That Time Martin Strunk Met His Own Creation

I wake from a fitful sleep and try opening my eyes.

I’m mostly blinded by a very large, very close light fixture dangling above my head. In the darkness beyond its harsh glare, I make out metallic walls. Like the light, they’re pushed in close. There’s a shelf of some kind to my right, I think, but its contents are formless blobs of shadow. There’s an acrid smell in the air.

I’m uncomfortable. I’ve just noticed I’m laying down, and not in my bed. Why would I be? I’m clearly not in my bedroom. I’m on a cold, hard surface in the center of this strange room and I seem to be elevated a good distance off the floor. As I try lifting my head, I notice the straps. My head, chest, wrists, and ankles are bound.

I’m in a strange room strapped to a table.

How the hell did this happen?

I wish I could say this is the first time I woke up somewhere bizarre. I have deep pockets and a penchant for a good time. It’s only natural I’d wake up in strange places – beds, floors, bathrooms, alleyways. Dumpsters every now and then. A Southwest flight a few times (why does Drunk Me always book Southwest?). The worst was waking up in another country. Berlin, Germany, to be precise. Lost a lot of respect for both the American and German air travel industries that day. How many people have to fail at their job for a raging alcoholic to get blitzed in New Jersey, travel to the airport, buy a ticket, board an international flight, pass through customs, enter a major city, and wake up in a hotel room with a prostitute remembering none of it? Believe me, I had a long chat with Southwest customer service after that.

This feels different though. Bound but not in the sexy way to which I’m accustomed. My heart starts racing. I can’t catch my breath. I pull against my restraints.

Seriously, how the hell did I get here?

My blackout brain is usually quick to piece together a rough estimate of my shenanigans, even if the full picture remains lost to the histories. It takes some focus though, so I hunker down and try.

The last thing I remember is a party. My publisher was there, my team of editors, my assistant. We were at a bar. As per her custom, my mom attended and sat away from the group scowling. “I both support you and find you ridiculous and immature,” her actions convey. I know that for sure because she likes speaking those exact words to me. Assorted hangers-on – too self-interested and unlikeable to be called friends – rounded out the guest list.

It was a party for me. No, a party for my latest release, Earth Force 5: Return to Earth. Record pre-orders, a fresh movie deal for Earth Force 4 through 6, and the strongest opening weekend of any of my novels. We were definitely partying.

So, blacking out makes sense. Basking in adoration brings that side out. But, how’d I get here? And where is here, exactly?

I picture myself at the party, grasp for anything specific that might give me a clue, but there’s nothing. I must’ve gone hard even for me. The silver lining is all this noodling is it’s keeping me from devolving into a full blown panic attack. As I wonder, I settle into a manageable state of anxiety homeostasis.

…Which is shattered by the slamming of a door.

I’m no longer alone in this room. Two dark shapes slide towards me. My straps feel unbearably tight.

As the shapes step into the light, my fear vanishes. I laugh. I laugh so hard my nose runs and tears stream down my cheeks.

Standing before me are two members of the Glorp race of aliens. Or, they would be if Glorps actually existed. Their hulking, blue, Grimace-from-McDonald’s-like appearance was conjured by yours truly. They’re the primary antagonists in my Earth Force books.

“Oh man,” I wheeze as the laughter subsides. “This is just incredible. Who’s in those suits? Jerry? Rich? Where’d they come from, anyway?” Words are sprinting out of my mouth and I can’t stop them. Side effect of panic, I guess. “Hope they’re licensed not knock-off! I don’t remember Glorp suits in the latest merch report. Are they new? Is this your way of pitching them, Jerry?”

Left and Right Glorp share a three-eyed glance, then Left Glorp mashes a button on the gizmo in his hand.

Every muscle seizes as electric current arcs through my body. It’s gone as quickly as it came, and I’m left writhing in agony. I don’t know what to say, but what comes out isn’t a surprise.

“What the fuck, Jerry?!”

Right Glorp and Probably Not Jerry burble to each other. Right Glorp holds up a device and, when he burbles at me, the device speaks a mechanized English.

“You are Martin Strunk. Is this correct?”

