BOB JOHNSON RIDES AGAIN! 332

332. THE MIDDLE OFTHE BEGINNING OF THE… THE BEGINNING OF THE MIDDLE OF THE… THE END OF THE BEGINNING… THE MIDDLE OF THE MIDDLE… OH CRAP, IT’S CHAPTER 332 ALREADY!

332. THE MIDDLE OFTHE BEGINNING OF THE… THE BEGINNING OF THE MIDDLE OF THE… THE END OF THE BEGINNING… THE MIDDLE OF THE MIDDLE… OH CRAP, IT’S CHAPTER 332 ALREADY!

The best part about endings–even to novels as stupid and messy as Bob’s–is that they are much easier to write than the middles which, you may have noticed, can go on forever! Beginnings, of course, are the easiest of them all, since the universe is filled with an infinitude of various beginnings to interesting stories, but once you start developing a middle from any initial premise you encounter much less flexibility. In fact, it’s possible to argue that most good beginnings of stories have a better idea of where they are going than the author who writes them, which often leaves the stupid author asking his AI partners for help or, better yet, just steals something from an old Twilight Zone rerun. The ending of stories, however, have a lot going for them. For example: hey have a lot fewer possibilities to choose from than the middle; they are often already driving in the direction they have to go; and they almost certainly promise a happier outcome than the only ending the actual universe ever offers–which is, of course, annihilation. After all, you may not like the ending of a story you read; but even if everybody dies at the end, you will almost certainly walk away into the next story you read. (Until, of course, you don’t; but of course by then you won’t be around to notice.) Which is probably why most of us prefer fiction to life. Or, as local legendary private dick (“Dick dick dick!” shouts the former Redactor), Clam Hardass, might put it:

We were riding the highway to hell and back in my roadster supreme with Trixie riding shotgun with the shotgun, and me with the wind in my hair and the past at my nevermore forever life as a gumshoe, a P.I., and we’ll forego the most happy designation just to keep that Redactor zippered, but leave it dicey to say I knew where the bodies were buried and I was usually the guy that put them there before I segued into the lonesome chores of slinging shots at the hooch-store where I met my winsome wonder, Trixie, who I was currently interloping from the accidental reality of SLO in the get-go with my mojo in the slow-mo. Never trust a dick (oops) (“Dick dick dick!”) with a fancy prose style we’ll just ham and eggs it straight off the griddle, etc…

“Sorry, hon. Trixie Belden here. I know women shouldn’t interrupt their men when they’re talking but whoever came up with that idea just doesn’t know women. What Clam is trying to say is that we were driving 85 mph in the dead-opposite direction from Bob and Thomasina, looking greatly forward to the best possible Honeymoon in Tijuana a good girl can imagine (the one where you don’t get married, even accidentally) when I saw it before Clam saw me seeing it–a vast acreage of laundry lines and on those lines, flapping in the breeze of our sudden accidentalish destiny, hundreds of square yards of chiffon, champagne tulle, lace, silver beaded sequins–not to mention charmeuse! (“Then don’t mention it, doll.”) And they were all headed straight for us!