No Great Truth (A Short Story)

John walked into a room and proclaimed, "There are no great truths!" His friend Tom nodded in agreement.

"But, isn't what you said a great truth?" Asked ask gal pal Jane.

"No," said Tom.

"I don't get it," said Jane.

"Well, listen here, gal pal Jane. There are no great truths. Stating it doesn't make it a marvel. Life's not all that great compared to nothing. In fact, it may not even be better." Tom thought deeply before choosing his next words. "Like, there are kids in... places... starving and stuff. Kids that are impressed by pencils. Pencils are like PS3s to kids in indigenous lands. You think they're better off born having never played Cooking Mama Cinco: Fillet To Live? A life so wretched I cannot imagine. What can a simple line do? What can words do to help humanity cope with what's illogical; how can it justify despair?"

"Uh, I — "

Tom continued, "You just don't get it, sister. There is no great meaning; no great truth. So, all philosophy is just pointless contemplation. At best, predictable lines like our friend John's knock on doors without knobs. We're trying to get through a door we can't ever get through, because it's not there. Our knocking at best helps us understand that. Typical girl junk: thinking only of the simplest solution."

"You don't have to be a scum bucket. I disagree. I mean, your vague concept may in fact be narrow. How anything came to be is perhaps a great something in itself. In that force there may be meaning. What's small to a calculated, scientific, and cold worldview like yours may be a big picture to another. Small notions like awe in mere being may be meaning enough," replied Jane.

"You want a bow on everything, don't you, twat?" said Tom.

John punched Tom's throat for being that misogynistic dick always found in stories as the good friend of the main dude. He suffocated to death on the floor like a bug hit point blank with Raid.

Jane wrapped her arms around John. "Oh, John. My righteous protector! How I value thee! You are justice. You are the Sun. You're so good to me. Make love to me here on this bearskin rug."

"Oh, woman," replied John. "You're only digging me because I wrote dead the guy who was being a prick to you in this story."

Jane contemplated his words. "Well, actually now that I think of it, you're right."

"Hey, fuck this shit. My best friend's dead, I'm bored, and I can write whatever I want."

Jane's bosom grew to twice its size, and she reluctantly provided John with a celebratory tit wank.

"Ah, the pouting makes it all the better," stated John as a 152" LCD screen expanded from nothing into the room displaying a high definition, better-than-real-life print of Judge Dredd. From air John created and grasped an already lit wooden pipe and began smoking fine tobacco through his recently formed zebra head. "This is the life."

THE END.