Kill me.
There comes a time in every young fictional character’s life when, as a matter of course (nobody knows when the tradition started, but it couldn’t possibly have been before 1897), he or she must go up to Abraham van Helsing and punch that venerable man of science in the face.
Takaki, an up-and-coming fictional character who had appeared in a sad movie a few years ago, was pleased to receive a letter telling him that punching Abraham van Helsing in the face and getting away with it would be handsomely rewarded with the hand of a young woman (or man, if he swung that way) of his choice. After narrowing it down to the woman whom he had spent the past two decades obsessing over or the title character’s bitch sister-in-law from the Peter Wimsey books, he made the right choice. Since he wasn’t insane, masochistic, or slow, this was very much not Helen Wimsey.
Takaki at this point was not aware that he was in fact a fictional character. Nor would he be for the remainder. So instead of having the sort of Sophie’s World/Life on Mars angst so common in these situations, he travelled to a country with lax gun-control laws, bought a three-foot-long, one-foot-wide monstrosity with forty-one barrels of depleted uranium mixed with bird shit, trained himself in its use, and set out to punch Abraham van Helsing in the face with extreme prejudice-indeed, the extremestest prejudice you ever did see!
For a badass vampire hunter, Professor van Helsing was disturbingly willing to let a time-travelling Japanese man with a gun into his home at a time when the Yellow Peril was still taken seriously.
‘Are you Dr Fu Manchu?’ asked van Helsing.
‘No. My name is Takaki. You’re Professor van Helsing, correct?’
‘Yes.’ Van Helsing scratched his moustache. ‘You look troubled.’
‘I have issues with relationships,’ said Takaki. ‘I’m insecure, excessively shy, the polar opposite of forthcoming about my feelings, and I haven’t seen the love of my life for an unspecified amount of time-definitely somewhere between one and two decades. Also, she may or may not be married at this point; it was all very ambiguous.’
‘How is your own life ‘very ambiguous’, then?’ asked van Helsing. ‘Are you a cocaine addict like that jackass detective?’
‘No. Honestly, I’m not sure.’ Takaki sighed. ‘I’m a very sad, introspective man. Apparently my life will improve if I punch you in the face.’
‘What, that again? Mr Japanese Man, I really don’t think you understand just how frequently I get that from people. I’m really not sure what’s up with that.’
‘Look,’ said Takaki. ‘At this point, I’m desperate to stop hurting. I’m very sorry if this inconveniences you.’
‘Of course it inconveniences me!’ shouted van Helsing. ‘And another thing. What are you doing with a huge gun? You’re punching me in the face; you don’t need a gun. You probably can’t even use it properly.’
‘Good point,’ said Takaki.
‘Let me guess,’ said van Helsing. ‘You didn’t realise that the postal service does, in fact, exist; that’s why you have to punch me in the face to get your lost love back.’
‘…let’s not get into that,’ said Takaki, who was taken aback by van Helsing’s blunt, yet incredibly accurate, assessment.
‘All right,’ said van Helsing. Then Takaki punched him in the face. ‘Well, thank goodness that’s over with. Would you like some dinner?’
‘I’ll just take some comfits for the road,’ said Takaki, taking some from a jar on van Helsing’s work desk. ‘Thank you for that.’
‘You know,’ said van Helsing, ‘you’re not actually a fictional character. Not here, anyway.’
‘Wait, what?’ Takaki snorted. ‘Why would I be?’
‘Never mind,’ said van Helsing.
Takaki travelled home (never mind how; it involved time beavers, happy?) and the next day ran into Akari, the woman for whose love he had punched Abraham van Helsing in the face. She was reasonably happy with her current life, but a cursory read of The Great Gatsby gave both of them further proof (as if Takaki needed any more) that the much-vaunted process of moving on was at best a temporary solution for people with their rather traditional, nostalgic personalities. The fact that Nick Carraway lived in Akari’s basement and occasionally came upstairs to make sandwiches for her and Her-Husband-Whom-Nick-Disliked rather helped with this. Nick had a history of disliking people’s husbands, and after reminding Akari that all the people in this world hadn’t had all the advantages that she had, he left some ready-made divorce papers on her table and went away.
‘There goes a good friend,’ said Akari.
‘Wait,’ said Takaki. ‘Did he just imply that I’m just a rehash of James Gatz?’
‘At least your life isn’t as miserable as his was,’ said Akari.
