The Fictional Man

by Al Ewing

  Wikipedia provided some more clues. Hopper was dead – he’d been struck and killed by a snowmobile in 1992 – and his entry was too barren to be of much use, but Matson was still very much alive, at the ripe old age of seventy-four. A little more googling revealed that he had no immediate family – his wife had died some years before, and they’d had no children – and was currently living in a nursing home somewhere near Glendale. It sounded like a fairly tragic end for the man, but then from what Niles had been able to gather Fred Matson was a mostly mediocre writer. He’d had some critical successes with Door To Nowhere and his sketch work for Laugh-In was generally highly praised, but most of what he’d written during his life was plodding, low-grade hackwork. Fred Matson’s star, it seemed, had only briefly burned bright before flickering down to an ember.

  Still, as he went to put his pyjamas on, Niles was struck again by the urge to go and see Matson, to talk to him. It might help with the pitch – if nothing else, it would answer some of his questions. And the old man would probably be glad to see a friendly face.

  “You’re a good Joe,” Matson said, smiling weakly from his bath chair. “A good Joe.” The author felt a mixture of pity and pride, and found himself wiping away a tear.

  THAT NIGHT, NILES had a dream in which he was running through the corridors of the Talisman Pictures building, searching for Jane Elson’s office, but he could only find Dean’s, and besides Iyla wanted to stop at the Best Buy and buy a copy of Terrordance. “It’ll be too late tomorrow,” she said, trying to keep the hen in her grip from getting away.

  It’s not going anywhere, Niles tried to tell her, but she shook her head. She was crying again. It’s only Terrordance, he said. You don’t even like Prince.

  And then when he looked again, it was Danica Moss. “We’re having fun,” she said, softly, and he woke up with a start.

  He didn’t sleep again that night.

  “NO, WE DON’T have anyone of that name here. Why were you calling again?”

  The voice on the phone was guarded, suspicious. Niles held back a sigh and reached for his coffee. He’d spent more than a day listening to one disembodied voice after another coming out of that phone, most of them hostile, and he was on the verge of throwing it into the toilet. That or going out and buying a blender just to have the visceral satisfaction of seeing the damned thing dissolve into a blizzard of plastic dust... at least that way he’d get some sun.

  “It really doesn’t matter. Thank you so much. Good-bye!” he trilled, as irritatingly as possible – if he could drive one of these human-farming hags into some kind of apoplexy-related stroke, it’d be a morning well spent – then killed the call and checked the laptop screen for the next number. Why on Earth were there so many nursing homes in Glendale?

  He winced. Pleasant Palms – God, they all had such insipid names. He’d have to look into some kind of suicide plan in case he ever ended up somewhere like that.

  “Oh, Fred Matson! Oh, it’d be so nice for him to have a visitor!” Niles let his head flop back and gave a silent thank you to the ceiling, letting the woman on the other end prattle on for a second. “That’d be wonderful! Of course, we’d have to run it past him – are you a family member or a friend?”

  “Neither,” Niles said, allowing himself a rueful smile. “I’m a fan of his work.” Of course, he’d never seen a single minute of the man’s work. But he could hardly say that.

  “Well, that’s certainly never happened before! He’ll be thrilled!” She seemed genuinely delighted, and for a moment Niles felt a stab of guilt. He should just admit that he wanted to be the latest person to pick Matson’s brains about leeching off what was apparently the only decent thing he’d ever produced – but then, if he did, Matson might not agree to see him. “When are you likely to be coming? Early afternoon would be best for us.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Early afternoon sounds great, if he’s all right with it. I just wanted to ask him a few questions, tell him how big a fan of the show I am...” Niles made his way to the door, hoping he wasn’t laying it on too strongly. “Is tomorrow all right? You’ll let me know? Well, that’s wonderful. You’ve got my number, of course – yes, this phone. Sorry, there’s somebody at the door, so... yes, thanks. Bye.” Ending the call, Niles pressed one eye against the peephole.

  It was Bob.

  “Have you seen the news?” He said, as soon as Niles opened the door. “The Sherlock Holmes case?”

