An Alternate Slice of Reality

Monet11 Argues

We met in a bar, he and I, the imposter that I had mistaken for the scoundrel. He looked like the scoundrel from my story, but he was not him. I’d gotten a telegram from the real scoundrel. He was on his way to conquer the mountain but had gotten waylaid by bitterness.

Happens to the best of them.

I made a note to handle that issue, once I’d dealt with this imposter.


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"Alright," I said, "I have paid your price and I have bought an argument. And now I am ready to proceed."

"Very well," he said, "you may begin."

"My buying of the argument was a ruse to get you to show up at this bar.
I am changing to an accusation instead," I triumphantly proclaimed.

"Now hang on a minute," he protested.

"No. No." I waved my hand in his face. "Perfectly acceptable by the rules."

"What rules?" he spat out loudly.

"The rules regarding the use of ruse and the rules regarding the right of women to change the rules at any time," I countered.

He grumbled loudly and tossed his head back, downing his entire drink. He waved the barman for another.

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"You attempted to impersonate the real scoundrel but have now been caught. Now you must reveal who you are working for," I demanded strongly.

"I’m not working for anyone," he retorted.

"Yes, you are," was my reply.

"No, I’m not."

"Yes, you are. I know who you are. You are the loss of identity that happens after a bitter break-up, you are the happy façade put on to cover real pain. You are an identity thief. And Identity thieves are low level pawns. You only go where you are told to go, and you constantly need direction, because you don’t have your own identity. You are constantly becoming someone else. Low level player. Needing directions. Who are you working for?"

"This is not an argument," he said.

"It most certainly is an argument," I stressed. "And I changed it to an accusation anyway. Perfectly acceptable by all ruse guidelines and all rules governing arguments with women. Women are allowed to change the rules of the argument at all times. And it is expected that her opponent have no idea what it going on. I think that all applies here."

"No, an argument is a fight," was his reply. On this he refused to budge.

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"An argument," I explained, "can also be a series of statements or facts that supports an established point of view. This is well documented in various legal proceedings."

"No, it’s just a fight," he said.

"No, it isn’t," I insisted.

"Yes, it is," he turned and smiled.

"No, it isn’t."

"Yes, it is." He had a big smile now and looked wildly amused.

"That’s contradiction," I coldly pointed out.

He grinned broadly; "You told me that you knew about Monty Python. I assumed that you knew what you were getting into here." He took a long, slow drink while the bartender eyed a nearby patron.

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I groaned out loud, took a deep breath and continued. "Now listen, there’s a wonderful bit of Noir inspired poetry that’s at the beginning of this story and I would like to remind you of it."




"It’s a gorgeously done piece of art. One of my best, in fact," I said softly. "It’s a tight work that encompasses the dark emotions and heartbreak felt when relationships don’t work out."

"It does this," I smiled," while also cleverly pointing out the ups and downs of all relationships and the need to conquer the complex emotional landscape in order to get a better view of the matter, so that one may move on."

"Bit proud of yourself about that one, eh?" He said softly, blinking slowly. "Pride is a terrible monster. You sure you want to start down that path?" He took another drink and gave me a rather approving once over.

"No comment on that," I gritted my teeth and felt my spine stiffen involuntarily.

He flashed his eyes and gave a lopsided grin. "Ah, love, I’ll put you down for the bloodbath review. You know, one of those internal assessments where you try to analyze why no one will date you."
His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. 'Because I am guessing no one will date you."

He smacked his lips and took a drink. And for some reason took a long, long look at my shoes.

"Time to move on," I spat the words out tightly and continued, "not long after the scoundrel left, you showed up, pretending to be him which of course you are not. You made me believe that the scoundrel has given up on conquering his mountain. You hung around bars, chatting up women, and ignored my pleas to complete your mission."

"No, I didn’t."

"Yes, you did." I was rather cross now. "You tricked me. I thought you were the scoundrel, and I spent a lot of time and energy trying to motivate you to go on a grand adventure and conquer the mountain while you were busy chatting up women in bars."

"Same thing." He said, taking another drink.

"No. It isn’t." I tightly replied.

"Yes, it is," his voice was smoothing like honey, and slowing in its delivery speed.

"No. It. Wasn't." I gave him a deathly stare.

He frowned and softened his presence. "Do you ever actually talk to men? I mean do you even know any?" He asked.
Another bar patron looked on and tossed back a drink. The bartender looked away.

