its wings with incredible speed as it made its way to the monitor of the computer he was typing on. It sat there, and kept walking about the screen. He looked at it, for the brief second it stopped, and, within a flash of a moment, thought of the possibility of this fly being a weapon designed by the cooperation of the gods and the devils, that was sent to prevent this man from achieving his destiny of immortality.

This very genius idea of his was soon disregarded, because the immense pride took over his mind. And so, he reminded himself that only perfectly insane men would have such mindbogglingly stupid ideas. And so he took no more note of this housefly, as it continued playing the long game. It eventually made the choice of finding a resting place on the side wall of a coffee mug of his, in which a frothy latte contained itself, knowing fully well that the wrathful anger of this perfectly reasonably insane man would soon take over. It carried out its task, the sole purpose of its creation and existence, which was to bug the man. It was this moment that Satan himself grinned at his tasteful humour.

And so, this man used his mighty hand, which had been so tired of clacking away at a not so mighty computer, to take a hefty swing with the sole intention of brutally murdering the harmless fly. Unaware of the consequences that could follow, as any perfectly reasonably insane man would be, he was soon brought to accept the bitter and harsh events that unfolded in front of his very eyes. 

The mug, with a perfectly brewed frothy latte, took a mighty tumble. Out of the mouth of the cup, the drops of that perfect compost flung their way across the still air, in such a cinematic fashion, that the gods and devils who watched from the sky felt that it was more entertaining than their mighty fight could be. The coffee then made its way to the shell of the computer, and in through the seams, the hot solution trickled.

There were flashes, there was beeping, there was an alarm that chose to set itself off! Sadly, the gods and devils did not actually see or hear any of this, as these were alarms that went off in the head of that perfectly reasonably insane man. The computer stayed silent. And it soon died. This time, its value really depreciated.

The man was flabbergasted and dumbfounded by what had just unfurled before his very eyes. For all his work was lost, he knew that his only remaining option was retrieval. The man started searching through the depths of his minds, about the idea he just had a little while ago, and discovered that it was nowhere to be found. The idea dissipated, somewhat like the ideas that perfectly reasonably insane men have.

He started to accept the great loss of his one true solution to achieving immortality. He even resorted to alcohol, to make him think less of himself. He started to get depressed, and did things that seemed to others as simple and mundane, but to him seemed artistic. It was then that he realised he was absolved of his current state, because he now reached a new low, that no other life form (real or artificial) had even imagined. He pondered about it, and finally came to terms with himself, as he had nothing else and no one else to come to terms with. And so he accepted that he was now a manically depressed and perfectly reasonably insane man.

He took no joy in being the creator of this dreadful new category of life, only because he was depressed. And so, with nothing else to do, he went back to writing. He believed that the most depressed people in the world were writers, and that this new lifestyle could be an asset to him. But there were no new things he could think of apart from being depressed and how depressing it was. This man then sought the works of other depressed men, who were not perfectly reasonably insane or manically depressed. The works he sought went through the vast stretches of literature and language, from works by a man who’s name rhymed with ‘Forge Borewell’ to a man who’s name rhymed with ‘Mugless Madams’. And feeling the incoherence that a manically depressed and perfectly reasonably insane man would, he started using their ideas as his inspiration, as he knew that his shameful plagiarism could hide behind the label of being insane, which didn’t feel very good to him, only because he was depressed.

And so, the man began his new journey, and documented it in the new book he was writing, which is in fact the book that the other man was reading, in a meaningless coffee shop, in the middle of nowhere, who just leisurely took the last sip from his mug. He is also currently feeling just fine.

But, before the reading man could read the story of a manically depressed and perfectly reasonably insane man, he had a thought in his mind, which demanded his utmost concentration and sincerest of efforts. This thought he had is very difficult to express in narration, even for a man who feels he has great penmanship, eloquence, humour, and charm. This very same man who thinks he has great penmanship, has proved he is a very wise nonetheless, as he made the clear choice of including a preface to the book he was writing, to ensure that readers don’t think that the writer himself is a perfectly reasonably insane man, who also could show signs of manic depression. 

And so, to best be understood, the incredible thought of the reading man must be read in its purest form which is when it is enclosed within speech quotes.

“This should be pretty interesting,” the reading man thought to himself.