You Say Reality, I Say Frito Pie

gavin cardigan shivered as he entered the Pub. "it's getting chilly out there."

"i've got just the thing for you: frito pie," danny blake told him from behind the bar, where he was pouring a Guinness.

"frito pie?" cardigan accepted the Guinness with thanks.

"trust me, my friend. you'll love it."

"i always trust you, danny boy. that's why i come here every night." cardigan walked over to join the other regulars.

"you come here every night?" sierra charles asked him as he joined her and the others at the table.

"yes, just like you," cardigan gave her a puzzled look. "right?"

"oh. well, i don't really know. i mean, burkie doesn't write about us every day. do we still come here on the nights he doesn't write?" sierra scraped her spoon around her empty bowl in frustration.

marian elfman scrunched her face in concern. "i never thought about that! i just assumed that whatever we were doing wasn't worth writing about. what if we're dead when he doesn't write about us?"

"i'm undead when he writes about us," taylor young noted, flashing his fangs. "does that mean i'm alive when he doesn't?"

"actually," danny said as he delivered cardigan's frito pie, "i think he types about us, not writes."

"i hate these conversations," cardigan muttered as he spooned up a gooey, smoking glob of chili, cheese, onions, and fritos.

"i think our world is an alternate universe," the green-haired Mysterious Lurker theorized. "our days and nights don't match the real world's days and nights exactly. burkie doesn't write about us every day in his world, but it winds up being every day in our world. see?"

"but who says burkie's world is the real world? maybe our world is the real world, and burkie is in purgatory or something," caridgan mused. "maybe he's the one who's really undead, and is living through us vicariously."

"if burkie's in purgatory, i'm sure he has more important things to do than to write or type about my going out on a date with muppet guy," sierra noted sourly.

marian snickered. "i forgot about him. burkie needs to send you out on another date!"

"i can find my own dates, thank you very much," sierra hmph'd.

"don't you have to actually say 'hmph' when you use 'hmph' as a verb?"

"it was implied," sierra replied, huffily. "and you just split an infinitive. hmph!"

"hmph!"

tucker, their resident shaggy-haired guitar player, strummed a chord.

he poured another shot of rye and
read her note once more
typed in black Verdana font
size 18, underscored
he took a swig then wiped his mouth
and rubbed his weary head
the note was simple and direct--
"hmph!" was all it said

"i can't believe that burkie can waste so many words on the word 'hmph,'" taylor observed.

a chorus of voices rang out, "i can."

as an elizabethan man came to clear up their dirty dishes, cadigan asked, "what do you think, shakespeare? is our world the real world, or is burkie's? you seem to be part of both worlds."

the great english dramatist shrugged. "does it really matter?"

"well, of course it matters!" caridgan argued. "wouldn't you rather be part of the real world than a fake world?"

"i hold the world but as the world, friend cardigan; a stage where every man must play a part," shakespeare quoted himself as he left them for the dishwasher in the back room.

"hmph."