The Keith Johnstone Chronicles, Chapter 1

This is the first chapter of my mini-story-novel-thing, The Keith Johnstone Chronicles Part 1, which I plan on turning into a comic book of some sorts. Enjoy.

THE KEITH JOHNSTONE CHRONICLES: MUSINGS OF A DELUDED MAN

I

MAD WITH POWER

Keith Johnstone is a man. He was born to a family, who lived on a street in a town in a state, in a country. He is no different than any other boring, ordinary man. At twenty-six years of age, he handles his time by going to work, attempting to find a mate, and wallowing in self-pity. However, Keith does have one difference – he thinks he is insane. He believes that his brain is his enemy; that it shows him things that aren’t real. In reality, Keith is just in denial. Everything Keith sees is, in fact, real. His life is just really, really bizarre. Take for instance, this first chapter in the Keith Johnstone Chronicles.

It all started when Keith was working, with a company he hates, for a boss he despises.

Let us go there now.

Keith works as an I.T. guy, and his workspace consists of a computer, a few pieces of paper, and a chair. That’s pretty much it. His job description includes making graphs to collate stock information and market trends; and sometimes, if he’s lucky, making graphs to illustrate what graphs would be most helpful to estimate stock information and market trends. Life is pretty quiet for poor Keith, so you’ll be able to understand, I’m sure, how this next scene came as quite an alarming shock.

“Johnstone!” Keith’s supervisor yelled, slamming down on the desk of his tiny cubicle, sending the paper flying from its resting and place and over the floor. “I need to have a word with you.”

“Um, of course, sir,” Keith agreed reluctantly, “what do you want from me, sir?”

Keith’s supervisor loosened up.

“Cut the ‘sir’ bullshit, kid. I just needed to tell you, you’ll be working the late shift tonight. Boss’ orders.”

“Huh? Why me? I haven’t done anything to anger him, have I?”

“Oh! No, no! Of course not. He just told me to pick anyone and random, and make them work the shift. Nothing personal.”

“In that case, can I not have the shift? Surely anyone else could take it - ”

Keith’s supervisor seemed angered by this insolence. Grabbing Keith by the collar with his fists, he dragged him out of his chair so Keith and himself were staring at each other, face to red face.

“Mr Johnstone, I have picked you,” the supervisor advised him sternly, “and if you have a problem with that, YOU’RE FIRED!!” As he yelled, he threw Keith violently back down onto his chair, Keith taken aback by the development that had ensued.

“F-f-fired. . .?” Keith trembled, looking around for anyone to bail him out.

“Yes. FIRED,” the supervisor confirmed. Looking awfully smug, he once more reminded Keith, “late shift. You’re taking it. Ciao,” before rushing out the door with his suitcase in one hand, and latte tucked firmly in the other. Keith looked over the top of his cubicle to his neighbour’s.

“He wouldn’t really. . . fire me, would he?” Keith gulped.

“Oh, yeah,” his neighbour said. “He so would. Haven’t you heard? He’s completely mad with power!”

Another man, in a cubicle further along, added, “he’s been buying lamps. Expensive lamps. Lamps made of cloth.”

“And he fired at least five janitors in the past two weeks!” another man added further, “because he didn’t like the direction they rolled their mops! I tell you, dude, he’s lost it!”

Keith sat down, scratching his five o’clock stubble. He couldn’t gamble getting fired. His job was all he had, and with so much responsibility renting a home and an Xbox, he couldn’t afford having to search for a replacement job. But the late shift was the most dreaded shift a man could sit.

“The late shift,” his neighbour said, in an expositional manner. “The most dreaded shift a man can sit. Because unlike during the day shift, they turn off all the lights, and give you no instructions besides, ‘don’t fall asleep’. It’s the most boring thing since sliced bread.”

“I hear if you fall to sleep,” the second man rumoured, “earwigs drop out of the ventilation and bite your face off, then violate your prostate!”

Upon hearing this, Keith didn’t know what to think. The line between “sit the late shift and be bored shitless” and “leave and get fired and lose home and Xbox” were drawn, and marked clearly, in the sand of his subconscious. Neither of which were acceptable conclusions to the day. Keith had to win this mental battle.

Grabbing a piece of paper from under his desk, he scribbled a quick picture, of a duck on fire. The purpose of which, Keith assured himself, was to pass the time. As the time rapidly approached 5:00pm, the numbers in the office dwindled; until only Keith’s neighbours, and himself (with his scribbled artwork), were left.

“Well, I’m off,” announced Keith’s closest cubicle neighbour. “I have a huge party I have to go to. It’s huge. There’ll be girls and everything.”

“Dude!” said one of the neighbours the booth over. “I’m going to that exact same, or a similar, party!”

“MY GOD,” said the first neighbour, ecstatic with realisation of such circumstance. “We should SO go together!”

“YES. THAT WOULD BE ORGASMIC,” said the second.

They left together, gaily holding each other’s hands. Keith wondered whether “there’ll be girls and everything” was part of their pitch to go or, in fact, a way to try and dissuade them from going. Shrugging, he turned to his duck picture.

With a massive smash, the lights in the main office blocks went off, one by one. The room grew dimmer as each set of industrial lights blew out: SPSCHEW, SPSCHEW, SPSCHEW. . . and as the sound grew fainter, the light grew dimmer, until the only source of light available to Keith was the light from his computer monitor.

Keith sighed, and unbeknownst to him, straining through the dark, the worst night of his life had begun.