  Niles shook his head, turned around and walked into the small, cramped kitchenette at the back of the apartment. “You look terrible. Didn’t you sleep last night?” He shot Bob a look as he put the kettle on. Bob was looking as young and handsome as ever, but there were signs – the bags under his eyes, the unwashed hair. He kept rubbing the underside of one arm, as if it itched.

  “There’s been another murder,” Bob said, slouching in the doorway while Niles grabbed hold of the cafetiere and washed out the used grounds from earlier. “A civilian this time – at least they think it is. Poor bastard was found with no head on Van Ness Avenue. It’s crazy. The police have no leads, those two other Sherlocks we saw on the news are just about running the investigation and they’re still saying another Sherlock actually did it... well, they’re saying it’s Sexton Blake now, but, you know, same difference. Everybody’s talking about it. Rush Limbaugh was on the radio saying that ‘non-human freaks,’ quote, are ‘running rampant.’ You ask me, things are going to get very weird over the next few days.” He shook his head, watching Niles disapprovingly as he spooned new grounds into the freshly-cleaned pot. “You do know you’re supposed to warm it first, right? What the hell are you doing?”

  “Talking to a made-up superhero,” Niles snapped, “which you’d be forgiven for thinking meant things were getting more than a little weird now.”

  “I’m not a made-up anything.” Bob said, quietly. Niles felt his face redden.

  He wasn’t sure where that had come from. Irritation at Bob just walking into the apartment as if he owned the place, without even a hello – but then, he did that all the time, particularly if he was under stress. Starting a scene with hello and how are you and what are the roads like, oh, that’s awful, traffic’s a nightmare here, they should really introduce a congestion charge made for bad drama – of course Bob was going to avoid pleasantries when he could. It was no excuse for realism. For goodness’ sake, Bob was his best friend.

  Since the whole ugly business with Danica Moss, and the divorce – before that, even – Bob had been the one to rally round, while all Niles’ other acquaintances had fallen by the wayside. Bob was the listening ear, the strong shoulder – he’d even helped Niles move in to this apartment. With his strength, he’d been the only person who could get the damned chest of drawers up the stairs. The man didn’t deserve to have ‘made-up’ slung in his face. What was next? The P-word?

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m a person.” Bob scratched his arm again, fixing Niles with a baleful glare. “It’s been fifteen years since I was The Black Terror on any kind of regular basis. I’m Bob Benton. I’m a voice actor. There’s no difference between you and me, Niles. No difference at all.”

  “Bob,” Niles held up his hands. Bob really was too sensitive about this kind of thing. “I’m sorry. I said I was sorry –”

  “No, fuck your sorry, let’s have this out. How am I different from you? How exactly?” Bob had that steely tone to his voice that he got when he was angry. Usually it was reserved for really diabolical masterminds, like Colonel Von Claw – Tom Baker, in a guest role – or The Chuckler, and Niles found being on the receiving end of it very uncomfortable indeed. Not to mention irritating. Bob had come out of a tube, for God’s sake. He was imaginary.

  “Bob...” Niles sighed, trying to control the irritation and failing.. “All right, fine. Bob, you’ve got super-strength. That’s one pretty big difference right there.” He turned to pour the boiling water onto the grounds

  “No, y
ou don’t get that one. I’m towards the edge of the bell curve – not even at the edge, towards the edge – for a man of my age and height. And I go to the gym regularly, unlike some people.“ Bob gave Niles another hard stare. “Nothing super about it.”

  “Come on, Bob. You know I can’t go back to the gym after I threw up on the rowing machine.” Niles felt hurt that he’d even bring that up.

  Bob shook his head impatiently. “Bullshit. There are other gyms in the Los Angeles area, Niles. People here like to stay in shape.”

  “Well... I don’t like the way the trainers bully you at those places. I feel like I’m on World’s Fattest Loser or whatever that show’s called.” Niles turned back to the cafetiere. He’d forgotten to give the grounds a decent stir, and the coffee looked thin and watery. The hell with it – Bob could drink what he was given. “It’s not like I’m fat,” he muttered.

