Flossindune
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Chapter 108
🕑 Added 2023-10-05 14:12:15 +0000 UTCOstwriter’s Townhouse, Atlanta - 8:07 PM
Walking into the townhouse, I immediately had to watch my step in order to keep from stomping on errant pieces of paper littering the ground. The pens had resumed writing, leaving an obstacle course through the ghost’s home, and I could only guess what furniture this place had before its incorporeal resident moved in.
It looked like there might have been a couch against the far wall, but it was covered in paper. The TV stand was probably the huge stack near the front door. Two similar stacks of paper flanked a long stack in the center of the room, which I assumed were a pair of chairs and a coffee table. The whole place was a fire hazard, which certainly was one way to get rid of a ghost if you didn’t need something from it first.
“Come this way and don’t touch anything,” Ostwriter snapped, levitating towards the ceiling.
“Yes, sir,” I said, heading towards the staircase near the kitchen.
I didn’t even bother looking in there, knowing that I’d see the same scene of dozens of pens writing on papers that floated in midair. The staircase was similarly covered, and I didn’t want to disturb these piles lest I bring the wrath of Ostwriter down on me, so I began climbing up the banister. Once I was high enough up, I jumped over the railing and set my feet down in the upstairs hallway.
The second floor was just as hectic as the first, and the bedroom and bathroom I passed by looked fine but only because all I could see was paper. For all I knew, they were wrecked and the damages were hidden. Taking my last few careful steps I finally made it to my destination.
Ostwriter hovered a few inches off of the ground, gently caressing a typewriter on an antique roll top desk. A brand new office chair that looked like it had never been used was in front of it, and a small table with a dead plant was situated near the door. Aside from the papers meant for the machine and a manuscript next to it, this office was free from the clutter terrorizing the rest of the house. When I took a step inside, the ghost turned to face me.
“So you want to read my book, do you?” he asked, none of that anger and hysterics affecting his voice now that he was near his life’s - and death’s - work.
“I do, I really am interested,” I said, trying to sound convincing.
It didn’t matter if I was or not, because a big grin bloomed on his face as it always had when I was polite. He tried to pull the chair back and offer it to me, but his hand passed right through. “Please, have a seat. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten your name.”
“Anthony Franklin,” I replied, taking a seat.
“Mr. Franklin,” he said. “You have the honor of being the first person to read my manuscript. It’s still not done, I have a lot of writing left to do, but any and all feedback is appreciated.”
I looked at the manuscript on the desk and held back a sigh as I picked it up. It was thick, and I knew from experience that it was exactly 4,341 pages long. There was no binding, so I set down the bulk of it while I held onto enough to read comfortably. The front page marked the story as Moist Flesh: The Memoir Of Enigma Hemingway: One Zombie’s Underwater Journey To Find The Twice Lost City Of Atlantis, Georgia, by G. H. Ostwriter.
“Awesome,” I breathed.
Removing the front page, I carefully placed it down next to the pile so it wouldn’t find its way into the rest of the manuscript. The more delicate I was with everything then the more likely I could get what I wanted. I started scanning through the pages with great speed, having already read through this story in its entirety more than just a few times.
I counted myself as a fast reader, but getting through this droll had taken me days of my life. It was for the sake of trying something new back when I started researching ghosts in earnest. They were some of the deadliest monsters in the system because of how varied and powerful they could be, so I had asked around for different ways to deal with them.
This way had been incredibly tedious, but as luck would have it I apparently hated myself enough back then and read the entire book over the course of several nights. It helped that I didn’t have to do this during the day, but it had still been exhausting. I was starting to slump just thinking about it.
“You’re reading too fast,” Ostwriter accused, scowling.
Lifting my eyes from the paper, I saw that I had scanned my way through 15 pages already. On the other side of the manuscript was the ghost, staring intensely into my eyes. This was the reason why it had been so hard: Ostwriter watched to make sure every word of his was read.
