Stranger Than Fiction Page #2

- ... stretched across his bed.

- Mr. Crick?

- Mr. Crick.

- Yes, what is it?

You're staring at my tits.

I wa--? I don't think I was.

I don't think I would do that.

If I was, I can assure you...

...it was only as a representative

of the United States government.

Sorry, I'm just having issues today.

So I'll be back on Tuesday.

Harold suddenly found himself

beleaguered and exasperated...

- ... outside the bakery...

- Shut up!

... cursing the heavens in futility.

No, I'm not, I'm cursing you,

you stupid voice!

So shut up and leave me alone!

Hey, watch it!

Excuse me.

Excuse me.

Are you Miss Eiffel?

- Yes.

- Excellent.

May I ask what you're doing?

Research.

- Oh, am I interrupting?

- Yes.

I'm sorry. I'm Penny Escher.

I'm the assistant

your publishers hired.

- The spy.

- The assistant.

I provide the same services

as a secretary.

I don't need a secretary.

Then I will have to find some

other way of occupying my time.

Like watching me like a vulture...

...because the publishers

think I have writer's block, right?

Do you have writer's block?

Are these pages?

They're letters. To me.

- Are you writing back?

- I don't respond to letters.

And I suppose you smoked

all these cigarettes?

No, they came pre-smoked.

Yeah, they said you were funny.

What do you think about

leaping off a building?

I don't think about

leaping off buildings.

- Yes, you do.

- No. I try to think of nice things.

Everyone thinks about

leaping off buildings.

Well, I certainly don't think about

leaping off of a building.

They say--

I read this in this

fantastically depressing book.

- That when you jump

from a building...

...it's rarely the impact

that actually kills you.

Well, I'm sure it doesn't help.

There's a photograph

in the book called The Leaper.

It's old, but it's beautiful.

From above the corpse of a woman

who'd just leapt to her death.

There's blood around her head,

like a halo...

...and her leg's buckled underneath,

her arm's snapped like a twig...

...but her face is so serene...

...so at peace.

And I think it's because

when she died...

...she could feel the wind

against her face.

I don't know how to kill Harold Crick.

That's why they sent you.

Yes, to help you.

How are you gonna help me?

You, who never thinks

of leaping off buildings?

What great inspiration

will you bestow on me?

I'll tell you, the quaint ideas

you've gathered...

...in your adorable career

as an "assistant"...

...are to no avail

when faced with killing a man.

I understand.

Do you? I can't just--

As much as I would like to...

...I cannot simply throw

Harold Crick off a building.

Miss Eiffel. Kay. I've been

an author's assistant for 11 years.

I've helped more than 20 authors

complete more than 35 books...

...and I've never missed the deadline.

And I have never gone back to the

publisher to ask for more time.

Now, I will be available to you

every minute of every day...

...until the final punctuation

is embedded on the very last page.

I do not like loud music.

I do not abide narcotics.

And I will gladly and quietly

help you kill Harold Crick.

I had a very interesting little convo

with someone in your section.

Yeah?

They said you were feeling

a little wibbly-wobbly.

Catch a little cubicle fever?

Oh, I don't know. I think I'm okay.

Harold, a tree doesn't think

it's a tree...

...it is a tree.

Why was Harold talking to this man?

This man was an idiot.

This man used words like

"wibbly-wobbly" and "convo."

And explained that trees were trees.

Of course trees were trees.

Harold knew trees were trees.

I am going to believe you, Harold.

What Harold didn't know

was why he couldn't shake...

... the smell of brownies

from his senses.

Why Ms. Pascal had made

his fingertips quiver and lips go numb.

Harold?

Yes? Sorry.

What's going on, Harold?

Well... .

Nothing. Everything's fine.

Listen, according to your records...

...you haven't taken vacation

in a few years now.

Let's say you take a little break.

Use some of that vaca time.

Yeah. I'll think about it.

Harold.

I'm not really supposed to do this,

but... .

Harold assumed his watch

was simply on the fritz...

... and never even considered that it

might be trying to tell him something.

In fact, Harold had never once

paid attention to his watch...

... other than to find out the time.

And, honestly,

it drove his watch crazy.

And so, on this particular

Wednesday evening...

... as Harold waited for the bus,

his watch suddenly...

... stopped.

Sorry, does anyone have the time?

- Yeah, I got 6:
18.

- Thanks.

Thus Harold's watch thrust him

into the immitigable path of fate.

Little did he know that this simple,

seemingly innocuous act...

... would result in his imminent death.

What? What?

Hey! Hello?

What?

Why?

Why my death?

Hello!

Excuse me!

When?

How imminent?

Okay, where are you?

"Harold would brush his 32 teeth

Why won't you say anything?

I heard you.

"That would result

in his imminent death."

I heard you!

Come on, you stupid voice.

"Harold frantically grabbed his lamp.

Harold, incensed, shook the hell

out of it for no apparent reason!

And smashed it on the ground,

kicking it repeatedly!

Harold took his Kleenex box,

threw it across the room...

...then stormed the closet!"

Come on. Say something.

Something. Say something!

Say something!

"Harold, distraught... ."

God.

"Harold, distraught... ."

"Harold... ."

I'm afraid what you're describing

is schizophrenia.

No. No. It's not schizophrenia.

It's just a voice in my head.

I mean, the voice isn't telling me

to do anything.

It's telling me what I've already done.

Accurately

and with a better vocabulary.

Mr. Crick, you have a voice

speaking to you.

No, not to me, about me.

I'm somehow involved

in some sort of story.

Like I'm a character in my own life.

But the problem is

that the voice comes and goes.

Like there are other parts of the story

not being told to me...

...and I need to find out what those

other parts are before it's too late.

Before the story concludes

with your death.

Yes.

Mr. Crick, I hate to sound

like a broken record...

...but that's schizophrenia.

You don't sound like a broken record,

but it's just not schizophrenia.

What if what I said was true?

Hypothetically speaking,

if I was part of a story, a narrative...

...even if it was only in my mind...

...what would you suggest that I do?

I would suggest

you take prescribed medication.

Other than that.

I don't know.

I suppose I would send you to see

someone who knows about literature.

Okay.

Yeah. That's a good idea.

Thank you.

So you're the gentleman

who called me about the narrator.

- Yes.

- This narrator says you're gonna die.

Yes.

- How long has it given you to live?

- I don't know.

Dramatic irony.

It'll f*** you every time.

- So you crazy or what?

- Well--

Are you allowed to say that

to crazy people?

- I don't know.

- Oh, well. How many stairs...

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