Narrator's Paradise

This is my paradise. I am the Narrator. Capitalize it every time.

Shall we journey through my full-length chapter? Yes, because I said so and this is my paradise.

"This isn't your book, though!" a little pissant masquerading as a marshmallow had the audacity to tell me.

"This isn't your chapter!" I coolly, sophisticatedly, and handsomely responded.

Suddenly, Marshfellow exploded; now this is no longer his book.

"Aww, man!" Marshfellow, post-explosion, somehow was still able to talk in my newly-acquired book. Just be quiet, okay?

Marshfellow, an evil, awful piece of junk food, asked, "How much are you gonna pay me?"

"$17.54" I stated reasonably.

"$17.66 and you have yourself a deal!" he unreasonably haggled.

I tried to explain, "$17.54 is all I have in my pocket right now. Getting another twelve cents would require me to go all the way back to my house."

"Well," that annoying marshmallow suggested, "better start walking!"

"For what do you even need an extra twelve cents?" I questioned him.

Marshfellow inexplicably explained, "A cheese puff."

"A bag of cheese puffs? For twelve cents? Is this a joke?" I asked incredulously.

"No," Marshfellow elaborated, "just one cheese puff."

I shouted at him, reasonably, "Nobody sells individual cheese puffs!"

"I know that," Marshfellow replied as if it was obvious despite himself being so moronic. "I'm dating a cheese puff. She's anthropomorphic."

"She would have to be if you are dating her!" I shrieked, reasonably and handsomely.

Marshfellow sighed, like an idiot, then idiotically admitted, "There was this one time I dated a leaf. I thought she was catatonic and that I was nursing her back to health, but one day, she was gone without saying a word. I figured if she was anthropomorphic, she would've said something first. All I heard was the sound of a leaf blower fading into the distance."

"Just one distance? Because you could have chased them," I inquired awesomely.

Marshfellow stopped to count on his fingers for a few minutes; then said, "It was about three; three distances."

"Why would you need to count that long for three?" I, knowing it was not worth asking, still felt compelled to ask.

Marshfellow explained, stupidly, "I have 27 anthropomorphic finge-"

"Do you have to keep specifying anthropomorphic?!" I, annoyedly, but respectably, queried.

Marshfellow incompetently responded, "Well, I have two non-anthropomorphic fingers. Also, my anthropomorphic fingers are each worth different fractions, so counting to three can take up to thirteen finge-"

"That does not make any-" I howled admirably. "Fine. I will just go get twelve cents! I will be ba- Ooh, a nickel! If I could just find seven more cents... You there! Do you have seven cents that I could borrow?"

"No," said the kind gent. "I don' lend nobody nothin'."

"But it is just seven cents!" I exasperated.

The slightly less kind gent than I thought spoke, "I reckon' I'd letcha have it as a present. It's only a bit of change."

"Okay!" I exclaimed. "So can you give me seven cents?"

"No can do," answered the incredibly kind gentleman.

I, incredibly confused, yet incredibly handsome, asked, "Why not?"

"'Cause," the somewhat unkind, obnoxious gent said, "I only got six cents."

"How can you walk around with only six cents in your pocket?!" I queried frustratedly, yet amazingly.

"How come you can't?" the ridiculous ruffian questioned.

This is insane. Why could I not be dealing with a mentally-well individual who would think they might need more money than six cen-

"I got several hunnid dollars, too," the maybe not-as-dumb-as-he-seems possibly gentle man said a bit slowly.

"Thank you! Thanks so much!" I thanked him with my hands outward.

"Only one thing:" my brand new best friend said, "I, supposedly a mentally unwell ruffian, 'cordin' to you, don' know how to share money wit'out shatterin'. Jus' too mentally unwell and rough, I reckon'." He smirked smugly at me.

"I had no idea you could hear the narration," I sighed.

"I had no idea you could hear somethin' other than yerself," I was told he said later.

"What? I was listening to my handsome voice," I wonderfully admitted.

The ignorant loser I cannot stand anymore trudged away from me. Well, at least we can sta- And now for another ignorant loser I cannot stand anymore.

"Didja get the money?" idiotically asked Marshfellow.

I shrugged, "I guess here is another nickel."

"Great!" he selfishly beamed. "Where's the rest?"

I grimaced, "I still have yet to go back to my home to retrieve it."

"Well, I can wait," disturbingly peacefully extortatively stated Marshfellow. "Although, I'm pretty sure I waited already."

"Look," I exceptionally excused myself, "there was this gen- ruffian, right? And he was going t-"

"Tick-tock..." mick-mocked Marshfellow.

"Okay, okay! I am on my way!" I ran away.

"Hooray! Today, I get paid while I waa-it!" rhymed Marshfellow.

