Fandom

Fantendo - Nintendo Fanon Wiki

The Fringe/A Warm Midsummer's Night

< The Fringe

33,031pages on
this wiki
Add New Page
Comments0 Share

Ad blocker interference detected!


Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.

"What the hell?" Gordon looked around wildly, clutching his briefcase in one hand and a cappuccino in the other.
"What the hell?" he repeated, gazing around at his surroundings in shock and wonder. One second he had been walking to work on Thompson Avenue, and now he was… where was he anyway? As far as he could tell, he was nowhere. Or perhaps it could have been anywhere at all. There was only endless, featureless nothingness, stretching out in all directions. It wasn't darkness, for he could see quite clearly. It was neither black nor white nor puce, nor, as far as Gordon could tell, any color at all. It was simply… nothing.
"Am I… dead?" he asked no one in particular, his voice sounding oddly small in this great expanse of nonentity he had somehow stumbled into.
NO. YOU ARE NOT DEAD.
Gordon jumped. The voice had not seemed to come from anywhere. In fact, it was as if the words had simply popped into his head. "Who are you?" he shouted.
I AM EVERYTHING. I AM NOTHING. I AM THE ALPHA AND THE OMEGA, THE BEGINNING AND THE END, THE COFFEE WHICH YOU HOLD AND THE TUNA MELT WHICH YOU ATE FOR LUNCH LAST SATURDAY AT MALTBY'S DELI.
Gordon had the distinct impression that he was cracking up, but plowed on anyway. "That still doesn't answer my question! What are you? And why are you talking in capital letters?" He was unsure where the last question had come from; it simply popped out of his mouth.
I SEE NO REASON TO REVEAL MY TRUE NATURE TO YOU, PATHETIC MORTAL. YOU ARE AN INSIGNIFICANT BEING. YOU ARE TO THE GREATER MULTIVERSE NO MORE IMPORTANT THAN A SPECK OF SUBATOMIC MATTER UPON A PROTOZOA ON THE SMELLIEST TURD IN THE ENTIRETY OF EXISTENCE.
"So why are to talking to me, then?" Gordon asked indignantly, slightly annoyed and offended. "If I'm so unimportant and insignificant, why are you wasting your time talking to me?"
BECAUSE, MORTAL, I AM BORED.
"So…" said Gordon, now sure that he was either dreaming or in a padded room somewhere imagining this whole thing while nice young men in clean white coats forced him into a straitjacket. "What you're saying is that you're bored, so you decided to teleport me here and screw around with me?"
YES, MORTAL.
"So," he said casually, as if he was asking about something mundane and ordinary, like politics or the weather. "You're God, right?"
GOD? HARDLY. DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH.
Gordon had long since arrived at the conclusion that none of this was really happening, so he decided to play along.
"So if you're not God, just who the hell are you? And really, why are you talking in capitals? It's getting really annoying."
YOU DARE TO SPEAK TO ME THAT WAY, YOU IMPUDENT WART? I, WHO CREATED YOU, WHO BREATHED YOU INTO EXISTENCE, WHO CONJURED YOU UP OUT OF NOTHING, WHO CREATED THE VERY UNIVERSE IN WHICH YOU EXIST?
"I thought you said you weren't God?"
I AM NOT. I AM A WRITER.
"A writer? So… that means…"
YES. YOU ARE ONLY A FIGMENT OF MY IMAGINATION. NOTHING MORE. EVERYTHING YOU SAY AND DO IS THE RESULT OF MY WRITING. I AM SITTING AT A COMPUTER, RIGHT NOW, TYPING THIS CONVERSATION.
"Right," said Gordon incredulously. "Really, you expect me to believe that I'm a fictional character in a story you created? I mean, come on, if that were true, you could just make me believe you."
YES. THAT IS TRUE. I COULD. BUT I FIND YOUR ARGUMENTS AMUSING. THAT IS WHY I AM WRITING THEM.
"So what you're saying is that everything I've said and done since I've arrived here has been your doing? That I have no free will of my own?"
CORRECT. WATCH. I WILL PROVE IT.
Gordon was surprised to find that he believed the strange voice that spoke only in capital letters.
SEE? I JUST WROTE THAT YOU BELIEVE ME. AND SO YOU DO.
"You're a bastard, you know that?" Gordon said.
OF COURSE I KNOW. I AM, AFTER ALL THE ONE THAT MADE YOU CALL ME THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE. I COULD MAKE YOU LIKE ME, BUT THEN THAT WOULD ELIMINATE THE LITTLE PLOT THIS STORY POSSESSES. THE FACT THAT YOU ARE ARGUING WITH ME, YOUR CREATOR, IS AMUSING AND IRONIC IN THE FACT THAT I AM MAKING YOU ARGUE WITH ME AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. I TAKE THAT BACK. I LIKED YOU BETTER BEFORE YOU BELIEVED ME.
Gordon did not believe the voice, but he still thought it was a bastard.
"I don't believe you," he said. "I'm dreaming right now, that's all."
THEN I WILL PROVE IT TO YOU. BEHOLD!
Suddenly, and seemingly randomly, a brown and purple duck with flaming red eyes and needle sharp teeth appeared before Gordon and started jumping up and down on top of his head, mussing up his hair and singing Yankee Doodle in Swedish.
"Argh, get it off me," he said, swatting at the duck angrily. It hissed at him and continued to bounce on top of his head, singing more and more loudly, flapping its wings insanely.
