Who Is Brian Quinn?

Stan Bernie in Hell...

Stan Bernie faced me across a warped Formica table in the darkness of his kitchen. He lit another cigarette. "Funny, I always thought Quinn was some kind of mutant. Disfigured." He exhaled. "This midget Gregorio. You say he took your friend? Took her into a sci-fi novel? Has to be Quinn. Only Quinn would make a move like that. She's a looker?"

I nodded.

"Well," continued Bernie. "Either it's Quinn or one of his lackeys. Who knows."

Karl was sulking. I could tell he wasn't finding this to be a satisfactory conclusion to the covert operation, sitting in an octogenarian's kitchen smoking discount cigarettes discussing a midget.

"This doesn't make sense," Karl said suddenly. He pointed at Bernie. "You said you wrote a book about Quinn. This book," he motioned toward the paperback lying on the table. "The Lost World of Reggie. So you should know. Right? You should know if he's a midget or a monster or whatever. Why don't you know? You wrote a book about him. Seems like you should know more than anybody about this Brian Quinn."

"Obviously," grunted Bernie, "you haven't read the book. If you had you'd know the answer to that."

"What do you mean?" quipped Karl.

"I mean that book," he prodded the pulpy paperback with a finger. "Which I ended up writing. Out of necessity really. A future book," Bernie grinned painfully and grunted. "It changes every time you read it. Every time I read it." He took a drag off his cigarette. "Every time." He shook his head. "I've stopped reading the damn thing. Stopped looking for answers. There's no answers in it. And you know why? Do you know who changes it? I'll tell you who changes it, Quinn. Brian Quinn. He changes the book, hides things, covers things up, makes things go the way he wants them to. And the scary thing is, the thing that is so frustrating for me is that this book is supposed to be my autobiography. My life. Just imagine," his eyes were gleaming in the murky light cast by the television. "Your life, your past, present and future, controlled by a book, by a deranged character from who knows where moving in and taking over. Changing everything. I stopped being able to recognize most of the characters in this book a long time ago.

"My own characters," he whispered. "Imagine that. That is hell, gentlemen, my own personal hell." His eyes shifted to some distant spot, "I died you know, years ago. All of this is my afterlife. My hell. And I deserve it. I deserve every second of it. Everyone does. But that doesn't mean I accept it." He slammed a fist down on the table. "Oh no, I don't accept this kind of torture. It's inhuman."

Bernie began to cough into his hand, wheezing uncontrollably. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and clutched at the table with crooked fingers.

"What are you talking about old man?" barked Karl. "You're talking crazy insane nonsense. You're not dead. You're perfectly fine, just a little warped. This isn't your personal hell. No way, I'm not part of your little purgatory you scrawny harebrained lunatic." Karl stood and kicked his chair away. It skidded over the floor. Bernie sat silently.

I rubbed my eyes. I had to admit this nut was going too far. I couldn't tell where the fiction started or ended with this guy. His own personal hell. I could relate to that. Uncertainty, confusion. Dreams and books and reality all intertwined, mixed up in a heady stew of words and characters. Suddenly I remembered Nina.

"Shit," I bleated. "Nina. We have to go get Nina. She's in jail."

"Right," said Karl moving toward the door. "Fine. I've had enough of this wacko for one day." He pointed at Bernie. "But we'll be back if we get the urge."

Something sounded familiar. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing Mannie, come on."

Stan Bernie snickered and glanced at the television. "You'll be back if Quinn wants you back."