[Insert Title Here] Volume 100

The Fiction We Tell Ourselves (Reimagined) - II

ALBERT STOOD in front of the four-storey complex, side by side with his fellow writer Robert. "And that's how you got kicked out," he concludes.

"Indeed," he said. "It would be but a mercy for me to stay with you. Even if I sleep on the couch, I'd be eternally grateful!"

"Err, you can sleep in a bed, I have a spare mattress." He took a long inhale before continuing. "I can welcome you to my place, no problem. You don't mind if the mattress is on the ground?"

"You go above and beyond my expectations," the former commented drily, in a tone where you can't tell if it was sarcasm or not. "But of course, friend. I'll sleep on the floor."

"Great! Now, would you mind helping me out with-"

"Hey, what's your room number?"

"Uh, 33 on the third floor. Now, would you please-"

"Thanks, mate! Bring my other suitcase will ya?"

"Wait, listen to me first-"

But of course he was paid no heed. Albert immediately charges into the apartment, his suitcase rolling doggedly behind him. Robert exhales in exasperation and stalks after him. He probably won't get in, after all, the door is locked. Or so he thought to himself.

That being said, he did get in, much to his astonishment. His fellow writer was sprawled over the couch with outstretched legs. His jaw drops when he explains how he got in. "I picked up lock picking from an unsavoury acquaintance I met at a bar one time," he says. "Since then I've been relying on it to open my door, especially when I forget the keys."

Robert blinks. "But are you mad?! If anyone saw you, they'd mistake you for a thief!"

"Nah, I've always considered myself discreet," he says. "And by chance someone spots me red-handed, I can always create some sort of spectacle to buy me time to run away."

"Unbelievable. Anyways how much did you pay for rent when you still owned the apartment?"

"Uh, sixty-two-"

"Along with liabilities and furniture, and accumulation interest?"

"...one hundred and fifty-nine pounds."

His eyes widened. "Bugger. No wonder you were evicted."

"Ah, but look on the bright side!" Albert hops onto his feet and strolls over to Robert. "Now that we're under the same roof, we can finally work on that book we promised to write together."

"You mean the one I asked about when we should be starting it?"

"We're starting it today. I know, the lack of efficiency and the need to brainstorm took up more than the allotted time. But since that part's done, we can turn our heads to the next step, putting the entire thing on paper."

His affable companion shrugs. "Well, I do hope this is worth my time."

"It certainly will, my friend." Albert turns around to look at the apartment more carefully. Mr Fleischer certainly had enough walking money to renovate his home. The living room was welcoming, the kitchen seems well stocked, even the floor looks clean enough to eat off. He said all of this aloud.

"Well technically there are still bacteria on the floor, but you are right that I'm very particular about neatness."

"As you say," mutters Albert. He opens the fridge absent-mindedly. Stocks of vegetables and wrapped meat. He wondered if he could've packed some sandwiches before he left. Then it occurred to him.

"Uh, did you bring my other suitcase?"

Robert just stares at him, not bothering to move a muscle.

"I'm serious Robert, where is my suitcase?"

Robert breathes a sigh. "I once mentioned that this area is rampant with crime, right? Well... I figured all you had in it was clothes anyway, so the guy who took off with it probably won't get much for it-"

"Robert, you let it get stolen?!"

Robert says nothing and begins to leave the room. "Sorry, mate. It's not worth calling the police for. Whatever he could get for fencing your things, he's probably pawning them off now." Just as closes the door, he smirks. "A shame isn't it?"

Albert booms and rushes for the door. "ROBERT YOU BASTARD!"

"For the second time today, I am utterly humiliated." Albert laments.

The mortified writer is flushing from both fury and embarrassment. On the other hand, Robert is still grinning from ear to ear, most likely reminiscing the pure naïve rage shown on his partner's face when he barged outside, only to trip unto his own suitcase, which he brought up with him all along.

As an apology, Robert agrees to cook for the two of them tonight. Despite that, neither of them could shake off the memory from earlier, to the former's chagrin and the latter's amusement. It stayed with them until dinner finished.

"Ah, that hits the spot," he remarks. "If I had space for more, I'd gladly fill myself."

"Mm-hmm," he broods. "Say, how many books have you ever written?"

He glances up appraisingly. "You wanna know so badly?"

"Well of course I'm curious about your whole career and all."

"Well that information should be common knowledge to a hard-core fan, but from one writer to another, I deserve to know something about you too. Have you read any of my books?"

"Um, I..."

"It's okay to say no," Robert says. "To be honest even after all these weeks, I haven't picked up a book from you either."

"I see. By any chance you have any of your books here?"

"Certainly. But what about you?"

"I packed some of my hits in my larger suitcase," he says. "The rest will be sent over by my ex-landlady. Now then, since I gave you that titbit of info, can you tell me more about your career?"

Robert's grin widened. "Ah, this is my thirteenth year in the industry, and while I've only written four standalone novels, I've written so many stories I can barely keep track of them now! I've wrote twenty series, seven for children, six for teenagers, five for adults, and three for the elderly. My works are primarily trilogies."

Albert cannot believe his ears. Twenty series in just thirteen years? He wanted to save face, so he quickly rerouted the situation.

"They sound impressive... but how much of that is genuine?" He placed a menacing tone and a challenging stare to his more laidback companion.

He winks at him. "I can pay my rent in advance rather than wait for the due date. Royalties roll in every week or so, and I usually divert them into my bank account. But more importantly, my readers praise my work often and actively try to spread word about them. It only adds to whatever advertisements you put up when your readers are avid and inspired."

Robert crosses his legs with a proud returning stare. "What about you, Albert?"

At once Albert recoils internally. His attempt to gain the upper ground had backfired on him. He wracks his head desperately for a retort.

"I've always written works that can dazzle and work the mind. I've outdone every apprentice writer in their fifth year of writing, and some of my books are praised-"

"Aye, I've heard. Yet they are only considered "hits" on the rookie level. And besides, what happens to your money after you received them? Does it... magically disappear at the mention of flamboyant spending?"

His half-concealed wince is the tacit sign that he was at a loss.

"I won this argument," Robert barks triumphantly.

"Wait!" he interrupts. "I have an idea: let's both write a short story in just four hours and see who's got the better writing. The winner gets to sleep on the bed, and the loser sleeps on the floor. Deal?"

"Cheap attempt. I wouldn't fall for-"

"TIMER STARTS NOW!" And he dashes for the bedroom and locks the door.

"Oy!" yells Robert. "Get out of there! I didn't give you permission to use my room!"

Foolishly, he reopens the door. "How about I give you permission to f- WWMMM-MRFHHHH!"

He grabs his cheek and forces him out. He crashes into an end table as Robert shuts the door behind him. "Not cool mate!" He call after him. "My bloody cheeks are aching!
"

He slips a bunch of papers under the door. "There are pencils on the coffee table. Work on the kitchen counter!"

He pouts at the closed door and at the turn of events. "Wow, what a bulldog."