My name is Adal Brizio Fieri. And you, dearest reader, has a name I do not know—even though I would like to, you adorable little person. Well I believe that was enough for now—I managed to offend a good amount of people in the very first paragraph. Ta-ta!
But, unfortunately, my bitter muse has other plans for me. She plonked me right back in that absurd swingy chair of hers, and said to me—but sadly I can’t use her exact words, as I would be landed in jail for that kind of language—“You had better keep writing, donkey-hole. And your ramblings had better be something nicer than excrement.”
That didn’t sound at all fake, now did it? I’ll give a dramatic sigh now, for it seems that I must actually get down to the writing business, instead of my ramblings.
Why don’t I begin like this….
I am Adal Brizio Fieri, and I am likely the last person you should ever ask for help. But sadly I’m the last hope anyone, ever, will have of living a long and relatively happy life on this dying earth. Unfortunately, saving the world…isn’t my cup of tea.
I seem to be getting a bit ahead of myself, and you don’t even know what I look like yet. Well let me tell you this….I have thick black hair, and when I shower it turns into an affro. When you pair that affro with bright blue eyes, you get a quite odd picture, don’t you? And when you add on the quite chiselled chin, vampire-pale skin, and thick black eyebrows, this gets weirder and weirder. But, oh no, the lovely mental image of my face doesn’t halt there—include a face like a pizza in your mental musings, and you will have the adorable visage of Adal Brizio Fieri, the rather absurd narrator you have decided to spend quite a while listening to as he preaches about death and despair and sex. Quite a lot of sex if I feel like it. Not like I get it a lot though….
And onto the rest of me. I dress a lot in normal clothes—t-shirts, jeans, and a couple of band shirts thrown in for good measure. Currently I’m dressed in a TOOL shirt. If you don’t know them, then why are you reading this? You should be jumping off a bridge.
Anywho, that’s enough of my rambling about appearances for now. I should get on with things, shouldn’t I?
Well….I guess I should begin with the day I died.
More specifically, I’ll begin with the day I died the first time.
I die quite a lot….Usually because I ramble so much, apparently. It tends to not be a very useful thing when you’re in a pickle—or in a jam if you prefer. You know, I really don’t like jam. Jam is too sweet for me. I hate sweet things, and I like fish. So you can kind of guess what I also enjoy on the side. Mm, mm, mm…Wait, my muse—also known as my Keeper—is whacking me over the back of the head. She hates it when I ramble. So I’ll begin.
“But, mom, I don’t want to go to school!” I yelled, having just woken up out of a very amusing (and quite stimulating) dream involving a horse, a midget, and something resembling a flashlight.
My mom didn’t answer. In fact, she couldn’t answer—she was lying in a puddle of blood on the floor beside my bed. The carpet will get all stained, was my first thought. And my next thought was, Whose boots are those?
The boots attracted my attention. I looked at the boots. I realized they were attached to calves. I looked at the calves. I realized the calves were wearing black shorts. I looked at the shorts. Above the shorts was a Hawaiian shirt. I looked at the pretty floral patterns. Above the shirt was a beard, all curly and red. I didn’t like the beard. Above the beard was a mouth. It was not smiling. Above the smile was a pair of green eyes. They looked at me. I looked back. There was a very loud bang. The green eyes looked down at my chest. I looked down. There was a slowing spread of red on my shirt. I liked the red of that even less than the red of the man’s beard.
My last thought was, My mom will kill me for staining my shirt….
I woke up to a bowl of Cheerios being shoved in my face. “I don’t like Cheerios,” I said, looking at the white bowl holding the little floating circles of death and despair.
“Too bad. You’re eating them one way or another, Unit 351,” a commanding, yet very female, voice said from above me.
I looked up. The voice matched the woman who stood over me—no curves and not a bit of fat on her, and she didn’t have any—
“Unit 351, I would appreciate it if you didn’t ogle my body. That disobeys Protocols 4 and 8. I am your superior, and your criticisms of my body are not appreciated either. Breasts are not useful in the war,” she told me, her chapped and thin lips forming the words with an easy grace. She didn’t have a trace of an accent, and her deeply tanned skin and curly black hair didn’t help much either. She arched one half of her unibrow, and I bit my lip, remembering what she had just said.
Not seeing much choice in the matter, I took the Cheerios and the proffered spork and proceeded to dine on the oh-so-heavenly soggy circles. At least the milk was good—0% milk with almost no sweetness to it, just the way I prefer it.
While I ate, I was watched quite closely. When I was done my cereal, I handed the empty bowl and the spork back to her, and she takes it. When she does, she comments dryly, “You’re an odd one Unit 351. You didn’t even ask how you’re here when you died twenty four hours and fifteen minutes ago.”
I fell off the bed, and suddenly was quite glad I had not eaten things appetizing. I felt no loss whatsoever as I heaved up every last soggy circle there was in my stomach, shoulders shaking. I even trembled and writhed a bit.
Surprisingly, Cheerios Woman actually did something resembling human, and she walked over to me and touched me on the shoulder. She didn’t get me a bowl or anything to heave into, but it was better than doing the alternative of staring at me from the doorway. When I managed to stop the heaving, she said, “You’re a normal one now. There’s a mop in the corner. I’d clean it up fast before it stinks up the room, Unit 351. A Briefer will be in soon.”
I look at the mop.
I look at the vomit.
I look at the mop.
I look at the closing door behind Cheerios Woman.
I look at the vomit.
I look at the bed.
I get in the bed.
Five minutes later, I regret not cleaning the vomit.
What a smell….
I get out of bed and grab the mop, and while I’m attempting to extract myself from the delightful mess of a single sheet and lack of pillow on the glorified cot the door opens.
When I spy who’s currently entering the room, I automatically regret not cleaning the mess.
Oddly enough, my tiny little girlfriend doesn’t seem to care, for in the brief few seconds it took for her to open the door and me to recognize her she is already in my arms, cuddling up close to me, muttering sweet nothings in my ear.
It takes me a couple minutes to compute things, but when I do, I come to my senses with my arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly to me just the way she likes. I come to my senses just in time for her to whisper, “I’m sorry I ordered your death, lover….”
At this stage, I am even more confused than I was when I walked in on my little brother in his bedroom with a turkey, a turkey baster, and a cat in a bikini.
But right now, I don’t care very much. “Hugs,” I say quietly, hugging my girl to me, my sweet Lola. My sweet little girl….
She seems to tense up a bit, but she hugs me back just as tightly. I notice she’s shaking, and I cup her sweet little face in my hands, loving how her face is almost covered by them. She’s so small. She tries to smile at me, but the tears slide down her face. I sigh, and hold her tighter, hoping I hadn’t made her cry.
As you might have guessed, I was deeply in shock and more than a bit confused, and I was just happy to have something vaguely familiar in my arms. Especially someone so small and cute, who shared my hatred of Cheerios.