Krognosticor the Prognosticator

“Then, suddenly, the Earth shook and there was nothing but darkness,” wrote Tom Jefferson, just beginning his third novel.

Suddenly, there was a great shake. An earthquake. And the sun stopped shining.

“What are you doing?” said a voice from across the room.

“Wh-What?!” said Jefferson.

“I said, what are you doing?”

“I’m…what are you doing in my home?”

“What do you mean? This is my home. Don’t you remember?”

“Remember? You’d better leave.”

“I’d better leave. Are you…okay? You seem a litter nervous.”

“Are you a…troll?”

“A troll?”

“Yes. Are you a…?”

“I’m a boll.”

“A bowl?”

“No, a boll. B-O-L-L. You get the idea.”

“So, mister Boll, what are you doing in my home?”

“Species is boll. That’s not my name.”

“Well then, what’s your name? And what are you doing in my home?”

“Krognosticor.”

“Krognosticor?”

“Krognosticor the…Prognosticator.”

“You’re the…”

“Yes, Prognosticator.”

“Shall I call the police now, or do you want to wait for the Midnight Special?”

“I live here.”

“No, you don’t. I live here. I live alone. This is my home. You don’t belong here.”

“What are you writing?”

“What?”

“What is that you are writing? On the screen?”

“Me?”

“No, the other bloke with the hairy moustache. Yes, you! What are you writing?”

“Well, it’s a novel. I…”

“Well, what’s the novel about?”

“Well, I don’t know I just…I just sort of.”

“I’m in that novel.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re so…”

“What?”

“Ugly.”

“I don’t know what that word means. I’m-“

“Krognosticor the Prognosticator. I know.”

“Yes. You’ll meander through a few chapters, regale us with the tales of the East, run through a slog of mother issues. And then, bam! You’ll be tongue-kissing me in the face.”

“Krognosticor the Prognosticator.”

“Would you like my prognosis?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Do you?”

“I’m asking you.”

“You should be asking me. For it is in my own will that I prognosticate. It’s the only reason I was born.”

“You were ‘born’ in the traditional sense?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, who were your parents?”

“Who were my parents?”

“Yes. I mean. I guess I’m…to be saddled with such a high honor. Can you even read?”

“I know enough to prognosticate.”

“Hence, your prognosis.”

“Would you like my prognosis?”

“Again, do I have a choice?”

“Well, I’ll leave that up to you.”

“I would rather you left my home. You’re sullying my Western furniture with your fortified schphenche.”

“Would you like my prognosis?”

“No. I’d like to see a shrink.”

“A shrink?”

“Yes, a shrink.”

“Present company is already shrunken. Dost that not help thee?”

“Of course, I meant ‘shrink’ in the case of conventional torture, not the existential variety.”

“I can shrink even further, if that would do you well.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Would you like my prognosis?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Think of this. You’re live on the Ed Sullivan Show, promoting your book.”

“Ed Sullivan died decades ago. Around 75 years.”

“You’re either so old you remember or you’re young enough to think it actually matters.”

“Was that part of the famed ‘prognosis’ that I’m hearing so much about?”

“No, would you like to hear the real one?”

“The real what? Are you real?”

“The real prognosis?”

“What is this nonsense all about?”

“Well, you’re writing a novel, aren’t you?”

“One would naturally assume so.”

“One would naturally assume so. And you know that I’m coming up in the novel. Right? I’m right there, at the tip of your tongue.”

“One would naturally assume. What does this have to do with me?”

“Do you want my prognosis?”

“What do you want from me?”

“I need to ask your consent before I tell you this. It’s important.”

“Well, Krognosticor the Prognosticator, I’m pretty sure that you…”

“It won’t take but a moment of your time.”

“Do I need to give written notice?”

“No, just listen.”

“Okay. I’ll listen.”

“You are a…writer. Am I correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you write novels?”

“Yes.”

“Stay with me. And what are your novels about?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do your novels represent? What are they about? What is their essence?”

“African Narnia.”

“African Narnia?”

“Yes. Narnia, but in Africa.”

“You know, it might not be much of an issue, but perhaps it would be wise for you to…come up with your own name?”

“Is that your ‘prognosis?’ All of it?”

“Just a part.”

“Just a part. I see. Go on.”

“Well, there is an issue of a certain Krognosticor…”

“Oh, no. I’m not going to make you the main love interest. This is a dreadfully horrible situation to be in and I already have an idea of who I want to lead.”

“What’s the problem?”

“What?”

“Why can’t I be the main love interest? Get the girl?”

“Why?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you look like a hobbit and a rat had a baby while on steroids.”

“Well? Rats can be cute. I know hobbits can. You designed me. You can’t improve on what your creator has made.”

“Thus is true. But let’s be honest.”

“Yes?”

“Don't want Fibromialgia puking all over my Word document.”

“Who’s Fibromialgia?”

“She’s the leading lady.”

“Of this story?”

“Yes.”

“What does she look like? Who is she?”

“Well, she’s the Norse Queen God of Hermes.”

“The Norse Queen God of Hermes?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like my prognosis?”

“From Krognosticor the Prognosticator?”

“Yes, from me.”

“Go ahead. No menage a trois.”

“What? I’m not a troll. Some kind of pervert. I just want to…”

“Prognosticate?”

“Well, you know what I mean. What else can a boll do?”

“Well, he can accept that he’s a boll and not a heavenly knoggit.”

“Knoggit? What is that?”

“It’s African Narnia’s version of a Knight.”

“Can I give you my prognosis?”

“This had better not be what I think it is.”

“I’m only telling you this to help. You.”

“What is it?”

“Could I…?”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“But there are only so many ways…”

“Hope springs eternal?”