Rescuing the Successor


Kyle Burkett

Okay, so let’s review a little, in case you’re just starting in after the semester break. Our heroic first person narrator sold his soul to the devil (care of the Creative Writers’ Guild) in order to save the life of a small rabbit. Shorty was executed at the first meeting, but we revived him for Thanksgiving. I redeemed my soul in the process. We had a book burning for Banned Books Week and lost about half of our members to the campus cops. My Milton textbook was tossed on the fire, and I had to pay the bookstore for it. Cue Ball didn’t come to Atlanta with us and had to spend a day on the elevator in the Music/English building, another phrase for “everlasting lake of fire.” James tried to institute some new tribal rituals and went mad. He’s been playing a cookie tin and a plastic knife as a violin for a few weeks now. Brittany’s been running the show in his place. We have got to get James back. Brittany’s been giving us all these oddball assignments as “homework” (How many other clubs have homework? Or cults, for that matter?), like “Write an elegiac villanelle for yourself as you face a Siberian firing squad.” So I ran into Shorty and Cue Ball at the student center during lunch one day. After exchanging the normal pleasantries and congratulating Cue Ball on the loss of his fiancÈe, we agreed that someone needed to effect the Successor’s return.

“Well, I guess it’s up to us,” I said.

“Why us?” Cue Ball asked.

“Because we’re the only guild members who have played an important role in these stories, except for the officers and Dr. Railsback. Brittany won’t do it, Kristi’s on her side, and Dr. Railsback has been missing ever since we brought Shorty back. I can’t bring in a new character to do this, because I’m trying to wrap up last semester. Something big is going to happen in the next story that will take us all in new and unexpected directions, so I’m trying to make this story not quite so exciting. The next one will have a much bigger impact if it’s unexpected.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all,” Shorty said. “This story would be just as boring with different people.”

“Well then, I’m the first person narrator and I say so.” They bowed down before my superior logic and agreed to help me out.

That evening we met in the faculty lounge and moved to the bookshelf. Someone had placed the gourd over Waiting for Godot. “This is a trap,” Shorty said.

“How are we going to get down to the dungeon?” I asked. “There’s no other way in.”

“Oh, there’s another way,” Cue Ball said, trembling. Then I remembered. “The elevator.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked him.

“Of course not.”

“But will you do it anyway?”

“No. Look, there’s a button marked D underneath the panel with a lock on it below the regular elevator buttons. You can open it with a dime. I’m out of here.” Exit Cue Ball stage left.

Shorty and I found everything as Cue Ball had said we would. I wonder what the other buttons in the panel are for. Anyway, we took the elevator down to the dungeon. When we dropped below the first floor the lights blinked on and off, but there were no other adverse effects. We found James lying on the floor with a three-week beard and smelling… unwashed. His eyes showed no recognition as we approached. “James?” No response. “James, are you in there?”

“Do you have the gourd?” he hoarsely replied. “No gourd-ee, no talk-ee.”

“James, we have more important things to worry about than some stupid gourd. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“I can’t hear you.” He closed his eyes, stuck his fingers in his ears, and started singing.

“We have to shock him,” Shorty said. “Bill Clinton was the greatest president that ever lived.”

“That’s not shocking, that’s just moronic,” I replied. “James, Trent Lott had to step down.”

James’s eyes popped open. “What did you say?”

“Lott had to step down. Some imprudent comment that might be construed as possibly demonstrating racist tendencies.”

“This ruins everything! The fool!” James leaped up, his hands shaking in an ecstasy of restored sanity and self-importance. “I have work to do. I need to speak to W and Jeb immediately. Let’s blow this joint.”

We took James to the elevator and got out of there. Even though we hit the button for the first floor, it took us to the third. The doors stayed open even after we got off. I guess it’ll come back to itself in a few days. On our way down the stairs we ran into Dr. Railsback on his way up. “Sorry for my prolonged absence,” he said. “I’ve been researching the matter you know of.”

“What matter is that?” I asked.

“You don’t remember? Oh that’s right you were in hell. All will be made clear soon. Fear not.”

“Are we in any danger?” James asked.

“As long as we all remain in groups, we should be okay.”

This didn’t reassure me at all. “What’s going on, Dr. Railsback?”

“You’ll get no information from me, mere mortal!” he shouted. I just sighed. I’ve learned from past experience that once Dr. Railsback pulls the “mere mortal” routine, further conversation is fruitless.

That night as I lay in bed, I couldn’t fall asleep. Dr. Railsback’s words kept circling in my head, confusing me more and more. I was filled with a vague sense of foreboding. Something is going to happen.


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