  Bob rolled his eyes. “You’re all fat. You’re one of those thin fat people – well, semi-thin in your case – you’ve got fat squidged around every vital organ in your body, like packing peanuts. When they cremate you it’ll be like cooking a goose. They’ll put potatoes under the coffin, serve them to your widow. Sorry, ex-widow.”

  He looked like he was about to say something else about Iyla, but stopped himself.

  “Lucky for him,” the author thought, his fists bunching like twin hammers of retribution. A man could only take so much, and – while the writer had never actually been in a fight – he carried himself with the instinctive poise of a jungle cat. He knew he could easily kill an opponent should he lose his temper and resort to violence. Even if his opponent had the unfair advantage of size and strength, like the Fictional cowering like a trapped rat in his kitchen doorway – size and strength, the author thought, which had been programmed in by a legion of modern-day Frankensteins rather than earned through hard work.

  Not that the author was a realist, he reminded himself. In fact, he was the wronged party here – he was the one who deserved a full and frank apology, and the time had come to demand one or know the reason why.

  “Steady on.” Niles mumbled.

  “Fuck you,” Bob retorted angrily. “Sometimes I think the only reason you even talk to me is because you think you’re somehow better than me. Like you’re more real than I am.”

  “I am more real than you,” the author bellowed. “You came out of a tube!”

  “That’s nonsense,” Niles muttered, pushing the plunger down angrily, too quickly. What was straining up through the mesh looked like the dishwater left behind after he’d washed out the cafetiere before, or too-weak gravy. “Ralph said the same thing, and he didn’t know what he was talking about either. Milk?”

  “I take it black.” Bob shook his head, exasperated. “Jesus, you know that, you’ve known me for years.”

  “Black. As in ‘Black Terror.’” Niles smirked. “Whose idea was that?”

  “You know what? Fuck you.” Bob reached forward, grabbing the milk carton out of Niles’ hand and all but upending it into the coffee, so it splashed over the sides of the mug. “There. Milk. Put some fucking sugar in it too, go on.”

  Niles frowned, taking the milk back. “What’s wrong with you? You’re acting...”

  “Crazy? Crazy, am I?” the deranged Fictional howled. “I’ll show you crazy!” With one grotesque reach, his hands locked around the author’s supple throat and tore his head off like a Band-Aid.

  “You’re, um, you’re acting up. A bit.” Niles finished.

  “Jesus, this coffee’s fucking horrible.” Bob winced, putting the mug down again. “Yes, I’m acting up. For Christ’s sake, there’s a guy on the radio saying I need to be rounded up –”

  “Well, Rush Limbaugh says a lot of things,” Niles said, pouring a little milk into his own coffee and giving it an experimental sip.

  “– and now the best friend I have says I’m ‘made up.’ Thank you very fucking much, asshole.” Bob turned around, stomping into the main lounge area and crashing dramatically onto the couch. Niles quietly poured his own horrible coffee into the sink and followed. He supposed it was his job to salvage this.

  “Bob, come on,” Niles said, weakly, as he sank into the armchair by the window. “It’s not like I meant it. It was just... I don’t know, friendly banter. Back and forth. That’s the trouble with you Fictionals, you get over-dramatic.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ.” Bob leaned forward, jabbing his finger at Niles. “You’re not better than me, Niles. You’re just as... as made-up as me, you know that? You’re just as fake as I am. More so, with your goddamned pretending to be, I don’t know, fucking Norman Mailer or whoever it is this week, pretending your fucking Kurt Power is some kind of immortal Joseph Campbell bullshit instead of a load of crap hacked out for a paycheck... Your personality’s just as ‘imaginary,’ Niles. It’s just as much an invention as mine is. Except you know what? I was thought up by a good writer.”

  Niles blinked.

  The author stood, picked the clone up by the scruff of his neck, like a puppy, and threw him through the plate glass window to land on the parked cars four stories below. “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he quipped.

  No, he wouldn’t do that.

