10 Knives Out

MC (POV)

THUMP – THUMP – THUMP

What the...

Who is crazy enough to break their wrists against the door when there is a perfectly good doorbell?

"RICKY! OPEN UP! IT'S ME!

Ah of course, Missy.

"COMING!" I yell back as I hastily put on a shirt before opening the door.

Hey, don't judge me, it's my last year at the suite, considering I'll have to give it up when I turn 16. I can roam around half naked if I feel like it.

I open the door and glance up only to step aside as she barges in casually.

"Yes, you may come in, thank you for asking." I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

It definitely didn't go over her head judging by how hard she just rolled her eyes.

"We don't have time for this kiddo." She spoke casually, clearly enjoying the scowl on my face at my epithet.

Seriously, the one time my dad visited the campus, he just HAD to call me that in front of two of my friends. Next thing I knew, within minutes, it became my campus wide nickname.

Even the editors at the Daily Trojan decided it would be cool to put my name as Ricky 'Kiddo' Stirling for future issues of the paper.

No need to worry though, they stopped after three issues. They had to.

I made sure of that.

Legally, I'm no longer allowed to talk about what ensued. But let's just say it was pretty fucking spectacular.

"Whatever, next time use the key, will you? I gave it to you for a reason." I bit back.

She waved her hand dismissively, "Yeah-yeah, whatever. Anyways, check this out!" She said, her tone filled with enthusiasm, as she handed me a newspaper.

"LA Times?" I raised my eyebrow, "Now what fresh new bull have they come up wi- oh."

I could practically sense her smugness, "Yes... oh, it is."

I redirected my eyes over to the paper in which an article along with a picture occupied a fourth of the page.

'Ricky Stirling secures the Hugo Award with inaugural novel American Gods'

And below the title was a photograph of me on stage receiving the metallic rocket shaped trophy from the announcer.

Adjacent to the picture was a detailed account of the events that transpired that night.

'Richmond Stirling, the prodigious author renowned for his visionary storytelling, has clinched the prestigious 1993 Hugo Award for Best Novel, a remarkable feat for his inaugural work, 'American Gods.' The distinguished accolade was bestowed upon him at a gala event attended by luminaries from the realm of science fiction and fantasy, signifying a pivotal moment in Stirling's literary odyssey and accentuating the novel's indelible imprint on the speculative fiction sphere.

'American Gods,' Stirling's maiden venture into full-length novel composition, has enraptured the literary cognoscenti and critics since its release a mere year ago. This narrative, a genre-transcending fusion of2 myth, fantasy, and American culture, delves into profound motifs of belief, identity, and the tumultuous encounter between primordial deities and the contemporary world. The novel's idiosyncratic narrative and profound storytelling prowess have firmly entrenched Stirling as a pioneer of literary innovation.

The Hugo Awards ceremony, an affair of great anticipation, transpired within an opulent convention center. As the Best Novel category was unveiled, a palpable sense of suspense enveloped the assembly. The revelation of Richmond Stirling as the laureate elicited a collective gasp of incredulity and jubilation that pervaded the venue. Stirling, too, manifested his astonishment and gratitude as he ascended the stage to receive the accolade.

Remarkably, Richmond was a mere 14 years old when he penned 'American Gods,' a testament to his prodigious literary talent and imaginative prowess. This groundbreaking achievement has further solidified his position as a wunderkind of speculative fiction...'

Damn.

Don't get me wrong, I knew the press would cover me positively, but this?!

They are essentially calling me the next big thing in the science fiction community. Granted what I accomplished was nothing short of astounding after all. AG managed to win the Hugo, Nebula, Locus and the Robert Frost awards for Best Novel, and managed to sell nearly 200,000 copies in North America alone.

But an article this positive? Were there other factors in the play that I was not aware of? Perhaps the Quentin publication house's marketing techniques propelled such widespread acclaim? But that still doesn't explain how I made such a bombastic impact upon the LA Times journalist.

