TOF: The Truth About Fiction #3

[Michael D Friedman]

TALES OF FICTION presents...

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THE TRUTH ABOUT FICTION

ISSUE #3: "The Will"

Written by Michael D Friedman

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PREVIOUSLY: Austin Allen, a journalism student, recently found out that his grandfather, the famous science fiction novelist, R. Joseph Allen, died. Later, he was visited by a chauffeur that requested he go to LA, but didn't offer a ride.

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I step off the bus after a wonderfully draining two-hour bus ride at 7:50. I'm standing on a street corner in a not-so-great section of Los Angeles, by myself, looking for 187 S. La Brea Ave. There doesn't appear to be one. Across the street is an odd looking pink and teal building that reads "For Your Pleasure" in large blue block letters across the front. There doesn't appear to be a door until I see a rather large man in a ball gown walk out of the "O" in "Your."

I decide not to go in there to ask directions. Instead, I walk into the art gallery next door.

There is a slight woman at the counter. She looks about 60 and is dressed in a tight black dress. She was probably a model about 40 years ago, but right now, things are sagging in not quite the optimal direction. She gives me a wink and it looks like her very thick, fake eyelash is about to fall off. 

The gallery is filled with paintings of gophers, portraying historical figures from different time periods. I recognize George Washington Gopher crossing the Delaware and Napoleon Gophernaparte laying siege to Moscow.

I'm kind of regretting not going into the Pleasure Pit instead.

"Can I help you?" asks the old model, in a combination of English and Smoker's Cough.

"Do you know where 187 South La Brea is?"

"Alley, in the back."

She points to the plain white back door with an exit sign flickering above it.

"Really?" I ask.

"You are looking for Malkowicz, Malkowicz & Malkowicz, right?"

"I guess so," I say, heading toward the door.

"Well, then, have fun sweety."

Fun isn't exactly the term I would use when visiting a law firm, but that's fine. I open the door to reveal the back alley, which is about two feet wide.

In fact, the door won't even open all the way. It gets wedged against the wall on the other side of the alley. I manage to squeeze through the doorway. 

The air smells like vomit, and I see a drunkard passed out in the gutter. He's sitting right next to a door with the numbers "187" written sloppily in spray paint. It suddenly occurs to me that "187" is the California police code for homicide. I know this because practically every one of the gangsta rappers Bubba listens to -- and he listens to a lot of gangsta rap -- mention it at least once an album.

At this point, I'm regretting not just buying a gopher painting.

I gently pull the handle on the "187" door and it opens with a loud creak. Light leaks out from the doorway, practically blinding me and obscuring my view of what's inside. I step in and my eyes adjust to the light. The door closes behind me.

I'm in an opulent sitting room, decorated in all white. There are white columns that line the walls, with ornate white molding depicting eagles and snakes. They seem to be in some sort of eternal battle for command of the room, frozen in time.

In front of me is a modern white desk. Everything on the desk is white. Behind it is a white desk chair and in front of it is a comfy white leather chair which looks big enough to sit two people. I take a seat.

The white clock on the wall ticks 8 o'clock and a door opens from behind the desk. I hadn't noticed it before as it blended perfectly with the wall. 

Out walks the chauffeur from earlier in the day. He has a seat at the desk chair and begins writing in a notebook on the desk. This goes on for an uncomfortable amount of time. I start to think that he doesn't even notice me sitting on the comfy white chair. That's practically impossible, since I'm wearing a blue jacket and blue jeans and the rest of the room is white.

"Man, I wore a lot of blue today," I think to myself. "Maybe I should just say something. Should I just say something? I should say something. Okay, I'm gonna just say something."

"Hello," I blurt out.

The chauffeur looks up from his notebook and finally acknowledges my existence. He looks at the clock on the wall, which reads 8:04. He places his pen on the desk.

"You're late," he says.

I'm about to object when he cuts me off.

"No matter. Mr. Malkowicz will see you know."

He gestures to the door behind him. He gets back to writing in his notebook.