“Excuse me, but I’ve retained everything perfectly,” I claimed. “You don’t have to make sure that I’m reading every little word.”
“There are no such things as little words, only little readers,” Ostwriter snapped. “If you’re not going to take this seriously, then you don’t get to read my book! You read so fast you probably don’t know anything about the main character!”
I scoffed. “Enigma Hemingway, died at Blackbeard Island National Wildlife Refuge in 1946 while protecting his wife, Jezebel Hemingway, from a Great Grey Shark attack,” I recited. “He was cut in half, but was raised as an intelligent zombie thanks to making deals with witches after his time as a beat cop in 1935. He used seaweeds and the spike from a sea urchin to stitch himself back together.”
What I didn’t say was how completely and utterly nonsensical this story was, but making Ostwriter angry was anathema to the plan.
Still, the ghost growled at my words. “Okay, maybe you picked up a little bit of things,” he seethed. “But did you figure out who was the one who sicced the shark on Jezebel to begin with?”
A trick question; that information didn’t show up until page 374. “Did somebody do that?” I asked innocently. “I’m only on page 15, and it hasn’t come up yet. Though, now that you’ve spoiled a big part of the book, I’m going to assume it’s Hip Dinkley, Enigma’s old partner back when he was on the force.”
“Fine, fine!” he yelled, throwing his arms into the air. “Carry on, but I’m watching you.”
“I know,” I responded, shaking my head and glancing back down at the pages.
The progress I made was good, but it was barely putting a dent in the stack. My eyes continued to scan through page after page like my life depended on it. I had the information memorized already, or at least enough of it that I could answer any of Ostwriter’s questions. That just made it worse, but with luck I could make it through this in two nights tops, get my prize, and never have to see this place ever again.
Glancing over the page at where Ostwriter was staring at me, I held back a sigh and continued scanning, barely comprehending the words on the paper.
On page 47, Ostwriter scoffed again. “You’re still reading too fast,” he accused. “At this point, there’s no way you could have retained everything.”
“Enigma just busted a ring of men who had smuggled in ancient relics from the as of now only once lost city of Atlantis, Georgia,” I replied. “Hip Dinkley helped out with getting Enigma back on the force despite his death certificate, and they've been busting bad guys together since page 34. Maybe I was wrong about him calling in the shark hit on Jezebel.”
Ostwriter made a few sounds that might have been words before nodding. “Carry on.”
And so I did. My eyes shifted over every line just as diligently as they always had. It was a thin line I was walking, as any time I started putting pages down too quickly I was interrupted, but any time I slowed meant I would have to sit here longer later. Once again, I held in a sigh.
I managed to make it through nearly 150 pages before I was interrupted again. Ostwriter threw his hands in the air and hovered higher into the ground. “You’re not even really reading it, are you!?” He screamed. “All of this just to-“
“This part about the civilization of telepathic whales is really interesting,” I interrupted without looking up from the page. “They’re being obtuse about it, but we’re finally getting enough hints about Jezebel’s attempted murder to start piecing things together. After the hints we received back in the early hundreds from that Jamaican sea turtle inspector, I’m back on Hip Dinkley as the one who set things up.”
Ostwriter growled at me, but returned to his normal height and continued staring, watching me for any signs that I was being dishonest with him.
On page 286, I snorted at an event happening in the story. This was, of course, misinterpreted by Ostwriter.
“Oh, you think my book is funny!?” he screeched. “Like it’s a waste of time!?”
“Enigma just made an entire group of sharks flee in terror,” I said, smiling and looking up at him. “They totally deserved to get scared off by an underwater machine gun made specifically to hunt Great Grey Sharks. It really fits Enigma’s personality to have that while he’s searching for Atlantis. Your main character is awesome.”
The pages kept turning. 300, 350, 400. Time kept passing and I was hating every second of it. 500, 550, 600.
[[Patron Quest: Survive The Night!]]