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"I know one and that is plenty." My voice was a wall of fire.

"Listen," he said, softly leaning in with a grin, "I can take you to dinner if you like. I know a great place on a quiet beach in Sulani. You, me, and a gorgeous sunset." He raised both eyebrows knowingly and continued his smooth reply, "Warm sand. Hot nights. Cool jazz." Big smile now. " You and me. You like that idea, don’t you? Very, very cool jazz." He looked down at my shoes again before flashing his tempting eyes. "You wouldn't need those shoes on the beaches of Sulani."

I forgot who I was. I began dreaming of Sulani beaches and hot sand, and the cool ocean lapping up around my neck during a moonlit swim. And oh, my goodness, jazz was playing in the background. I was drowning in those eyes for a moment, before shaking myself free.

"No!" I yelled, "I remember who I am, and you will not steal my identity!"

"We are at an impasse then," He stated coolly. "Those shoes would be useless in Sulani." He used his wicked smile.

"Not really." I pursed my lips and my eyes narrowed, as I leaned into his face. "They're pretty useful when kicking the seat of a pair of pants, regardless of where one stands."

"Listen, the problem with heartbreak, besides the obvious breaking of the heart, is that it creates fractures in the soul that lead to identity theft. People forget who they are because of their hurt. So, they submerge themselves, put on a brave face to cover their pain from others and pretend to be ok while the real person on the inside is still actually on the journey to recovery and are still having the struggle."
"You are nothing more than the fake persona creating a distraction. And here is what happens, if one is not careful, the fake persona begins to take up more and more room, creating more and more distance between the real person and their real identity. Pretty soon you have someone still hurting on the inside who is unable to express that because the fake persona has become too big to fight against and they don’t really remember who they are. They don’t remember who they are. They just forget it all. Go toss it in a lake and forget about it all. "

He smacked his lips, "is that it then?"

"No."

"Oh, bubblegum!" he exclaimed, "just get on with it then!"

I continued my discourse; "The fake persona is a pawn. A low value player. Sent by someone, or something else. Creating a distraction, making a mess, taking out other low value players, And on and on and on. Just pawn and pawn and pawn."

"But this time, a telegram got through. You were probably supposed to be monitoring the mail. Identity theft always interferes with the lines of communication. Victims are better victims when kept in isolation, after all. You were probably supposed to be monitoring the mail but got distracted by the distractions - women or the money, or both. Identity thieves are very prone to getting distracted by distractions. It’s the DNA they carry. But at any rate a telegram got through and turns out the scoundrel is still on his mission and has been assaulted by a higher player. Communication wasn’t cut off in this case. He’s still on the way to the mountaintop, provided the battle goes well."

"Identity theft," I continued, "is a pawn working for a higher player. You are a pawn creating pawns. Your purpose is to create a false identity that can be used to shield against getting close to anyone else every again. But having thus been exposed, you are now seen clearly as not being the truth, but a lie. Everyone knows you are a lie."


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"You are the lie that attacks identity. Identity is the first thing attacked when we feel we are not loved."

He coldly stared at me in silence.

"Once you are revealed, you no longer have the ability to succeed. The lie is now always understood to be a lie."

Silence.

"Tell me," I prodded, "who are you working for? At this point in a break-up, it is usually bitterness. Higher level player and capable of multiple roles. In this case, is bitterness a bishop or is bitterness the Queen? I doubt it’s the queen this time, and I’ll tell you why. The queen is usually not in play so early. But there is always the unexpected. Is bitterness the bishop here or is bitterness the Queen?"

He turned his head to slowly face me, and with cold dead eyes he stared.
"I’ve upheld my end of the bargain. I’ll take that cheat code now," he said grimly. "And the biscuits and gravy, unless they’re cold. In which case..."
He leaned in close to my face and whispered right against my ear, "You’re next on the menu." He rubbed his cheek against mine before pulling away.

He cast his eyes down and took one more long look at my shoes before turning to leave.

"Oh, the biscuits are still plenty hot, " my eyes narrowing in reply. "Come thief, and dine at my table." I taunted him coldly, "You’ll find that I am no longer playing with the pawns. I am removing them from the board."

At this point, he took his meager winnings and headed for another reality, having lost the battle in mine.

Well then, I thought. One mess has been sorted. Time to sort another.