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| Alamo Crayon | |
| By alamo | ||||||||||||||||||
| 18 March 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||
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Who remembers Penny Crayon? Alamo Fitz sat, pencil on paper, hand moving almost involuntarily. Time passed. He looked at the paper. He’d drawn a skull. He stared at it: a surprisingly accurate rendering, not anatomically accurate, but imbued with a certain style, a sense of prescence. He was especially proud of the shading in the eye sockets, seeming convex rather than concaved. The jaw was solid, strong, with flesh the skull could be described as ‘chiselled.’ He noticed imperfections on the top of the skull, perhaps indicative of a beating received. Alamo was supposed to be working. Well, he thought, art is a kind of work. “You don’t get paid for art though,” said the skull. “Some people do. “ “Yeah but you don’t. You get paid for accounts.” “This is true,” said Alamo. “Who are you anyway?” “Steve.” “Steve?” “Yeah,” said Steve. “That’s my name.” “Not very impressive.” “Alright then, I’m… the Mighty Steve.” “Mighty? In what way?” “Well, I know all.” “That’s not really mighty. Mighty implies strength. You’re a paper skull, I doubt a paper skull could ever be that strong. If you're anything you should be the Omniscient Steve.” “OK then, I’m the Omniscient Steve.” “So, what do you know?” said Alamo. “Well… all.” “All of what?” “Well, all of everything.” “So, you’re saying that you know all knowledge known and unknown to Man, all events that ever happened throughout the whole history of the universe, and beyond. To which you are aware just how far beyond things actually stretch.” “Well… yeah,” said Steve. “Yeah, definitely I know everything knowable.” “Go on then.” “Go on… what?” “Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something no one knows, except, presumably, you.” “Well I could tell you…” “What?” “Who God’s dad was.” “OK.” “But that would be telling.” “See, I though you’d something like that. Because, if you are what I think you are, and not what you purport to be, then there’s no way you could ever know anything that I don’t know.” “So, what do you think I am?” “That would be telling,” said Alamo, turning his pencil around and rubbing out the picture.
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