Maybe the guy just loved my book so much he became a superfan? Hmm, going by the attention to detail here, I would wager he attended the event himself to obtain a live coverage... it would certainly explain the clarity in the photograph taken. Wait a second, he attended the event, which means he was present in the hall when I gave my 2-minute appreciation speech and -

Oh.

Sigh, I get it.

He was in the damn hall.

Of course, he would leave the event with a positive impression of me, after all...

Stage Presence (PRE) stat: 12

Well, that's one mystery solved I suppose. Coupled with my bizarrely high CHA, my confident and naturally humble façade onstage and my calm and collected body language, not to mention my ancillary stats, unless he was nursing a grudge against me from the get-go, there was no possible way for him to resist my charming demeanor.

Really, at this point, I'm living life on easy mode.

"Hey! Kiddo... you done?"

"Oh, yeah. This is all... very flattering, truly. Thanks... though I gotta ask. Any reason you ran halfway across campus to hand-deliver me this?" I asked, holding up the folded newspaper.

Her face scrunched up a little as she said, "Hmm, you know what? I do have a message for you from Derek. But I'm just having such a hard time remembering it... though a cup of mocha might just help my memory... up to you really." She shrugged playfully.

Sigh. Curse my heavenly coffee-making skills. I've made mochas, cappuccinos and lattes so many times...

[Brewmaster – Lvl 68]

Anyways...

"I'm out of mocha. There's a pot of expresso on the counter though, help yourself." I gave in, not seeing any alternatives. Not that I was digging deep or anything. These past 2 years, I've made several fair-weather friends, but Missy I've found out is someone who can really be relied upon if I'm in a fix. I like her, she's like the sassy nihilistic cousin I never had growing up.

At this point, there's seldom little that I won't deny her if she asks, coffee is just one of those things that's become a running gag in our interactions.

I see her take the pot of coffee and tilt it over, pouring it into a...

"Woah! The hell you think you're doing!? Nonono STOP! Don't empty the pot for god's sake! I'll have to spend like 20 minutes to brew more! I thought you're drinking a cup right now goddamnit!"

"So did I. But then... I took a whiff and decided I needed some more for tonight. I have an assignment due tomorrow and I haven't finished by a long shot. In fact, you remember Janice right? She's coming over around 9 and we'll be up till at least 2 if not 3 finishing it up." She finished cheerfully, before snapping her fingers, "By the way, Janice tried a sip of your latte and couldn't get enough of it, so I promised to prepare a cannister by the time she comes. So, chop-chop! You don't have a second to waste." She smiled innocently, expecting me to just bend over and dance to her little whims.

But was I? Was I going to be a doormat to her ludicrous requests?

Yes.

"Come by around 8 to pick it up." I slump my shoulder in defeat, before straightening up, "Well... did the brew help you regain your memories in the slightest? Don't you dare say no." I added at the end, seeing a mischievous glint in her eyes.

She sighed in an exaggerated manner, "I gotta tell you kiddo, you have a godsend talent for this." She said holding up her bottle full of mocha. "Anyways, Derek told me to pass on a message to you. Apparently, you're the first from USC to ever win a Hugo, or a Nebula. Like, no-one has ever done it before you. So, Derek broke the news to the Sigmas and they went for a beer run in celebration. Well... one thing led to another and now they have more than enough booze to last them for weeks on end. But they don't want that. So... they're holding a party! In your honour!"

"No." I said with a deadpan.

Her face fell, "Oh come on! It'll be fun, I promise! Everyone will be there, even the cheerleaders!" she said, ribbing me a little, no doubt in a rather futile attempt to tease me.

"Sigh, it's not that I don't wanna go Missy, I'm really tempted to be honest. I mean, my first ever party! Not just in college, but overall... who would not want to go? But, I kinda promised my dad I wouldn't drink before I'm 18.

"Oh Ricky... I completely under-" And she snorted heavily before breaking out into peals of laughter. "Ok, I can't do this... I'm not pretending that I care about your little promise cause frankly I don't give a shit about it. Now... you don't have to drink kiddo, no-one is stupid enough to hand a 15-year-old a can of Budweiser, so chill. But once you turn 16, which you will in a few months... all bets are off. But relax, you've still got a couple of months! So, cheer up! Now... you in?" She clapped her hands, raising an eyebrow as if daring me say no one more time.

