Update Delayed, But Have A Blooper Reel (Patreon)

I'm still fixing code, so the demo update won't be out until tomorrow. I'm so sorry, everyone! I truly thought that I could get it out by tonight, but I likely have at least two more hours of bug quashing ahead of me.

Problem in a little more depth: I had both dialogues with Noh (at the safehouse and at Nick's house) using the same scene, with the differences written within using *if variables. This lead to an issue that I'm can't for the life of me figure out why it was an issue. Regardless, I finally separated the scene into two different scenes, but I had to rename name everything. Since this is similar to the problems I encountered in Chapter 13, I should probably just stop trying to consolidate scenes.

Anyway, until tomorrow morning, here's a few bloopers.

* * * *

Rage builds up inside you like . . . like a . . . you’re so angry that you can’t even come up with a proper metaphor. Fury doesn’t enhance eloquence.

“Well, you’re a . . .” You hiss with frustration, floundering for a suitable insult that will encompass the immensity of your wrath. But your brain is a haze of red, and all you can do is grasp for a childhood taunt. “. . . Butthead.”

* * * *

You proceed to bombard the Ment with the greatest atrocities you’ve ever witnessed online; you’re accustomed to keeping Ments at bay with violent and disgusting thoughts, but now you reach for images uncovered in the deepest dregs of the internet. The imagery you send is so revolting and so unspeakable, that even you feel faintly nauseous by the time you’re done.

The page doesn’t rewrite itself, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve successfully chased off the Ment. 

You wait a minute, but still nothing happens.

Victory is yours, and you owe it all to Rule 34.

* * * *

“What’s your name?” you ask.

Irrelevant.

“I’m beginning to feel like our relationship is one-sided, Menty.”

I’m here with an offer of aide. No more, no less.

Your hand flutters over your chest as you feign affront. “No relationship? But you’ve been insi—"

The page hastily rewrites itself: Stop. Just Stop.

* * * *

“I feel like we should get to know each other,” you propose. “I’ll go first. I like crosswords, romantic walks on the beach, and people who don’t explode my brother.”

I’m not

The new sentence is only halfway before pausing, as if the author is trying to determine how to end the sentence without coming across as making paltry excuses.

"Into crosswords?" you finish for them blithely. "Too bad. I was hoping that you could figure out the phrase I'm thinking of. It begins with a four-letter expletive, and ends with YOU."

* * * *

The most frustrating thing about your immediate pen pal is the complete and utter lack of clues provided by their responses. With writing, you can’t discern anything important about them: not their voice nor build nor gender. Nothing to give you a clue as to their identity.

“It would be much easier to talk face-to-face,” you cajole the book.

I can hear your thoughts. Stop plotting.

Your lower lip juts out in a pout. “You stop.”

No, you.

“You.”

The previous sentence remains on the page, and you’re suddenly put in mind of long-ago family car rides, seated next to Nick in the back seat.