Since the very beginning, or perhaps before then (my memory gets a little cloudy before the beginning), two cosmic Forces have battled for dominance.
These two Forces are not Good and Evil.
They are not Order and Chaos.
They sure as hell aren’t Light and Dark.
No, unlike those other… pretenders to the ultimate cosmic struggle, these two Forces are evenly matched.
Much to My consternation.
You see, I happen to be one of the Forces. I am also your humble narrator. See what I did there? Where I called myself humble? I was being ironic. Because I’m not really humble at all. I mean, how can I be? I’m a uni-fucking-versal Force.
Anyway, that little incident where Marc Lucan ended up saving the Empire? That was my work. I didn’t directly intervene to make it happen, of course. I never do that. But I put the orbs in motion to make it happen, about eighteen billion years ago.
These days, I just sit back and observe the outcomes, and keep score.
I’m pleased to note that, for the past eon or so, things have really been going my way. Sure, once in a while, my counterpart puts a few points on the board, but for the most part it’s been all Me for ages.
And that makes Me a little nervous. If I’ve been having such a successful run, that means that She must have something up her sleeve. It would be just like Her to sit back, bide her time, and then come out with some unexpected game changer. She just loves it when, at the last minute, things break right for the heroes.
Deus ex machina. That’s her style.
It’s a terrible style. It’s a blunt object. It’s unimaginative. It’s trite.
See, if She had her way, things would always work out for the good guys. The bad guys would always eventually get their comeuppance. If you had to give Her a name, you could call Her "Karma."
Karma is predictable.
See, I like to bring a little panache to the party. I like it when things go sideways, pear-shaped, inside out and insane.
I’m the one with the sense of humor. I’m the reason the story is interesting.
I’m the guy who keeps you guessing.
Like, when Steele manages to survive her eighteenth suicide mission, I’m the one who makes sure number nineteen is particularly deadly.
I don’t have a name either, but if you have to call Me something, it would be appropriate to call Me "Irony."
© 2018 Ryan Kriger