It’s only midnight, Ant. I have quest access and free messages again, so I thought I’d help you out with some good news to perk you up.
You’ve got this, darling!
Objective: Survive Ostwriter’s story until the sun rises.
Time remaining: 7 hours, 40 minutes, 27 seconds.
Reward: +500 points, Pustibule’s Purified Scalpel.
I very carefully schooled my expression and finished scanning the page. This was great! Not only was the amount of points high, but getting back Pustibule’s scalpel would really make my whole night. Reaching for the button to accept the quest, I shifted the paper so that my finger fell on a word. “Typo.”
“What!?” Ostwriter roared. He moved through me until he was right next to my face. “I don’t make mistakes! You don’t know anything about writing and it was a mist-“
“You used a lot here, but you made it one word instead of two,” I interrupted, holding the paper in front of him. “It’s a common issue, easily corrected.” It also wasn’t the first typo, not by a long shot, but he wasn’t interested in suggestions for editing.
The ghost stared at the paper before grumbling. With it right in his face, there was no way he was going to be able to deny it. “Fine, fine, carry on.”
“I will, thank you,” I told him politely before resuming my scanning.
There was a new wind in my sails, and nothing Ostwriter could do would bring me down. My mind wandered as I remembered the statistics of Doctor Pustibule’s Demonic Scalpel.
[[Item]]
Doctor Pustibule’s Demonic Scalpel
(Demonic item; +10 Strength, +5 Dexterity, +5 Constitution, Pustibule’s Pustules Disease skill acquired, Tendon Slicer skill acquired)
[[Skill]]
Pustibule’s Pustules Disease
Whenever you strike a living creature with this scalpel, they contract Pustibule’s Pustules. This disease will cause those who contract it to break out in painful popping pustules, causing paralysis in any body part that is showing symptoms.
[[Skill]]
Tendon Slicer
When striking a living creature with this scalpel, increase the chances of causing an injury that may leave certain body parts inoperable. This skill can leave your foe with a wound that can only be healed with magic or surgery.
It was an absolutely nasty weapon, and one that I had used only because there was no other way to bring down the Writhing Zeppelin. My hands were feeling completely fine now, though. I wasn’t sure if being a Half-Angel made any leftover influence leave my body or if it still lingered and waited for more, but it didn’t matter. After Merder Stadium, I wouldn’t need to worry about needing to use demonic items anymore.
With a smile, I continued reading. Ostwriter continued to shout and screech every so often, and I calmed him as I always did. It wasn’t easy, but I had something worth waiting for at the end.
----------------------
Ostwriter’s Townhouse, Atlanta - 7:09 AM
“It is time for you to go,” Ostwriter said, his voice calm and even for the first time in hours.
I glanced into the hallway and saw that the house was starting to become illuminated. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was almost here. Eleven hours of staring and this was the first thing that made him look away.
“You mean I can’t read any more?” I asked, knowing the answer but still playing the game.
The ghost shook his head. “You’re not allowed to read it without me, no,” he snapped. “And I will disappear until tonight.”
“Bummer, dude.”
“Indeed,” he replied with a lip curling sneer. “Leave the manuscript and get out of my house. But you are an… adequate reader, so come back tonight. We’ll see if you’ve really been paying attention or if you’re just pulling the wool over my eyes.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I lied, smiling as I stood up and set the stack of paper back onto the desk. I was halfway through, and I had a good feeling for getting this done after one more night. My offer of a handshake was met with a scoff, which was good because he’d pass right through me, and I closed the door to his office without leaving.
“What are you doing?” he asked, scowling.
“Leaving.”
Activating Broken Boundary, I reopened the door and walked right through the glowing portal that appeared. I found myself back in my hotel room, and I stretched as I finally got a chance to move around. High Constitution or not, sitting in a chair for eleven hours reading was stifling for the body when it wasn’t engaging.
[[Patron Quest Complete!]]
