Pat Rothfuss's Weekend job

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KatherineHawke's avatar

Literature Text

An important note: This story is based on a dream! I actually had a dream in which this occurred. So, keep in mind that none of this is real or really happened. With that said; enjoy!

I have learned from past experience that you should never skip a party hosted by the Feminist Club. Their parties are, by far, the best in the entire college. So when I was invited to their latest party, I accepted right away, especially when I heard it would be held at Pat Rothfuss’s house.

Pat’s house is perfect for parties. Originally, it was just a normal bungalow made of brown brick situated near the railroad tracks. Some time during the 1950’s, the owners decided to make it into a gas station, so they added a 2-story addition with glass walls, an interior balcony, and upstairs offices to the house. In the ‘70s, the new owners decided they did not want to run a gas station any more, so they tore out the registers, converted the main room into the greenhouse and the offices into bedrooms. In the ‘90s, the next set of owners replaced the commercial doors with French doors and removed the gas pumps from the back patio. Pat had acquired the house after his first book was published. He thought the odd room on the back of the house would be the prefect place to host social gatherings so he cleaned out the dead plants.

I got smashed that night. I remember the Bloody Mary that started off the night, followed by the Lemon Drop, the Point Amber, and the Tequila Sunrise. Somewhere around the blackberry martini, things got a little hazy. I don’t normally drink that much, but when the young, skinny, good-looking Asian man standing next to the bar insists that the next drink will be awesome while smiling winningly, it’s hard to refuse. And when the bartender with flaming red hair keeps handing you really good drinks, it’s impossible to refuse.

I vaguely remember Pat’s girlfriend Sarah taking me upstairs to one of the bedrooms off the balcony and telling me to lay down for a while until I felt better.

