You see, Arthyr's twin brother had been competing with him for the self-proclaimed "World's Most Dastardishly Amazing Pro Artist". "Pro" being the opposite of "con" here; they'd don different identities and assume different personas — adopt as many fake titles as they could in a week, then seek to be recognized as legitimized experts.
Yet all that suckerism had taken its toll on Arthyr, so he retired to his lair under the streets. It was a cozy kingdom. Every now and then he'd abduct someone and bring them under. It was surprisingly un-creepy and they never pressed charges. But they could never, ever come back, he warned: it becomes like a drug, and the second time in, you'll feel desensitized. Arthyr himself wondered why he kept bringing people down here if the thrill was wearing off.
But this was just part of his life, a phase, a passing sequence of events, and then the pattern would give way to a refreshingly anew thought. Arthyr thought of dialing his bro — they'd been out of touch for ~3 years — but the better part of his heart told him to leave it be.
One memorable night, Arthyr kidnapped a coloratura-alto belle and had her sing for him. She stayed about a week, her flycar still running in the rain, windshield wipers rocking unreliably. But they had spaghetti (he's an excellent cook who likes to dress up in Iron Chef-style costumes, you see), the finest in the Vermeese Countryside, and she felt — for the first time — an emotion which most people simply don't get to experience. It's called glappiness, and I'd explain it to you if words were more beautiful.
Arthyr P. Morridge is still at large. After my one-time personal encounter, his imparted rules for living a glappy life:
- Lack of self-awareness means fulfillment of self.
- Create your own culture.
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