I miss Rillo. He should have won.

I finally reached the doorstep, then stepped on it to go inside the doorway by way of maneuvering my frame through the doorframe; an advanced technique for most, but for me, a simple task.

"Who in their life ever struggled getting inside a building through a door?!" Marshfellow asked skeptically.

"Worms," I stated plainly.

"I know plenty of worms that coul-" Marshfellow started.

"Non-anthropomorphic worms!" I screamed intelligently. "Wait. How are you-"

"Talking to you and monitoring you?" Marshfellow finished uglily. "You left the booth wide open, so..."

Woohoo! Hey, everybody! My name is Marshfel-

"They already know who you are, dummy!" the narrator said like a dummy. "That is not funny!"

He's right; it's hilarious! I love being the new narrator.

"Somebody stop that marshmallow!" the old, lousy narrator said. While panting. Wearing an umbrella hat. "That is not real! I am telling the writer on you! Writer?"

Uh-oh. Looks like it's time to go. See ya soon, folks!

After explaining my situation to the writer, he allowed me to get back to my paradise without having to pay that perturbing marshmallow. Now then, where were we? Oh, right. I have to get back to-

"Excuse me," said contest winner five, "but I do believe it is my turn to get pictures with the narrator."

"It is Narrator," I corrected, "and you are only allowed to look, not take pictures."

The contestant specified, a bit late in my opinion, "Actually, we paid extra for the deluxe package."

"Oh, okay. Wait a minute. Who is 'we'?" I inquired.

"Just me and my worm," responded the contest winner. "Just give him a couple minutes to get through the door; it is an advanced technique for him."

"Why stick with a non-anthropomorphic worm?!" I asked this terrible time waste of a person.

"I am anthropomorphic," corrected the worm. "I just had a leg injury, so getting through this door with it is an advanced technique. If you people made this wheelchair accessible..."

"You do not have a wheelchair!" I stated the obvious.

"Yes, I do!" countered the worm. "I just didn't bring it with me."

"Why?!" I yelled.

"I'm already injured," he slowly; so, sooo slowly; explained, "so carrying around a wheelchair would've slowed me even more."

"You could sit on it!" I cried.

"Not really," elaborated the worm. "It is a wheelchair from my non-anthropomorphic days as a child. I can't fit into it anymore."

"Why would you use it?!" I facepalmed.

The worm looked at me, confused, uttering, "I didn't. That's what I'm trying to tell you. There's no point."

"Why even have a useless wheelchair?!" I bawled.

"Well," began the worm in what I knew would be another ridiculous statement, "it can still be used. We just have to find somebody who can fit inside it first."

"And what difference would it make if the doorway was accessible for wheelchairs if you are not even using one?!" I screeched.

The worm jolted, hurting himself more in the process, then solemnly said, "All your screeching gave me a fit of PTSD from the war; you know, the war with the birds?"

"The Bird War?" I asked borderline facetiously.

"Yep!" the worm smiled; about a war in which he got PTSD... "That's the one! Anyway, a wheelchair ramp would have saved me about six seconds."

"Ughhhhhh..." I groaned.

"Almost... there," the worm panted, although moving even slower than before due to reinjury.

Seventy years later... it felt like. Seventeen hours later... it actually was. It was a very painfully slow process.

"Cheese!" smiled the fifth contest winner.

"Oops, wrong chapter. Y'all get back to doin' yo' thang, a'ight?" Veller addressed us.

"Okay," the fifth contestant replied. "Now everybody say 'this picture took over twenty-three hours to set up, so we need to do this exactly right this very first time because I'm dangerously close to being sent back through the magical portal without getting the picture for which I already paid in the package deal'..."

"You could not pick something shorter than that?!" I queried in disbelief.

"Running out of time! Come on, guys," the contest winner rushed us.

"Ugh! Fine!" I relented angrily. "This photograph took over twenty-three hours to set up-"

"Nope," the contestant contested, "I called it a picture."

I winced in some kind of mental pain, "What difference does it make?!"

"If you told people to 'say cheese' when it was time to take their picture and instead they said 'broccoli' or 'Burgers' or 'anthropomorphic cheese which is very much distinct from the non-anthropomorphic kind', you would be quite frustrated, too, wouldn't you?"

"I guess, but as a Narrator, I do not use contractions," I put my foot down morally. "I did initially, but it all got edited so my diction is more consistent."

"Well, that's okay. Everybody! You too, reader!" the contest winner requested of us. "This picture took- Hold on. I think I still have a minute left, but the time for your chapter is up, Narrator," they infor- What?!

"Yep," the contest winner said non-chalantly. "Don't worry. I'll just take the picture after the chapter ends."

I wailed, "My chapter! My paradise! It cannot end like this! Nooo-"