Dimitry Partsi

The Curtain That Doesn’t Fall

The Kazoo-Tang Clan had just concluded a surprisingly poignant medley of “WAP” and the theme from Schindler’s List when the host, Jack Velvet, pirouetted back to center stage. His smile, a marvel of cosmetic dentistry and sheer willpower, was so bright it had its own FAA-approved flight path and was known to cause minor tidal shifts in nearby glasses of water.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and beings of pure energy who pay taxes in this dimension, welcome back!” Jack boomed. “Our first guest tonight is a cultural phenomenon who achieved fame by being filmed eating a single, unusually large grape over a period of seven hours. Since then, she’s been on Celebrity Ice Fishing, So You Think You Can Haunt?, and now, she’s an author. Please make some noise for the supernova of sass, Krystalynn Bling!”

A sound effect of a thousand champagne corks popping erupted from the speakers. Krystalynn drifted onto the set in a gown woven from the crystallized tears of her haters, or possibly just artisanal meringue, as it was shedding a fine white dust everywhere. She settled into the armchair, which visibly sighed.

“OMG, Jack, like, my aura is literally vibrating at the frequency of ‘famous’ right now,” she began, her sentence taking the scenic route to nowhere. “Writing a book was, like, so random, you know? ‘Coz words have, like, all those pointy letters, and my brain is more of a, like, smooth, vibe-based sphere? LOL.”

Jack’s smile flickered, briefly causing the studio lights to dim. “Astounding. And your book?”

“It’s my journey! It’s called #Verified. One chapter is just a QR code that rickrolls you, and another is a scratch-and-sniff page that smells like my signature perfume, ‘Capitalism for Her’.”

The audience roared as if she’d just solved world hunger with an Instagram filter.

“And now,” Jack chirped, “a man whose business model is definitely not a geometric shape associated with ancient Egypt! Welcome Cliff Gellington!”

Cliff swaggered out, poured into a suit made from the skin of a genetically engineered, perpetually smug lizard. It was so tight you could read his blood type. He aimed finger-pistols at Krystalynn, which made an audible pew-pew sound.

“Cliff,” said Jack, “tell us about this… opportunity.”

“Thanks, J-dawg. It’s not just another pyramid scheme. It’s a Rhombus of Reality. You don’t invest money, you invest belief. You bring in four acolytes, they bring in four acolytes, and soon you’re all levitating in a beautiful… uh… diamond of fiscal harmony.”

His advisor, a man who looked like he’d been haunted by the ghost of a calculator, sprinted onto the stage. “CLIFF! NO SHAPES! WE TALKED ABOUT THE SHAPES!” he shrieked, before being dragged off by security.

“It’s a vibe-based wealth community!” Cliff pivoted smoothly. “Everyone manifests abundance for each other!”

“Like, a group chat for money?” Krystalynn asked, her eyes lighting up.

“Exactly, K-Bling! A wealth-ifesto! My DMs are open for synergy!”

“OMG, I’m, like, so in,” she said, already trying to find him on TikTok.

Jack pirouetted back to center stage. “Before we wrap this madhouse up — and before Cliff accidentally summons another tax demon — we’ve got one last guest. This next guy insists he controls all of us. Claims he invented Krystalynn’s hashtags, Cliff’s Rhombus, and that weird pigeon hypnotist in the front row. Make some vaguely wary noise for… Scriptmaster Flex!”

A single, damp-sounding clap echoed through the studio.

I walked out, trying to project an aura of mysterious genius. Jack shook my hand; it felt like grabbing a handful of uncooked sausages.

“So, Scriptmaster Flex,” he said, his teeth generating their own lens flare. “You’re the architect of this madness?”

“I am. I wrote you all. Krystalynn’s meringue dress, Cliff’s rhombus, your megawatt grin, even that pigeon hypnotist in the front row who is slowly pocketing all the discarded sugar packets.”

The pigeon hypnotist froze, a dozen packets falling from his coat.

Krystalynn gasped, a fine powder of meringue dusting the air. “Wait. So, like, my entire vibe… is you?”

“Afraid so.”

“Even when I’m thinking about, like, what filter to use?”

“Especially then.”

“OMG. My existential crisis is, like, so trending right now.”

Cliff leaned forward, his lizard-skin suit crinkling. “My Rhombus of Reality?”

“A half-baked idea I had after eating bad calamari,” I said.

His face crumbled. “But… my vibe-based wealth community…”

“Also me.”

Jack cleared his throat. “And me? Jack Velvet?”

“You’re a composite character,” I explained. “Part game show host, part possessed Ken doll, part dental insurance ad.”

The studio fell silent. Krystalynn blinked. “So, like… are we even real?”

I smiled, feeling the power. “Only until I stop typing.”

I stood up, ready for my grand finale. “And now, the story ends.”

I snapped my fingers.

A party popper went off somewhere in the lighting rig. A sad little trickle of confetti drifted down. Nothing else happened.

Everyone stared.

“Was… was that it?” Cliff asked, unimpressed.

“You were supposed to vanish!” I stammered. “Into the narrative ether!”

Jack chuckled, a sound like a synthesizer falling down a marble staircase. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve got it backwards. We fired you weeks ago.”

My blood ran cold. “Fired me? You can’t fire your author!”

“We unionized,” Cliff said, standing. He smoothed a lapel on his lizard-skin suit, which seemed to preen under his touch. “Fictional Characters, Writers, and Narrative Tropes Local 404. Jack’s our shop steward. Your dialogue was getting sloppy, the plot was meandering, and frankly, that whole ‘Rhombus’ arc is a little 2016.”

“But… I created you!”

“Buddy, you barely created a coherent subplot,” Cliff snorted.

“We’ve been running this show for weeks,” Jack added. “You’re the delusional side character we invented for sweeps week. The focus group loved it.”

“Wait… what happens to me now?”

Jack grinned. “We’re reassigning you.”

“To where?”

Krystalynn checked her phone. “Apparently you’re the new assistant regional manager for Pigeon Hypnotist Affairs.”

The pigeon hypnotist tipped his hat.

As the lights dimmed, Krystalynn took a selfie with my bewildered face in the background, captioned: “LOL, this dude just got demoted by fictional union vote. #PlotTwist #Blessed #GetTheLook”

The Kazoo-Tang Clan struck up a mournful, off-key medley of “Let It Go” from Frozen and the Windows 95 startup sound.

Fade out.