I woke up the next morning with such a splitting headache that I barely noticed the ocean outside the window. It took me a few minutes to realize that both Pat Rothfuss and I live Wisconsin and the nearest ocean is hundreds of miles away, not right outside the window.
Fearing insanity, I leaned my head out of the door just in time to see a very aggravated mermaid fling herself at one of the big windows in main room.
“I must be stark raving mad,” I calmly declared to no one in particular.
Pat’s girlfriend Sarah bustled over to me from the other bedroom.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Oh dear, oh dear. This is not a good time for you to wake up. I’m Bellerophon by the way, but you can call me Sarah.”
For a few insane seconds, I saw a Pegasus peering over the woman’s shoulder, but just as I was about to comment, it disappeared.
“I thought that Bellerophon was a guy in Greak mythology,” I remarked, my brain not comprehending what had just happened.
“The stupid sexist writers in ancient Greece refused to notice my breasts, no matter how much I waved them about. Of course, it did not help that Homer was blind. Anyways, let’s have you talk to Pat. He’ll be able to solve this.”
She led me through the house and gently pushed my into a waiting room that had suddenly appeared at the end of the second floor hallway. She gave me instructions to talk to the nice, but very dumpy secretary sitting behind the desk. The secretary told me to take seat and not mind the others in the waiting room.
It was hard to ignore them.
In one corner of the waiting room, Harry Potter was slumped in a chair, his face buried behind a spell book. On the opposite side of the room, Draco Malfoy was loudly telling anyone who would listen about his problems while using his wand to emphasis his points.
“He’s my worst enemy, you see,” he said to the confused elves sitting next to him, “And they keep writing that we are gay lovers! I don’t want to sleep with him! I’d rather eat frogspawn!” Malfoy glared at Potter who had briefly looked over his spell book.
“Hey, I don’t like this either, Malfoy,” Potter glared back. “I’ve got a girl friend, but they can’t seem to write about me sleeping with her. Ginny’s going to dump me if this continues!”
From across the room, Inuyasha joined in the conversation.
“You think that’s bad?” He pointed at Sesshomaru who was sitting next to him. “He’s my brother!”
Sesshomaru, ignoring his aggravated brother, called out to the other white-haired swordsman sitting in the waiting room. “Ah, you must be Sephiroth. I really admire your sword and your swordsmanship. You have impressive skill my friend.”
Sephiroth’s nod of recognition was almost lost behind the group of Mary Sue’s that surrounded him. These silly young women were all vying for his attention without avail. No matter how hard they tried, Sephiroth maintained an aloof demeanor and thought about more entertaining things to distract himself, like the best way to destroy a world and more reasons not to put his masamune in a scabbard.
“Likewise,” said Sephiroth. “Sir, may I ask how you get blood stains out of your garments? The blood in my coat has made it rather stiff as of late.”
Sesshomaru’s suggestion was cut off by a loud introduction.
“Good afternoon everyone. James Bond at your service,” projected the tuxedo man who had just walked in the door.
“Wanker,” muttered one of the elves quietly.
James Bond turned to the secretary.
“Dear Madame, are there any doctors on staff here? You see I have this infection on…”
She cut him off before he could continue and informed him that this was a psychiatric clinic, not a medical clinic. Undaunted, and obviously oblivious to her answer, he proceeded to explain in detail about his problems.
“…and it itches like a mother…”
“Dude, we don’t want to know, “ Jet Black interjected. Various other characters concurred vociferously.
“Have you ever seen a rash like this?” Bond asked the secretary.
“Just sit yourself down please,” she said through gritted teeth, smoke pouring out of her ears, “and please keep your percy in your pants!” A whistling sound now accompanied the steam.
Pat Rothfuss strolled out of his office at that point, much to my relief.
“Sorry about the confusion,” he said, steering me out of the waiting room. “It gets kind of hectic around here on the weekends.”
He handed me a creampuff and a cup of coffee that he seemed to pull out of his shirt pocket.
“I’m still drunk, aren’t I?” I asked as I took the coffee cup. “Either that, or I am hallucinating. Maybe someone slipped something in one of my drinks.”
“You might be hallucinating, but that’s for you to decide. Let me explain what’s going on around here before you send yourself off to the funny farm.”
“Please do,” I said while cautiously sniffing the cream puff.
“The cream puffs are perfectly safe by the way. The elves in Lothlorien bake them for me daily. I helped them solve a nasty war some fan fiction writers involved them in a while back, so they occasionally bake for me out of gratitude.” Pat ignored my skeptical stares and continued his explanation. “When I am not feeding knowledge of the English language into hungry freshman minds or writing newspaper articles about sweet, sweet methadone, I work as a counselor for plot-confused fiction characters. Ah, I can tell by the look on your face that I’m going to have to explain this very thoroughly. And very slowly.”
‘You see, when a story is written and published, it becomes reality in an odd sort of way and forms it’s own dimension tacked onto our own. It’s a limited existence of course. We can’t enter their world physically and the dimension’s timeline can’t progress beyond what’s written in it’s source material. These dimensions just loop through their storylines. For instance, Frodo is just leaving the Shire in Middle Earth, while Spike Spiegel is fighting his final battle against Vicious on Mars. Are you following any of this so far?”
I nodded. He continued.
“Problems arise when fan fics are written. Just like other sorts of stories, as soon as a fan fic is written and shared with others, it becomes reality, but instead of gaining it’s own dimension, it gets tacked on to the preexisting dimension it was based on. The characters then have to deal with the confliction between their normal reality and the new one being forced upon them. This causes enormous mental anguish for the characters involved since they are often being forced into situations that go against the core fiber of their being. When the problem becomes really critical and the characters actually start believing the new reality, the original works will actually alter in this world. So a few years ago, a group of writers and avid readers set up counseling centers to handle the emotional trauma and response teams to fix the plot problems.”
He motioned and a young man with flaming red hair and a lute strapped across his back came over and refilled my coffee cup. My headache was starting to lift and I decided that I did not care that I was going nuts. What Pat Rothfuss had just told me made more sense to me than String Theory did.
“So I really did see Harry Potter, James Bond, and a bunch of elves upstairs. Hah, a fictional character counseling center. That just takes the cake,” I laughed.
“We do occasionally get historical figures in here. You wouldn’t believe what some people do to Abe Lincoln,” he said darkly.
“So what happens to me now?” I asked, ignoring the previous comment. I did not want to know what people did to Abe Lincoln at all. “Will you have my memory erased, send me off to a far distance storyline where I can’t tell people what I know, or will I just end up dead in an alley someday?”
He pondered the question for a few seconds and then grinned manically at me. “Normally, your memory would be erased. But we’ve picked a much worse fate for you.”
“And what’s that?” I started to back away.

“I’m going to offer you a job here.”
Yes, this actually was a dream.

Yes, my mind is very abnormal.

Continuing the theme of the fan fic, I have a few acknowledgments:
The Mermaid is courtesy of Hans Christian Anderson
Bellerophon is courtesy of Greek mythology
Mrs. Potts is courtesy of Disney
Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are courtesy of J.K.
Elves and Frodo are courtesy of J.R.R. Tolkien
Inuyasha and Sesshomaru are courtesy of Rumiko
Sephiroth is courtesy of Square Enix
James Bond is courtesy of Ian Fleming
Jet Black and Spike Spiegel is courtesy of Keiko
Kvothe is courtesy of Patrick Rothfuss
Patrick Rothfuss is courtesy of his parents
I am courtesy of my parents
Everyone else of courtesy of their parents

Enjoy and please feel free to point out any mistakes.

Pat, I apologize for any mistakes in this.
© 2007 - 2022 KatherineHawke
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Izelli's avatar
This is the best thing ever! I get dreams like this very often too, it's really funny! :D