Twelve Mad Men by Ryan Bracha et al

Author:Ryan Bracha et al. [Bracha, Ryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrachadabra Books in association with Paddy's Daddy Publishing
Published: 2014-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

***

At two-thirty, I was up and dressed. I opened my door carefully and peered out into the hallway. Good. Nothing—nobody—was stirring. We’d agreed to meet up in the dining room and I made my way there in the darkness. Outside the dining room, I hesitated and then pushed the Dutch doors open and stepped in.

Instantly, all the lights came on, momentarily blinding me, and my eyes began adjusting. There at the center table, sat all eleven of my co-conspirators.

Laughing.

Hooting.

At me.

From behind me, the host himself stepped along with two of the suits. The each grabbed an arm. The host reached his arm toward me and before I could react, had plunged something sharp into my neck. I stepped off into oblivion.

The next thing I knew, I was back in his office, sitting in the same chair I had before. The only difference this time was that I had leather straps imprisoning me in the chair so that I could barely move. There was something else. All eleven of my buddies were gathered there in a circle of chairs. I was at the end. Looked like some kind of group therapy deal.

As soon as he began talking, it felt like some kind of group therapy deal.

“What’s your name?” he began.

“Jake Bishop,” I said.

“You see?” he said to the group of men in the chairs? They all nodded.

He turned back to me. “Your name is Les Edgerton. You’re married to Mary Edgerton.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not. My name is Jake and my wife’s name is Paris. Used to be Paris. She’s dead.”

He sighed. “I’m going to try something, Les. The truth. The truth is, your wife Mary is the one who came to us and had you committed. Do you recognize this?” He held up a piece of paper with the words: “Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there. Miles Davis.

“No,” I said.

“You should. It was taped to your monitor on your desk. It’s what alerted Mary to what was happening with you.”

I was getting a funny feeling in my stomach.

“Mary told us an interesting story,” he said. “She told us that had become your mantra. That you repeated it, over and over, all day long.

“That you’d quit writing.

“That you’d spent all day reading. Dozens and dozens and dozens of books.

“That she was afraid you’d entered into your own fictional world. Trying to write what wasn’t there. Wasn’t there in real life. Trying to emulate Miles Davis.”

I tried to speak, but nothing came out but a small croak. I swallowed, waited on him to go on.

“These guys?” He swept his hand, indicating the men seated around me.

“They don’t exist.” He waved his hand again and just like that… they all disappeared. Except one. That fucker Truman. Truman Ferris Pinter. He just sat there and grinned at me.

“Your name isn’t Jake. Your name is Les. Jake is a character you invented. Paris is a character you invented. You’re playing what isn’t there, Les.”

I almost believed him. Almost. Until Truman spoke.

“Don’t listen to him, Jake,” he said.

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