"Yeah ok, I'll - I will be there." I nodded my head, all signs of reluctance fading away from my face.

"Awesome! I'll make sure he knows by today's end." With that she skipped her way to my couch to pick up her purse and made her way out the door before pausing, "Oh and... just so you know. It's a college frat party. So, there're gonna be some... let's just say less than legal substances being inhaled, snorted, eaten... you get the gist. Right?"

"Derek introduced me to his dealer, this sweet little guy at a newspaper stand a block away from the campus. So yeah, I know exactly what to expect. Are YOU going to... smoke up?"

She made a contemplating gesture with her hand while responding, "Eh, depends really. You know I don't smoke cigs, right? But weed... maybe a few puffs here and there. Hey! I forgot to ask! What about you? Wanna try it?"

"Oh hell no, get out right now." I got up and headed towards the door.

"Oh come on! Trust me, you won't feel a thing! You'll be high before you know it. You know what!? Maybe you can try the bong! It'll be-"

I shut the door in her face muffling the last few words and to be honest? Thank God I did, cause let me tell you I was really fucking tempted.

Not cause I missed it or anything, in fact in my past life, I had never tried it. My temptation mostly stemmed out of curiosity, as in... how would it affect me as the gamer? Would my lungs be damaged permanently by a factor of 0.1 %? Or would I get a status effect? Would the brain impairment cause my wisdom to be lowered temporarily?

Eh.

That's a question to be answered later I suppose. In fact, screw it. I hereby declare that I won't smoke up unless and until I've accomplished some major shit later down the road... and unless my first time will be with black rappers.

Cause let me tell you... those bastards knowing how to party hard isn't exactly a secret. Why in my past life, whenever I looked up a video of Snoop Dogg where he was not rapping, he was smoking a fatass joint. In fact, there were quite a few videos where he was doing both.

But again, that's gonna be years down the road I'm sure. For now, I'm not letting myself be distracted by the degeneracy of college students, when I have the degeneracy of Hollywood to look forward to. In fact, I'm pretty my dad has smoked up a bunch. Not in the house, but I know for a fact that his bedroom in the penthouse suite at the top of his office building has a locker that smells... I wanna say funky.

Yep, funky is a pretty apt description for the smell, that I assume is an unholy combination of hard liquor, crushed weed, and... drugs that I'm sure I'll be 'educated' on later down the road.

Anyways, about time I get back to work.

I fired up my desktop and called up my editor, Mr. Simon Piso, or as my part-time attorney has so adoringly dubbed him, Piss boy.

Simon Piso (POV)

TRING-TRING... TRING-TRIN-

I answered the phone, if only to end the damn ringing sound that irritates me to alto paradiso.

CLACK

"Good evening, this is Simon Piso. May I know who this is?"

"Hey Mr. Piso! It's me, Ricky!"

And just like that, my boredom died a fiery death.

"Ricky, my boy! How're you doing? How's college? Hey, did you read the newspaper today? If no, then boy have I got some news for you."

"I'm doing good Simon, great actually, considering I did read the LA Times. I gotta say, reading the article did wonders for my ego."

"HAHAHAHA, yeah, I'm guessing you got a kick out of it. I must say though kiddo, the way you handled yourself out there... amazing. There're no other words for it! I mean, I've seen people twice your age fumble and stutter throughout, too excited to do anything more. Your calmness and composure really sets an example for everyone out there." I say, worried I might be laying it on a little thick, but then again, who cares? The brat deserves it and more.

A few seconds later...

"So, Simon, I called you up for an update actually. How's the manuscript? You said you would get back to me today sometime. How's it looking?"

"Oh yeah, yeah the manuscript, the draft you mean. About that, I was actually going to call you in an hour or so, you just saved me the trouble really. Me and my team went through it. And let me tell you one thing... it's a fucking masterpiece. There-there's no other way to describe it really. I started reading around 8... and before I knew it, the Sun fucking rose. I can't stress this enough Ricky... AG was great, a breakthrough for you, but this? It's gonna put you on the map. Ricky? You with me?" I paused, to catch my breath mostly.

