Marbles Chapter 2 Pt 1 (Patreon)

Chapter two. Typically in a story, these are both a little easier and a little harder. At this point, you've established, typically, the premise, setting, and at least some of the principal characters. Preferably a little of all three but at least two of them. If you're a bit hackish you usually only have one.

That lets you focus a little bit more on the narrative, but then the problem is keeping an actual direction for your story. This is why I suggest outlines: you need structure if you want to write a cohesive story.

After the meditation, I wound up taking an unfulfilling nap, ate some crackers, and found myself taking the metro to my new shiny job. "So, you're the new guy, huh?" Said my new boss after giving me a look over, skepticism apparent in his expression, the pair of us sitting in a dimly lit office with yellowing, cigarette smoke stained walls. Guy was older: mid-fifties was my best guess. The guy had a belly, a big old Santa Claus beer gut. His face was a five o'clock shadow with a grey, fuzzy pornstar stache. His hair wasn't. "Right, they said your name was Mister Byrd?" He says, the corner of his mouth. "Gotta say, when I saw that you had changed your legal first name to Mister made me think you'd be more of a Mr. T type," He noted.

"Sorry to disappoint," I said, keeping my expression easy. I had a pretty decent poker face. Side effect of bottling my childhood traumas all my life: I was a master at repression. Weirdly, a very good skill to have in Gotham. It meant that my slight distaste for this guy didn't come through. "Only thing me and BJ Barracus have in common is an unfondness for planes: in my case because they keep deciding to have engine trouble with me on em," I continued, giving a 'what you gonna do' shrug, causing the guard to let out a chuckle. 

"A Team, huh? Didn't know anyone remembered that show," He said, expression shifting into an easy grin. Success. 

See, the thing with comedy is, it's 70% delivery. Most people aren't that hard to amuse if you make sure to tell your joke with the right energy and body language, even if the joke is something as simple as 'hey, remember (thing)?'. The rest of it was knowing your audience and knowing just enough to surprise them. 

This guy was older: probably not old enough to have seen the show in his prime as it aired, but that still left re-runs. The reference to the inestimable Mr. T increased his odds of being aware of the A Team, which back in my home universe for the record was a way bigger deal: our version starred the guy from Taken AND the guy from Limitless in its reboot movie. 

Add a bit of self depreciation and all you need is a punchline. It's gotta be short, snappy, and surprising, and nothing was as surprising as 'plane crash survivor'. And ain't that a mixed blessing if I ever heard one: sure, I mighta had my plane crash with me as the only survivor in a universe that wasn't my own, but at least it gave me a punchline I can use to make people laugh.

(Really stretching the concept of a mixed blessing with that one, but hey, best to try and look on the bright side of life. Or death in this case, but potato tomato.)

Anyways, me literally explaining the structure of a joke (Take notes, Joker, maybe you'll finally get someone to actually laugh) aside, my response to his statement was to give a light chuckle of my own immediately: the former handful of paragraphs do not represent my actual thoughts at the time, so thinking them only cost now me time. Instead, all then me was thinking was 'wow, thank god, I got him to laugh', which takes a lot less time to think and a LOT less time to write. "What can I say, big classic of the fans," I said, my brain catching up to me a second too late.

This is the problem when your brain runs a bit too fast: you get outta synch with what you're actually saying. Thankfully, the guy took this as a joke, giving another Sensible Chuckle. "Alright, real funny guy. You remind me of another guy who used to work here a few years back. Anyways, names Ollie Werner: I'm your supervisor. How much did the Agency tell you about what you'll be doing here?" He asked, leaning forward, and resting his hands on his desk.

"That I'd be working as a night guard. I assume that means that I scare off any teens or small-time crooks, call the cops for any actual problems," I stated blandly, and the expression on Ollie's face shifted: I had impressed him. With the joke, I had established affinity. With this sentence, I had afforded myself a small modicum of respect. 

"Huh. Most people I've interviewed about this job, they usually think they get to be rentacops that go chasing down bad guys like a buncha cow-boys," He said.

"Or the A-Team," I noted, and he chuckled.

"You work security before by any chance?" He asked inquisitively, curiosity in his eyes.

"Nah, used to know a few people who worked in the industry," I said. The benefits of a wide internet circle. Okay, so, to make a long story short for those who don't get it: the vast majority of guards aren't actually supposed to engage with dangerous criminals. You basically exist to keep trouble makers out: for anything serious enough to warrant a gun, you stay back and call the cops. Trying to be a cowboy put the company at liability, see. Especially since you have zero law enforcement power: the most you can usually do is a citizens arrest or forcibly escort someone from the premises.  "Sides, they want me to risk my life, they'd need to pay me at least more than minimum wage. Not, like, a lot: I'd settle for a dollar over, y'know?" It's all basically just theater: the job exists to make people feel safe and intimidate undesirables who might encroach, like homeless looking for a dry or warm place to ride out a snow storm, or drug addicts looking for a place to shoot up.

Another chuckle. Another rush of validation. "Heh. You're alright, Byrd," He said, giving a big grin. "Y'know, you remind me of another guy who used to work here a few years ago: guy had the same kinda smartass energy you got going on," He commented, leaning back, before reaching into his desk and fishing something out. "Alright, here's your security badge," He said, sliding a card across to me, which I picked up and looked over: it was one of those little laminated keycards, kinda like the ones press members wear to identify themselves, complete with a little pin to keep it on your shirt. "We'll have to mail you the uniform: I like you, so I'm gonna do you a favor and not take it outta your paycheck." Don't you love when employers agree to not screw you over while acting like they're doing you a favor? Wait, not love, hate, the word I'm looking for is hate.

Anyways, I didn't let my annoyance go any further than my mind, repressing the annoyance by focusing on the positive of 'my employer did not decide to dick me over by making me pay for my own uniform'. 

...As you can guess, I have a peeve. "Glad to hear it, thanks: means I can put my first check towards a nice luxury: I'm thinking a nice beer," I said, standing up. "So, seeing as you asked me to start tonight and I've already established my credentials, what say we skip the rest of orientation and let me get started, that way I can start justifying my pay?"

Ollie shrugged. "Alright, fine enough: I got two other guys working tonight, so I'm willing to let you work the easy shift: the plant has some docks. They mostly get used to move stuff to the harbour, but occasionally some people meet under the docks to shoot up and, ah, Ace Chemical feels it would be irresponsible to enable people trudge through the parasite infested waters of Gotham Bay."

That entire paragraph was a lie, for the record, and it wasn't a good one. First of all, people will shoot up in a lot of places, but underneath the soggy docks wasn't one of them. To this day I still don't get why he lied about that part: Later on I learned it was actually drug dealers they had an issue with.

Second, Gotham Bay isn't parasite infested: the chemicals would kill them long before they became an issue. This one I kinda get: Ace Chemical had only recently dodged illegal dumping charges, if word got out that people playing around their dock all came up with leukemia for aforementioned dumping it'd be really bad publicity.

I said I got it. Never said I sympathized.

"Alrighty boss," I said, giving a nod. "Last thing, where do I clock in?"