The answer is yes but the question is complicated. I like to think a prank by my friends – dickheads they may be – would not involve electrocution. I am Martin Strunk, but who are the people in the Glorp suits?

The device drones again when Not Jerry burbles. “You are Martin Strunk. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” I say, winded. One quick shock and my body feels like it’s been sprinting for the last hour. “Who are you? I need to know who to fire, sue, or both.”

My assailants commune quietly and their little device remains silent. They sound like a dryer full of soaked towels. After their little pow wow, their attention returns to me.

“We wish to ask questions. You answer or we press button.” He waves the button in his pudgy, three-digit hand.

I nod. Please don’t press button.

“How you learn of – ?” This last word is more burbling.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak flushing toilet.”

Button.

Shock.

Pain.

The Glorps are conferring when I regain a sense of myself.

“We are called –” That word again. He puts a three-fingered mitt on his chest to illustrate. “We come from Planet –, so we are called –.”

When I say nothing, they confer again. Right Glorp mashes several buttons on his translator thing and then toilet-flushes at it. It speaks slowly.

“Wiiiiib Woooooob.”

He speaks again, and it translates again. “We are called Wibwobs. We come from Planet Wibwob.”

I’m getting annoyed by this charade. Surely the veritable horse is beaten good and to death at this point.

“I give, you guys,” I say, feigning a nonchalance that I really wish I felt right now. “This was a hoot. Take off the masks and drinks are on me.”

“How do you know of we the Wibwobs?”

I sigh. What is this bullshit and why don’t the people who know me have even a passing familiarity with my work? “You’re Glorps, morons. At least do some basic research.”

“How do you know of we the Wibwobs?”

“Hey! Dipshits! You’re called Glorps.”

“We are from Wibwob.”

“You are from Earth Force.”

“We are from Wibwob.”

“You are from a pot dream I had once!” My head pounds and my heart races. I can’t take much more of this stupid prank. I can’t take any more of these restraints. I pull hard against them.

Button again.

More shock.

More pain.

The Glorps loom over me now. Their translation device with its buzzy voice sits on the table next to my left ear.

“What the fuck is going on?” I whisper. Tears are welling in my eyes. This is really not funny.“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” I sound a good deal more desperate than I mean to.

“Wibwobs. We want to know how you know of we Wibwobs.”

“You’re my own creation, I swear.” They keep asking about how I know – maybe this is an insane prank by someone who thinks I stole their idea? “No plagiarism, no ChatGPT, nothing like that. The Glorps, renegade hero Zade McKinney, evil Glorp King Bunderchud, all of it.”

The Glorps – or Wibwobs, if they’re going to keep insisting – make a louder, more aggressive burble now. The translator buzzes.

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“What’s funny?”

“We enjoy this King Bunderchud. He is silly version of President –. This is not answer to question. How you know of Wibwobs? How you learn of invasion?”

“It’s a story, goddammit! I didn’t learn of anything. I just wrote a fucking stupid story about fucking stupid aliens!”

The Wibwobs talked it over. “This does not compute. You cannot invent Wibwobs or Wibwob invasion or President –. You must have source. Reveal source or I will press again.” He wags the button.

It’s dawning on me that, just maybe, my assumption that these are guys in costumes might not be correct. Maybe it’s being electroshocked three times, but I’m no longer dismissing the theory that these are real aliens.

“So you, the Wibwobs, are invading Earth. And you think I wrote Earth Force and invented the Glorps to, what, warn earth about your invasion?”

Burble. “Yes.”

“Is there a Wibwob word for ‘coincidence’?”

“Yes, but books are too accurate. – is not possible explanation.”

He shakes the button. “Reveal source or you must die.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Reveal source.”

“I made it up.”

“Reveal source.”

“Ok, you got me, it was…” I mimic their burbling. They clearly don’t buy it.

“Final. Reveal source.”

A tear falls down my cheek. Surprisingly, I think of my mother, but not her usual tidal wave of scorn. She’s holding me as I cry into a pile of rejection letters. I remember her soft words, her smell. How she kept me alive while my dream of writing kept dying around me.

I have no answer.

Button.

Shock.

Pain.

And then… nothing.