"Yeah, no-yeah, I'm with you. I was just... well I didn't really expect this of all things. Thanks though Simon, really means a lot to me, that you loved it this much. Anyways I called to clear up a few things... you got a few seconds?"

"Yeah, sure Ricky! For you, I've got the entire fucking day, so please... by all means." Wonder what he's about to 'clear up'. Can't be that bad now can it? Probably just wants some last minute editing done... or something. Doesn't matter really. As long as he doesn't wanna involve that rat of an attorney of his. Honestly, something about that son of a bitch just pisses me off.

"Ok, here goes. This kinda plays into the reason why I only sent the first 12 chapters. You remember the contract regarding American Gods? Specifically, the clause regarding our mutually owned subsidiary rights? Well, no offense but that's not possible this time. I have got big plans for this book Simon, I'm thinking at least 2 more in the series. So I have a condition which if not followed is a deal-breaker. I want sole ownership of subsidiary rights. If any adaptations are gonna be made of this book, which is my brainchild by the way, my magnum opus. Any decisions regarding future adaptions will be mine and mine alone."

What in the fucking hell did I just hear!? Seriously what the-, oh Ricky you figlio di puttana!

"Hello? Simon, you there? Is my voice clear?"

"H-hey Ricky, yeah-no, your voice is clear, listen... I understand your demands, really I do. I mean, what author, what artist wouldn't want control of his own creation? It's completely understandable. And frankly your thoughts just display your sheer optimism! I respect that! But you have to understand, your condition is not something I'll begrudge you over, but it's just not done. No publication house works like that! To generate passive outlets of income and to cover the marketing costs, we need a share of the pie! Listen you want creative control over any future adaptations, you got it! Why the hell would I deny you that? I'm not an idiota! But a % stake in the subsidiary rights guarantees a share of the gross profits of the adaptation in question. So, it's not me, but any publication house out there, no-one will ever go down without a fight in this case. You-you understand that right? I'm just explaining things on my end Ricky, making sure that YOU have all you need to make a well-informed decision." I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding at that point.

Damn it! The kid just had to grow a pair of balls right now didn't he? He's what 15? That's nothing. No matter how smart a kid gets at that age, they lack one thing that adults don't, and that's real-time experience. He has no idea of the potential this book holds, and frankly? I wanna make sure I get a nice little year-end bonus out of this. If that means talking circles around a tween, then so be it.

"Simon?"

"Yes, Ricky?"

"Let's set up a meeting next week. I'll swing by on Tuesday and notify you of the exact time 24 hours prior. You raised a good point Simon, I don't know the technicalities here, the boiler plate stuff you guys have got going makes no sense to me. So I'll bring Preston." Cavolo! "We'll have a nice chat where we'll revisit this topic, so... look forward to it I guess."

"Yeah! I mean, sure Ricky... whatever you say." I grind out in frustration as he ends the call.

SON OF A-

I proceed to vent out my remaining frustration on my office, will probably have to leave a tip for the cleaner tomorrow the way things are going. I mean, fucking hell!

This is a fucking disaster!

Oh damn it, I gotta alert the Chief, he won't be thrilled to hear this. Sigh, guess I should've expected it. Ricky is many things, but stupid ain't one of them. That kid knew when he was in over his head, and so what did he do? Did he try and talk a big game to appear mature and knowledgeable like a normal teenager would do? Hell no, he's gonna call that fucktard Preston.

Oh how I hate that Porca Puttana!

I've never met a more annoying lawyer in my life and believe me... I've met my share of them. But even then, he's a special nutcase.

I slump in my armchair as I look towards my desk, trying and failing hard not to imagine it on fire, as an allegory of my career, the wreckage it could turn into if things don't go well next week.

I gently pick up the hard-bound manuscript, or well, rough draft of the book that could revolutionize the sci-fi genre.

The title being, 'DUNE'.