"Okay, okay, I believe you, just get the damn thing off!"
OF COURSE YOU BELIEVE ME, FOR I MADE IT SO.
"Look, I really don't know who you are, and quite frankly, I don't really care, but this story is beginning to become quite redundant, don't you think? I mean, all you do is talk in stupid clichés, half my dialogue is wooden, and this is written with the bare minimum of descriptive text. So can you please, please, please just make me forget about all this and just send me back to New York so I can get to work? Please? I'll get down on my knees if I have to, just please write me out of here! And get rid of the goddam duck! Please?"
HA HA HA. I MADE YOU BEG. LOSER.
The demonic duck disappeared in a poof of pink dust.
"Thanks," said Gordon, relieved that the duck was gone. "And just out of curiosity, why are you talking all in capital letters?"
I HAVE SAID IT BEFORE, AND I WILL SAY IT AGAIN; I SEE NO REASON TO REVEAL MY REASONS FOR DOING THINGS TO YOU- actually, it is getting really annoying, turning caps lock on and off again, holding down the Shift key. I mean come on, though, you gotta admit that it was a bit more intimidating than if I had simply popped up as myself and started talking to you. I mean, really, I am writing this out of boredom, just as a little writing exercise, you know? I thought it'd be fun to obliterate the fourth wall for a bit.
The voice paused, as if thinking.
"You know, maybe I should start using quotations, too," it said. "Use proper punctuation and grammar and all that crap. You're being pretty quiet all of a sudden. Why's that?"
"I don't know," Gordon said sarcastically. "It couldn't be the fact that you're writing me that way, could it?"
"Hmm," the voice mused. "Good point. You know, since I can do anything I want, I'm going to change this story to first person. 'Kay?"
"What?" I asked. "Oh, yeah, real funny," I said, realizing what he had done. "Look, can you please just send me back home?"
"I might when the story's over," said the annoying voice. It was really beginning to grate on my nerves, and I was hoping that this author, whoever he was, would bite the dust any day now.
"I hate you. I really do."
"Understandable," it said. "After all, a lot of people do. There are times when I hate my life. That, my friend, is why I turn to writing, because it allows me to slip out of my own life and into the shoes of another, if only for a short amount of time."
Despite my animus feelings towards the writer, I felt a pang of pity for him.
"Thanks," the voice said. "I'm touched. It feels good to know that someone cares, even if they don't really exist."
Much to my relief, the story switched unceremoniously back to third person.
"You know," Gordon said. "I really would appreciate it if you stopped manipulating my emotions."
"So would you rather be an emotionless husk devoid of all feeling and soul?" it asked. "Because I can do that. I could also make your nose turn into a penis, but I won't 'cause I'm just not that mean."
Gordon opened his mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut again, as he was unsure what to say. "Just who the hell are you?" he demanded.
"Name's Christian. Christian Thompson." And, much to Gordon's surprise, a teenage boy popped into existence before him. He had unkempt brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and was wearing a mischievous smirk. He extended a hand to Gordon, who took it numbly.
"You?" he asked, stunned. "You're that voice? A kid?"
"Yup," he said, smiling. He looked around. "You know, maybe we should go somewhere a bit more homey. This place is rather quite drab, now that I stop to think about it. Not sure why I thought it up in the first place."
"Um," said Gordon uncertainly. "You're really the one that was talking in capital letters and insulting me?"
"Yeah, sorry," he said. "Theatrics. Wanted to make an impression, you know? Of course, I could have just written you as an easily impressible character, but that wouldn't have been as fun. I wanted to exercise my awesome god-like powers. Although, I really am really just a normal guy. In my reality anyway. Here I can do whatever I want."
As he said it, a turkey and Swiss sandwich appeared in his hand. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Not bad."
For what was quite possibly the first time in his life, Gordon Powell was lost for words. Of course, that wasn't really his fault.
"We really should be getting out of here, though," said Christian. "This place is starting to wear on me."
Suddenly, Gordon and the boy reappeared in what appeared to be some sort of library. A fire was crackling merrily in the grate, casting an orange tinge over everything. The walls were lined with thousands and thousands of books, of all colors and thicknesses.
"Take a seat," said Christina, gesturing towards a large, squashy armchair by the fire.
He grimaced as he sat down opposite Gordon in an identical chair. "$%^#@," he swore.

