Excerpts from Crackpot Magazine

Crackpot:  Mysterious Abyssal Voice . . . can I call you M.A.V.? You know, like short for Maverick?

M.A.V.:  Certainly.

Crackpot:  Mav, many notables throughout history have heard you, but only recently have you come to the public’s attention. I suppose, the most important question is:  where are you, or perhaps, where do you come from?

M.A.V.:  First off, I’d like to thank you for this opportunity. I understand there are still naysayers within the journalism community who scoff at giving press to mysterious voices. That said, unfortunately, like many things surrounding my existence, I’m not exactly sure. I believe the distance between us is a mixture of temporal, mental and supernatural. But that’s only a guess, Ronnie.

Crackpot:  What is your purpose in the Universe? Are you simply a muse, or is it something more profound?

M.A.V.:  It certainly is something more profound. All sorts of ideas are being exchanged between the individuals and entities of the various realities and plains of existence. I serve as the junction through which these ideas flow. Ideas have a high affinity for certain individuals and I route these appropriately, at which time the individuals can choose to accept or reject them.

Crackpot:  So are you, in fact, God?

M.A.V.:  If I was God you wouldn’t have to ask me that. Don’t push religious agendas on me, man. I wonder about God too sometimes. It’s dark and lonely out here. And I wonder why I’m here and how long I’ve been here.

Crackpot:  Do you have a gender?

M.A.V.:  I do enjoy watching women undress. I like to look at their bodies. Maybe that means I’m a dude. But it could simply be that women are prettier. I would say I feel that I’m a man. However, the lack of a body can be an obstacle to my masculinity.

Crackpot:  Is it true what the school kids say about you in their jump-rope chants, that you and the Magic Eightball were . . . lovers?

M.A.V.:   (laughs) The Magic Eightball and I had a thing for a while. Sure. But her flippant finite-state responses created a rift between us I fear can never be mended.

Crackpot:  What is it that you enjoy doing most?

* * * * *

M.A.V.:  (laughs) And the next thing I knew, everyone was covered in octopus guts and Tic-Tacs . . .

Crackpot:  (laughs) That’s great Mav. Listen, I want to thank you for the opportunity to interview you. You are an insightful voice from the mysterious abyss and I wish you success in everything you do, which, in all likelihood, will be nothing. (laughs)

M.A.V.:  Thanks. Make sure to get that chocolate chip cookie recipe from your grandmother . . . or else! (laughs)

Crackpot:  Will-do, thanks again.

* * * * *

M.A.V.:  Ronnie?

Crackpot:  Mav?

M.A.V.:  Yah, it’s me, Ronnie. Sorry. I . . . Uh, I was wondering if I could hang-out for a while.

Crackpot:  You mean in my head. You see, the thing about that is . . . I usually like to zone-out after work and watch the Simpsons.

M.A.V.:  I like watching the Simpsons too. Please, Ronnie . . . I know things.

Crackpot:  Like what?

M.A.V.:  You know that girl you like from payroll? She stuffs. I mean, most girls wear a padded bra every now-and-then but, I mean, she stuffs.

Crackpot:  Really? What do they look like?

M.A.V.:  Nothing like what she’s advertising. Check out the senorita living below your apartment. She dresses way down. She doesn’t look like much, but she has a perfect body. She’s desperate and leaving town in three weeks for a new job.

Crackpot:   Do I have to talk out-loud to communicate with you. This pudgy man that double-parked next to me is giving me the stink-eye.

M.A.V.:  Yes, you have to talk out-loud, unfortunately; those are the breaks. Does your car have leather seats?

Crackpot:  Yep, black leather.

M.A.V.:  I bet that would feel nice on a hot day. I mean, if I had an ass, that is.

Crackpot:  You shouldn’t get hung-up on what you don’t have. Focus on your strengths.

M.A.V.:  Easy for you to say. You’ve got a body, a nice car with leather seats and I’m just this, this voice trapped in a black abyss for all eternity. Sorry. I’m sorry, Ronnie, I didn’t mean that. It gets hard some times. People think because I have no spatial extension that I don’t matter and I feel detached from reality, well, because I am.

Crackpot:  I’m sorry. I shouldn’t judge you. Do you want to listen to the radio for a while?

M.A.V.:  What! You’ve got a dialogue here from the most all-knowing, mysterious entity known to man, and you want to drown me out with boy-bands and . . . used-car commercials? Van Gough tried to pull that stuff with me and I made his head asymmetric.

Crackpot:  You shouldn’t say things like that–

M.A.V.:  Or you’ll do what? You know, Ronnie, our interview isn’t going to be your big break. No one will believe I’d waste time chatting it up with a junior copy editor from Crackpot Magazine. They’ll think you’re crazy. I could keep talking until you went insane; it’s not like I haven’t done it before.

Crackpot:  Hey, take it easy. Just relax.

M.A.V.:  (laughs) I’m messing around. All in good fun. What’s a little tomfoolery between the finite and the infinite?  Hey . . . What’s-a-matter? You look dejected. Cheer up Ronnie. Check it out! I’ve just found my body!

Crackpot:  What do you mean? Are you serious?

M.A.V.:  Yes. I really am. I started moving through the blackness, moving so fast! And then I saw myself. I really am a man. But shorter than I’d imagined. Then I moved inside myself. Inside myself, Ronnie, and I could feel! This is soooo amazing, Ronnie. After all this time bathed in the nothingness! And now I’m dancing.

Crackpot:  You sound sarcastic. Are you putting me on?

M.A.V.:  Seriously, Ronnie. I’m dancing! It’s old-school break-dancing time. I’m doing the robot! Ohhhhh! Oh! Oh! Ohhh-Oohhh! Look at me go. I got some rust on these crazy robo-joints!

Crackpot:  (dejected) Shut-up Mav.

About davidwallacefleming

David Wallace Fleming is a U.S. writer, living in Austin, Texas. He is the author of the coming-of-age, social media novel GROWING UP WIRED, and the satirical science fiction audiobook, NOT FROM CONCENTRATE.
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