The Man in the White Jacket

Journal Emtry 11 (18)

As I leaned over the small hotel desk, my neck started to crick and my back ache. The weight and pain of actual pounds of paperwork on my body. I had finished - but only to begin the tedious process of checking it over.

The print was tiny and close to impossible to read - which only made my job harder. I've never liked checking things over because I always knew I had done everything right - but paperwork was a whole new realm of problems to me.

All those big name politicians have tons of people to file paperwork for them - which made actually having to do it yourself feel even worse. I heard that fire crackle chuckle behind me and I swiftly turned around, my back cracking as I sit hunched over.

I hate to interrupt the thrilling story of paperwork to tell you that this has all happened already, I mean how am I supposed to wright it as it happens?

Now, you probably hate me, the writer, breaking the emersion of the story. (I'm writing this in only about 20 minutes after these events took place, but I've discovered that I can control pens to write for me, so from now on these chapters will really be written as they happen. Which means that eventually you will get a death chapter, unless I can extend my life like that stupid Man.

Until then, adieu, ma cherie!

Angry, I see the Man leisurely lying down on the bed. Chuckling with one hand covering his mouth. It's annoying that he can read my mind. He is constantly laughing at what I'm thinking about, "Hey can you help me check over my paperwork?" 

He laughs, slapping his leg, "Why would you trust your enemy to check over the paperwork that lets you run for president? I mean, I could easily sabotage you."

I stare at my shoes. Damn, he is right. He outsmarts me at every turn. That reminds me of something. I look up from my shoes, my neck almost breaking in the process, "Hey I'm tired of calling you man, is it all right is I call you crackle?"

Crackle laughs, and dot a moment almost sounds like a kid, "Sure, whatever."

"Good." I turn around to the paperwork and continue checking it, looking through page after page of useless data and personal information. Hours past where my back is almost broken and my neck tired.

I drop my pencil, my hands red and swollen from holding the instrument, and the tip almost blunt. My fingers feel hot and tired. I fall out of my chair onto the ground.

I lift my arms into the air and pump my fists, "Finished!"

"Oh, that. I checked that over hours ago when you were at diner and it all checked." Crackle says with a smirk on his face. I crawl to the mini fridge, opening up the cold container and grabbing a soda, holding it tight in my burning hand. "I hate you."

Crackle laughs, "You know what they say, keep your friends close and-"

"You are not my friend. I don't have friends." I reply, climbing up into my chair and chugging down the cool beverage. Crackle sighs, "-And your enemies closer."

Huh. Good principle to live by, except the fact is we aren't all time traveling teleporting men wearing ugly business suits. Crackle laughs again, "Right, but you are. I think that advice might help you in the future."

"Why would I take advice from my enemy?" I say as I open up a black bag and slip a silver computer onto the desk. I open up the laptop and type, the click of the keys as I open up youtube and log into my google account. I open up Final Cut Pro and stare out into the darkness. I need to make a video that will show my platform, and with my abilities everyone that listens to my voice will listen to me. 

"You know, not everyone is going to see your video. Even if everyone who sees it likes it and spreads the message, how much of it will people actually see. Not all of your followers can also control minds." Crackle says, lying on the bed, fidgeting with an apple in his hand.

I shrug and lean in onto the computer and open my mouth to speak. About my platform, and about myself.