Haaaaa. Frank exhaled deeply, letting his breath mingle with the hot shower steam, and emerged from his bathroom, wrapped in his favorite white, fluffy bathrobe, freshly groomed after a satisfying night of self-care. Beethoven’s 5th Piano Concerto rang from a small radio, setting the ambiance as he pranced toward the full glass of Pinot Noir on his nightstand. “I can’t wait for my lips to meet you, mon ami,” Frank exclaimed, before taking a big sip. Haaaaa. The perfect Friday evening after a stressful week of work.

 

He picked up his glass in one hand and a half-finished The Writer’s Guide to Creating Daily Words, 7th Edition, in the other, before preparing to slip under the pristine white covers of his bed.

 

Just as he extended his leg, the apartment walls shuddered. “F—” Before he even had time to finish his deliverance of profanity and mourn the transformation of his sheets into a bloodbath, a second boom sent Frank tumbling across the carpet. Ugh, not again. It would be only another second before the alarms started blaring. BEEDOO BEEDOO, ALL WRITERS REPORT TO THE HEADQUARTERS. BEEDOO BEEDOO, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY SITUATION. BEEDOO—

 

The radio screeched as Frank scrambled into his office wear, picked up his briefcase, and slammed the door on his way out. The bags under his eyes already felt heavier from the long night ahead of him.

 

Outside, the police were already in the streets, blocking off damaged sections of the roads, corralling lingering bystanders, and shouting at the people on their high-rise apartment balconies to go back inside. Frank lengthened his stride, hoping to get into the transportation tunnels before the next meteor hit.

 

“Excuse me, excuse me, sir! No one is permitted outside at the momen—”

 

Without missing a step, Frank pulled out his ID badge and flashed it to the officer and kept walking.

 

“So, you’re a writer, are you?” The officer chased after him.

 

Ugh, not another one. “Officer, I thank you for your service, but I’m really in a hustle right now, and I must go—”

 

“Please, please, I’m begging you. My wife is in the hospital and I can’t keep up with her bills and she needs treatment if there’s any chance of her living and I’ve been trying to find a writer for months now but none will even listen and if you could just—”

 

“Officer, please. I’m going to be late.”

 

Frank thought about the desperation on the officer’s pitiful face as the air train he was in whooshed steadily through the tunnels. Only writers who were desperate for word counts picked up charity cases like that. Frank would never let himself stoop to that level. As a Senior Disaster Response Writer, he had plenty of word count credit to sustain himself and his fancy apartment. He chuckled to himself. As if he would go to the trouble of finding that man’s personal file and rewriting some money into his plotline so his wife could live.

 

The cold corporate air conditioning blasted Frank’s face as he walked into the Writers Headquarters. The temperature was always set a few degrees lower than an uncomfortable cold to 'stimulate creativity and alert the senses.’ He was uninterestedly watching the elevator doors slide close when a familiar Rolex-adorned wrist stuck through the crack and pinged them open.

 

“Mr. Haverford! So I see you’ve been called as well. What a pleasure it is to catch you here. We seem to never run into each other.”

 

“Indeed, Director Grant. I hope all has been well with you?” Frank asked with a forced smile.

 

“Oh yes, yes, you know, we’re all trying our best, especially with the increase of meteors lately. Word on the street is that the world’s going to end soon. I think we’re doing well with the public, though. Sarah from Public Relations said we’ve really got the people thinking that it’s just the Russians bombing us again.”

 

“Ah, yes,” Frank chuckled, “As long as the people think it’s a war and not the world ending, all should be fine.”

 

“Keep it up, Frank. We need guys like you to continue rewriting public perception. The world would be in shambles if we didn’t rewrite reality. And by the way, you’re late. Chop, chop, you’ve got some propaganda to spread—no time to waste!”

 

Frank dropped his smile the moment he left the elevator. What a prick. I still don’t understand why they promoted him over me.

 

The Disaster Response Room’s light started flashing and the alarm started up again. ALL WRITERS REPORT TO HQ NOW... Frank sped up his steps and whirled into the room.

 

“Frank! Thank goodness you’re finally here. There’s a glitch in the system. We need you to reinforce the fabricated reality. Here, take these files into the cabinet room and take care of this one. It’s Director Grant’s plotline; he said to be extra careful—”

 

“No worries, I got it,” Frank said as he grabbed the pile of folders and ran back down the hall.

 

Frank was ecstatic. At that moment, he didn’t care about the meteor crises or anything else. He finally had his boss and his worst enemy’s plotline in his hands. A few changes here and there and Grant would have never become Director. A few changes and all of it could be his; he would be sitting at the very top of Writers HQ. He started typing immediately.

 

When Frank opened his eyes, he was sitting in a cushy chair, a full-length, company-commissioned portrait of himself hung on the wall across from him, and he had the world’s fate at the tip of his pen. I could write anything, and it would happen. I’m God! His hands itched with power, and peals of laughter cascaded from his diaphragm.

 

*          *          *

 

“Cut the cameras,” Director Grant commanded from the security room. “Another greedy bastard. Looks like we’ll have to test another underling.”

 

Erase the name Frank Haverford from the books.