‘And at least you’re more worth my time than Daisy Buchanan.’
‘Amen to that.’
Takaki, an up-and-coming fictional character who had appeared in a sad movie a few years ago, was pleased to receive a letter telling him that punching Abraham van Helsing in the face and getting away with it would be handsomely rewarded with the hand of a young woman (or man, if he swung that way) of his choice. After narrowing it down to the woman whom he had spent the past two decades obsessing over or the title character’s bitch sister-in-law from the Peter Wimsey books, he made the right choice. Since he wasn’t insane, masochistic, or slow, this was very much not Helen Wimsey.
Takaki at this point was not aware that he was in fact a fictional character. Nor would he be for the remainder. So instead of having the sort of Sophie’s World/Life on Mars angst so common in these situations, he travelled to a country with lax gun-control laws, bought a three-foot-long, one-foot-wide monstrosity with forty-one barrels of depleted uranium mixed with bird shit, trained himself in its use, and set out to punch Abraham van Helsing in the face with extreme prejudice-indeed, the extremestest prejudice you ever did see!
For a badass vampire hunter, Professor van Helsing was disturbingly willing to let a time-travelling Japanese man with a gun into his home at a time when the Yellow Peril was still taken seriously.
‘Are you Dr Fu Manchu?’ asked van Helsing.
‘No. My name is Takaki. You’re Professor van Helsing, correct?’
‘Yes.’ Van Helsing scratched his moustache. ‘You look troubled.’
‘I have issues with relationships,’ said Takaki. ‘I’m insecure, excessively shy, the polar opposite of forthcoming about my feelings, and I haven’t seen the love of my life for an unspecified amount of time-definitely somewhere between one and two decades. Also, she may or may not be married at this point; it was all very ambiguous.’
‘How is your own life ‘very ambiguous’, then?’ asked van Helsing. ‘Are you a cocaine addict like that jackass detective?’
‘No. Honestly, I’m not sure.’ Takaki sighed. ‘I’m a very sad, introspective man. Apparently my life will improve if I punch you in the face.’
‘What, that again? Mr Japanese Man, I really don’t think you understand just how frequently I get that from people. I’m really not sure what’s up with that.’
‘Look,’ said Takaki. ‘At this point, I’m desperate to stop hurting. I’m very sorry if this inconveniences you.’
‘Of course it inconveniences me!’ shouted van Helsing. ‘And another thing. What are you doing with a huge gun? You’re punching me in the face; you don’t need a gun. You probably can’t even use it properly.’
‘Good point,’ said Takaki.
‘Let me guess,’ said van Helsing. ‘You didn’t realise that the postal service does, in fact, exist; that’s why you have to punch me in the face to get your lost love back.’
‘…let’s not get into that,’ said Takaki, who was taken aback by van Helsing’s blunt, yet incredibly accurate, assessment.
‘All right,’ said van Helsing. Then Takaki punched him in the face. ‘Well, thank goodness that’s over with. Would you like some dinner?’
‘I’ll just take some comfits for the road,’ said Takaki, taking some from a jar on van Helsing’s work desk. ‘Thank you for that.’
‘You know,’ said van Helsing, ‘you’re not actually a fictional character. Not here, anyway.’
‘Wait, what?’ Takaki snorted. ‘Why would I be?’
‘Never mind,’ said van Helsing.
Takaki travelled home (never mind how; it involved time beavers, happy?) and the next day ran into Akari, the woman for whose love he had punched Abraham van Helsing in the face. She was reasonably happy with her current life, but a cursory read of The Great Gatsby gave both of them further proof (as if Takaki needed any more) that the much-vaunted process of moving on was at best a temporary solution for people with their rather traditional, nostalgic personalities. The fact that Nick Carraway lived in Akari’s basement and occasionally came upstairs to make sandwiches for her and Her-Husband-Whom-Nick-Disliked rather helped with this. Nick had a history of disliking people’s husbands, and after reminding Akari that all the people in this world hadn’t had all the advantages that she had, he left some ready-made divorce papers on her table and went away.
‘There goes a good friend,’ said Akari.
‘Wait,’ said Takaki. ‘Did he just imply that I’m just a rehash of James Gatz?’
‘At least your life isn’t as miserable as his was,’ said Akari.
‘And at least you’re more worth my time than Daisy Buchanan.’
‘Amen to that.’