  “Get out,” the author snarled, livid with anger. The Fictional, seeing the blood in his eye, got to his feet and sheepishly left. He was dead to the author now. All good feeling between them had been annihilated in that moment. Their friendship was at an end.

  Niles opened his mouth, then closed it again. No.

  The author started to cry. Later that night, he slit his wrists with the broken shards of the mug he’d given his friend a coffee in –

  No.

  Bob looked back at Niles for a moment, saw the look on his face, and sighed. “Oh, God damn it... I’m sorry, Niles. I know you’re sensitive about your work. Just, I don’t know... chalk it up to ‘friendly banter’ or –”

  “You can’t grow.”

  “What?” Bob blinked.

  Niles’ voice was like ice. “Looking like Captain Haddock on a bad hair day doesn’t count. Neither does doing your Black Terror voice for video games and cartoons and whatever pet food advert will take pity on you. You know why you can’t get much voice work, Benton? Because you can only do one voice. You can only do one voice and people are bored of that voice, they’re bored of you, they want someone new, someone like your replacement. And you can’t be that someone, can you? Because you’ll always be the same. You’re like a boy who pulled a face and then the wind changed – you’re stuck like that.” Bob was staring at him now, mouth falling open, but Niles carried on, propelled by a cold anger that sloshed in his belly like mercury. “Do you know why you’re stuck, Benton? Because being a human being – a human being, not a piece of someone else’s made-up story that’s been Frankensteined into the world because we’re so in love with you fucking toys that we can’t trust actors to act anymore – being a human being means getting older. And you’re never going to do that, you’re never going to lose your hair or get wrinkles or, or not be able to get an erection or any of the other things that are the price that human beings pay to change. You can’t pay that cost. You can’t get older. You’ll never age, so... you can’t change.” He shrugged. “That’s why I’m better than you, Benton, you fucking Pinocchio. You can’t change. You can’t grow.”

  Silence.

  Niles expected Bob to stand up and storm out. Or hit him. Or fire back with some piece of nastiness of his own, some fresh evisceration of Niles’ writing pretentions –

  – and fuck you, thought the author, fuck you fuck you fuck you –

  – something that would confirm what they undoubtedly both knew, that their friendship had sustained a mortal wound, that Bob had chosen to blow it to pieces with his vicious, unprovoked attack on Niles’ work. And how dare he? How dare he?

  He was going to stand up, slam the door and that would be that. That would be the end. And then Niles would go and find some real humans to talk
to and to hell with Bob and Ralph Cutner and Dalton Doll and all the rest of them.

  Any second now.

  And then Bob started crying.

  “THERE YOU GO,” Niles said quietly, handing Bob a fresh cup of coffee. “Careful. It’s hot.” Bob’s hands were still shaking a little.

  Bob blew on the surface of the liquid and took a sip. “It’s, uh, it’s much better than the last one,” he said, his voice still a little thick. “Thanks.”

  “Well, there’s no milk in it,” Niles smiled, gingerly. “And I warmed the pot, like you said before. I thought that was just for tea.” He padded over to the armchair and sat down again. “Bob...”

  Bob shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No –” Niles winced. “God, no. I’m sorry. That was... that was completely unforgivable, what I said. I want you to know –” He licked his lips, trying to find the words. “I want you to know I’m not the sort of person who goes around, who goes around using the P-word. That’s not me at all. I’d never say that to someone of the, of the fictional persuasion... I mean, obviously I did, um, about ten minutes ago, but I never would, if you see what I mean –”

  “It’s fine.” Bob said, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s not fine, it was a shitty thing to say, but... I’d rather just get past it, okay?”

  “I’m not sensitive, it’s just – well, never mind,” Niles said, fidgeting. “I just wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t a realist.”

  Bob rolled his eyes. “Niles, you’re a huge realist. It just doesn’t fit your self-image to be a massive realist, so you write a little story in your head about how you’re not –” He stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, let’s not start all this again, okay? I accept your apology, and... I don’t know, I’m sorry I said you weren’t Norman Mailer. Your books are okay. There’s nothing wrong with them.”