Jim woke up next to a fat chick and sighed. He wasn't surprised, just fed up.
"All right wall, what's the verdict?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Zilch. Nada. Le zero."
"Oh, God. Five lines in and you're already rehashing jokes from the last chapter."
"Relax, it was just a callback. So, how's the fiancée?"
"As big as ever, no thanks to you."
"So what I was trying to say was that Part 1 doesn't have any ratings yet."
"Why's that?"
"It takes like 3-4 days for the editors to go through it."
"You're kidding, right?"
"No. She stays fat for now. Them's the rules."
"My life is too confusing. I cannot grasp reality anymore—am I losing my mind?" Jim said.
"Look, this isn't about your mind, it's about the world at large—if you will excuse the pun—this world, in which you exist as a real thinking, breathing person, and where I am just an invisible plane."
Jim hopped out of bed as Michelle continued to snore in a manner similar to Tim Allen's trademark grunt. He tippy toed instinctively but ultimately for no reason (she could sleep through an earthquake) and slid into the kitchen barefoot to put on the coffee.
"Let's try and figure this out," Jim said, becoming more proactive now he was secure in the knowledge there would be liquid caffeine charging through his veins any minute now. It was a modest "Colombian" roast, which Colombian was in quotes because it's really just a flavor of coffee and its beans do not necessarily originate from the country of Colombia. Furthermore, Jim was too preoccupied to check the precise country of origin at that moment.
"Figure what out?" The wall was becoming truculent again.
"This whole situation! So, you can control things in the world, right? So you can do whatever you like. Here, make the coffee ready."
"It's not quite that simple," Wall said. "I can only really control things in a way that would be ironic."
"What?"
The coffee machine PINGed and when Jim looked over the jug was indeed already full of steaming hot "Colombian" brew.
"See? You did it."
"No, no, you see," the wall began, "that time it only worked because I said it
wouldn't
. So it was ironic that it
did
happen."
"What, so like, just wish the opposite of whatever you want then."
"Irony isn't the same as just 'the opposite of what you want.'"
"Sure it is."
The wall sighed. Everyone always did this. Why couldn't his power be something easily explainable?
Jim was on his phone looking it up.
"The expression of one's meaning by using language that normally signifies the opposite." Jim said triumphantly. "See!"
"It's more like, contrary to expectation, than just the opposite," Wall tried to explain. "So if I
tried
to do something by doing it's opposite, I'd end up just doing the opposite thing successfully."
"So do the opposite of the opposite."
"Then I'd end up with the opposite."
"So..."
"Look, it's not like every single event, object, sentient being in the world has an exact 'opposite,' anyway. Things are unexpected precisely because we can't expect the myriad possibilities—"
SLLLLLLLLUURRRP
"Sorry," Jim said. "Coffee's still hot."
"Anyway, we need to stop this nerdishness. Especially in the opening paragraphs; everyone's going to stop reading."
"What is it you mean by this 'reading' stuff, anyway?" Jim raised an eyebrow while sipping his coffee.
"Sorry, no more explanations. Do you want a hot fiancée or not?"
Jim put the coffee down sharply, spilling a brown shiny pool all over the floor.
"Yes! Yes I do!!"
"All right, I have another game for you. All you have to do is—"
"Hold on," Jim said. "You just said you don't have control over your powers, so how can you make my wife thin?"
"Listen, thundercock, this isn't about me. If you want to live to the end of this chapter you need to start fucking more randos. It's what the public wants."
"Again with the public. What is that?"
"Do it, or you'll disappear."
Jim sighed and went to get dressed, trailing coffee-brown footprints behind him up the stair carpet. He'd get an earful later when Michelle finally roused her mountainous buttocks from her indented side of the mattress and wobbled downstairs for a quick box of cupcakes, but he was past caring. Powers of irony? Huge cocks? Rearranged faces? It was getting to be too much. He wanted to just go back to being a weird, awkward freak who dreamt about raping the girls who rejected him. That was almost a regular story, there at the start, wasn't it? And what was the deal with that doctor, anyway? Was it he who had rearranged Jim's face, or the wall? And does it even matter? Probably not.
Jim was driving to West Hollywood again, to find someone of reasonable outward appearance with which he could copulate, thus prolonging his meager, confusing existence for another half-chapter or two. Which, two halves would make one, which would mean the story would end after exactly one chapter from now—but if it was exactly one chapter later, that would mean either this chapter ends now (don't worry, it doesn't) or the next chapter ends three pages in, which would be very unsatisfying to read. Or actually very satisfying, if you, like, just wanted to count every story you finished reading and didn't really care about its content. Does anyone do that? The wall knows people who do that with literature, but certainly not with literotica stories—that would just be silly.
Is anyone still here?
Jim fucked this really tight girl with big tits yeah, yeah, yeah. O.K. here's the deal: we go back to the kitchen and finish the conversation concerning the limits of the wall's powers of ironic creation, and then you get to read the sex scene. No? Do it now?
Fuck.
Me.