"What is it?"

"I just realized I misspelt my name as 'Christina'. Oh well. It provided an extra opportunity for humor. This is supposed to be a comedic piece, after all. Chocolate milk?"
Gordon looked around and saw that a pitcher filled with a clear green liquid had appeared on a table before him. Christian took a glass from seemingly nowhere and filled it full of the stuff before handing it to Gordon, who took it uncertainly.
He looked down at the cup, then up at Christina. "This is chocolate milk?"
"Belgium!" he exclaimed.
"What?" asked Gordon, who gave a start and spilled the drink all over him.
"I did it again! I misspelt my name. My own zarking name. That's just pathetic."
"Who's that guy?" asked Gordon curiously, looking over at a short, squat Asian man in a green tuxedo standing in the corner, twirling his mustache and whistling absently.
"Dunno," said Christian, taking another bite of his sandwich, which was now corned beef and mustard on wheat.
"What do you mean you don't know? You thought him up didn't you? I mean, what purpose does he serve this story?"
"Dunno."
"What do you mean you don't know? Why is he there?" asked Gordon, feeling irrationally angry and feeling a bizarre urge to stand up and proclaim his undying love for Harrison Ford.
"Because he can be," Christian replied simply.
Gordon looked at Christian thoughtfully. "You know," he said. "For some reason, I feel like we've met before. And I normally don't get déjà vu."
"Ah," said Christian. "Well, we sort of have, in a manner of speaking."
"I'm confused."
"Of course you are," said Christian.
"Please clarify. How did we meet in 'a manner of speaking'?"
"Well," he said. "This is actually the second draft. I'm sitting at my laptop, going back through and editing the stuff I don't like. Changing your reality to better fit my wants and not exactly needs, in other words. Wait, scratch that- this is now, in fact, the fourth draft. Just thought I should clarify this. The aforementioned laptop no longer exists, and I'm now typing this at my Dad's computer. And I changed a few other things. No big deal, though."
Gordon was growing exceedingly confused, and so abruptly and jarringly changed the subject, which tended to happen a lot within the story he was in. "So, um, where was that place we just left?"
"You say 'um' a lot, you know that?" Christian observed.
"Not my fault. Now answer the question."
"Fine," Christian said resentfully. "There's no need to be so snippy, Gordon."

Gordon simply glared at him.

"The Middle of Nowhere. I thought that would be kind of cool to set a story there, you know? You always hear about it, so I decided to actually create a place called 'The Middle of Nowhere. And it really is the middle of Nowhere. As you could probably tell, Nowhere is a pretty boring country. That's probably why no one lives there anymore. Either that or they were all consumed by the Carnivorous Skrug. I can't decide." He sighed.
"So, what's this place then?"
"Oh, this?" he asked. "This it the Library on the Edge of Forever. It's a couple miles from the Place Where Nobody Has Ever Been and a few quarkometers south-north of Detroit."
"South-north?" asked Gordon.
"Yup."
Once again, Gordon decided to change the subject. "So what's the name of this story anyway?"
"'A Warm Midsummer's Night'."
Gordon shook his head, unsure if he had heard right. "A Warm Midsummer's Night? What the hell does that have to do with anything that has happened?"
"It doesn't. But I needed a title, and it was the first thing that popped into my head." Christian leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head.
"You have got to be the weirdest author I have ever met."
"I assure you, there's weirder."
"Who?"
"Never mind. I'm bored. Our conversation is becoming quite redundant. Time for a change of :pace.
Gordon shot up in anger, realizing something blatantly obvious. Hatred flared up inside of him, and he felt an insane urge to run at the teenage boy before him and try to rip his throat out.
"I wouldn't advise it," Christian warned. "Not unless you'd like to find that you've spontaneously sprouted antlers. Out of your ass."
"You… monster… evil…" Gordon said in a strangled voice.
"Yes?" Christian asked innocently.
"If you created me, that means you're responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened to me! My wife leaving me, that idiot Carter stealing my design for a hamster powered toaster, my mother contracting Spontaneous Head Explosion Disorder? All of that was your fault. That and everything else."
"Oh, you think you have it bad? You should read the book I'm writing. Seriously. It makes your life look like a walk in the park."
"You are an unbelievable m***********r!" he raged.
"Ha ha, I censored you."
Gordon ignored him. "So you're responsible for every bad thing that has ever happened to any body in this universe?"
"Like I said, you should read the book I'm writing," the author said, inspecting an apple that had suddenly appeared and started floating in mid air. "Makes your life look like a cake walk." He paused for a second, watching the apple revolve slowly, as if suspended on an invisible string. Which it wasn't. Because it was just floating. In mid air.
"I hope you burn in hell," Gordon spat
"So do a lot of people. I know some kids at school would love to hear you say that." The apple changed a delicate royal purple before turning into a pear and falling through a hole in existence into some other where and when.
"I hate you."
"I know. That's the way I made you." He sighed, taking another sip of the drink that was supposedly chocolate milk. "I'm bored."
"Meaning?" asked Gordon.
"Meaning that I'm ready for the story to end pretty soon. I can end it wherever I want, you know. The ending doesn't have to be logical or make sense, because I have complete control."
"Hey!" Gordon shouted, shooting up from his chair. "Don't you dare! I'm not finished with you-"
"The end," said Christian, smiling.

Also on Fandom

Random Wiki