I stand up.

"So, I guess I should just..."

The chauffeur does not acknowledge me, so I walk over to the door. I feel around for the hidden door handle and finally discover it. I open the door, and for some reason can't stop thinking that I'm going further and further down the rabbit hole.

***

Surprisingly, things don't get much weirder.

Instead I'm in a typical lawyer's office, complete with bookshelves of bound volumes stretching up to the ceiling. A large mahogany desk dominates the room, complete with the requisite lawyer's lamp illuminating the otherwise dimly lit office. 

Behind the desk sits Simon Malkowicz, my grandfather's lawyer. I met him once at a party in Las Vegas about 10 years ago. He doesn't look like he's aged a day. Which is good, because by my accounts he's easily 90 years old.

He stands up and extends his hand to shake.

"Austin," he addresses me. "Please have a seat."

I shake his hand and sit down in front of him. 

"Big Haley K fan I see," he motions toward the backstage pass still dangling around my neck.

"Sorry you had to miss the show."

I had totally forgot I still had the lanyard.

"No, it's okay."

Simon starts singing Haley's big hit: "All girls like money/but I'm not your honey. Catchy tune."

I am embarrassed for him.

He slowly creaks back in his large leather desk chair, which slides backwards slowly to the point which he is too far away to reach the desk. He attempts to push himself forward with his feet, but cannot gain much traction. I get up from my seat.

"Here, let me help you," I say and push his seat forward.

"Thank you," he says to me with a large grin on his face. "It's rare to see much civility from your generation."

I nod my head and grin back at him.

"As you may know," he jumps right into things before I even have a chance to sit back down, "your grandfather hired me to be his representative in Los Angeles. He absolutely hated this town, but he felt it important that he keep track of things. Including you... He was very proud of you. At any rate, you probably want to know why I called you here today."

"I'm assuming you are going to read my grandfather's will," I reply, sitting down.

"Kind of," the old man says with a wink.

He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a small metal orb. It looks like a prop from one of Grandpa Joe's _Planetary Wars_ movies.

Simon attempts to lean across the desk to hand me the orb, but the desk is so large, he can only get about half way. I get up to grab it from him. I'm beginning to think I should just remain standing.

"What is it?" I ask.

As soon as I grab the orb, it starts to glow. A holographic projection emanates from the orb into the air in front of me. It's my grandfather. Well, a holographic image of him, at least. 

"Hello Austin," says holo-Joe. "Pretty cool tech, huh? Never thought I'd see the day, but it's reality. Anyway, I'm dead. Well, not right now, but if you are seeing this, it means I'm dead. Or at least I want people to think I'm dead... just kidding! Yeah, I'm really dead."

Joe always did have an odd sense of humor.

"Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I'm giving most of my possessions to the church. Those Josephites may be crazy sonsabitches, but they are loyal, so I figured I'd throw them a bone. I'm giving them the mansion. But I'm leaving you with so much more."

"First, you get my Bentley," the hologram continues. "It should be parked outside by the time you leave Malkowicz's office." 

The hologram turns to Simon as if he's addressing him directly.

"Don't let him lawyer you out of it! I mean it, Simon! I will not let this be another Nebraska!"

Simon just looks at me and shrugs as if he has no idea what my grandfather is going on about.

"Secondly, you get my radio shack," holo-Joe laughs. "Radio shack. Ha, never thought about that before. Get it?"

"I got it," I say under my breath.

"But most importantly, I know how much the truth means to you. I know you want to be a world-famous journalist someday. Well, grandson, that time is now. You are now owner, CEO and editor-in-chief of _The World News Weekly_, the top-selling publication in the world today!"

I'm about to cry. It may be the most best-selling "newspaper" (I use the term loosely), but it's also the most ridiculous, featuring stories about Boy-Bat Creatures, Psychic Kittens and Bigfoot.

Yeah, I'm going to be taken really seriously as a journalist...

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(c) 2015 Michael D Friedman.