I’m sure what you did back there was completely necessary, but that book was absolute nonsense. I’ve read over a lot of people’s shoulders during my time in this hall, and that was one of the worst stories I had ever had the displeasure of learning about. If you did manage to get another Ouroboros Tattoo after this, I will not be leaving this memory in the orb you purchase for me.
Still, good job. I am not looking forward to tomorrow night.
Reward: +500 points, Pustibule’s Purified Scalpel.
Excited, I reached into my inventory and pulled out the scalpel.
Before, the tool had been made of a dull, dark metal and was surrounded by a clearly malicious aura. It had been the size of a machete and very sharp despite the jagged edges that serrated the blade. I could wield it in one hand, but two was better.
When I retrieved it now, I saw that it was the size of an actual scalpel. The metal, now a gleaming silver, reflected the light in the room with crystal clarity. Every jagged edge was gone, leaving a pristine blade that was uniform from handle to tip. I twirled it a few times, grinning at how natural it felt in my hand, before finally pulling up its stats page.
[[Item]]
Scalpel of Angelic Healing
(Angelic item; +10 Dexterity, +3 Constitution, Cut Out The Rot skill acquired, Demon Slayer skill acquired, Surgical Precision passive acquired)
[[Skill]]
Cut Out The Rot
Whenever you use the Scalpel of Angelic Healing against a living creature suffering from a disease, there is a chance that you can remove the disease without causing them any physical harm. If your Constitution stat is higher than the patient’s, then use yours in place of theirs for the purposes of treating the disease. If it’s enough to fend off the sickness then you eradicate it completely from their body.
[[Skill]]
Demon Slayer
This skill can only be activated in the presence of demonic energy. You can transform this item into an Angelic sword that is especially potent against those who oppose the powers of Heaven. While this skill is active, gain an additional +10 Strength and +2 Constitution to your stats.
[[Passive]]
Surgical Precision
When performing surgery with the Scalpel of Angelic Healing, you will never cut anything that you did not originally intend to cut.
I whistled as I read through the item and its skills. It was no longer a weapon except in certain circumstances, but that was fine by me. I had enough implements of war that losing out on a sword didn’t bother me much. Cut Out The Rot was a huge get, regardless, as my Constitution was much higher than nearly everyone else’s and I could still pump that up if I needed to. Demon Slayer was interesting, and I was one hundred percent on board with using it to punish Pustibule the next time I saw him.
“Thank you, Sara,” I said, blowing a kiss towards the ceiling.
There wasn’t a message back, but I didn’t feel snubbed by that. She had sent too many messages too early yesterday and likely learned her lesson. I twirled the scalpel one more time before putting it back into my inventory and headed towards the room’s fridge to grab something to eat.
Behind me, knocks rang out from the other side of the door. “Warmonger?” I heard Howard call. “I know you said you probably wouldn’t answer but I’m trying anyway! Like a good manager!”
Sighing, I turned back around and marked the door with Broken Boundary before opening it regularly. Howard stood on the other side, as expected, with a plate full of bacon, eggs, and toast. He dropped it as he looked at me even more torn up than the last time, and my arm shot out to grab it.
“Your clothes!” he exclaimed.
“Yup,” was all I replied with as I took a piece of bacon and ate it.
“Oh man,” Howard said, running his hand through his hair. “Come on, eat on the way, the next match starts at eight. What happened to you? Wait, no, we’ve got to move, tell me later. Almost all the other teams are already gone. Are you okay?”
I chuckled as my manager went back and forth. After eleven straight hours of speed reading, there was no rest for the wicked. The second match of the Chaos Cup was upon us.
But not until after this meal and a little bit of trouble.
Comments
Richard Mitterer
lol. G. H. Ostwriter.
Flossindune
Well, the goal IS to protect the world from devastation.
Conor McGroarty
I refuse to “prepare for trouble” if you do not “make it double” first
