"Whit dae ye ken aboot yon Simulation Theory?” asked Hen, the pint glass in his hand rapidly approaching empty. The snug of The Lomond Arms hummed quietly around their table, a regular Sunday crowd.
"Whissat?" mused Joe, distractedly. Oh god, Hen was in one of his moods again. "Ye mean like in The Matrix?"
"Aye, EXACTLY...". Hen pointed at his brother in cold triumph, "...jist like in The Matrix, when thir livin inside a computer, likesay!"
"What's this aboot, Hen? Ye think yir in a computer noo?".
"Naw it's no that, bit... well somethin's no richt. Look, since ye mention it, whit year did The Matrix come oot?"
This stumped Joe, who paused with a pint half way to his mouth. "Well ah'm no sure, a guid while back. Whit dis that matter?".
"It disnae", chirped Hen. "Mair importantly, whit year is it noo, though?"
Something was out of order. Even Joe would have to admit this was a perfectly reasonable question, unusual as it seemed. And all the more unusual because he realised he couldn't answer. Had Hen spiked Joe's drink? What year was it?
"Ah... ah dinnae... look, what's goat intae you the day? Ah come oot wi ye fir a quiet drink and ye spring aw this oan us...". Hen slapped a newspaper down on the table between them.
"Ken whit that is?".
"Aye, it's the Post."
"This week's Post, aye?"
"Aye, this mornin's. Ah read it earlier."
"Thir's nae date oan it." Joe stared at the top of the folded cover, the unease growing to a clamouring din inside his head. "No oan the front, no at the tap ay every page. Nae date. Explain that."
"How shid ah explain it? It's proabably a printin error or somethin."
"An it's no occurred tae ye that thir's nivir a date oan it? Ah mean we baith ken that newspapers huv dates oan every page, and we baith ken that the Post is the only newspaper we ever huv in the hoose, yet wuv nevir noticed there's nae date oan The Post before?"
"Look Hen, yir daein ma heid in, can ye no--"
"That's jist the start ay it Joe, whit dae ye make ay this?" Hen hurried, opening the paper in a scramble to a point past the mid section.
"Make ay what?" Joe asked, his expression as blank as the sheet he now looked at.
"Why’s yon page empty?" asked Hen urgently, pointing a bony finger at this barren stretch of journalistic real estate. "Why would a whole page in a newspaper be empty? It's like this every week!"
"Well ah guess it's fir the bairns tae draw oan or somesuch. Yir richt, it's eyewis been like that, it's no really bothered us before, likes."
Hen could tell he was starting to lose Joe, now. He quickly turned back a few pages.
"Ah didnae pit it thegither until ah read this letter here, looksee... it gaws oan aboot how great the paper is an aw that, then intae this: 'One of the regular Sunday highlights in our house is of course The Broons, and Joe's recent car troubles had us all crying with laughter'."
Joe's expression was hollow, now. Each new implication battering against his shuttered mind like a storm.
"Whit's that supposed tae mean, Hen?"
"That's whit ah'm tryin tae work oot. 'The Broons', that's us. That's oor family, no? And you're Joe Broon, and did ye no have aw that bother wi the mechanic last month? Bit why would there be a letter aboot you in The Post? And whit's this aboot it bein 'a highlight'? Because there's nuthin else aboot any Broons in the paper at aw, an there isnae normally, neither. Thur's only this blank bleddy page."
Joe was animated again, although his mood had darkened. "So whit are ye sayin, Hen?"
Hen stared at the newspaper silently, not ignoring Joe but thinking of how best to form his next crucial words.
"Are we... are the Broons... oor family... are we a story in The Post every week? Ah mean ah dinnae ken whit kind ay story, bit mebbe there's somethin oan that page that everywan else can see? Mebbe it's us, likesay?"
"De ye mean like wir no real? Like characters in a book?"
"Ah'm no sure, Joe. Ah mean ah feel real tae me, an you feel real tae me, bit mebbe that's jist part ay it, no? Like when they folk are in The Matrix, they dinnae ken thur in the simulation because thir conditioned no tae notice..."
"And whit aboot everybody else? Aw this lot? De they ken? Are they no real either?"
"...Well ah'm no sure that--" Hen started, but was interrupted by his brother raising his head and hollering over to the bar.
"Hi Dudley! Did ye get The Post?". The barkeep turned his attention to the query while continuing to serve a man at the counter.
"Aye Joe, as eywis" he replied, with an air of inflated satisfaction. "Ye want a read ay it?"
"Naw, ah've goat wan here, likes, jist wonderin. Hus yir paper goat a blank page in the back half?"
"Whit, the drawin page? Aye, eywis dis."
"Is there onythin aboot the Broons in there?"
"Eh? Ye mean yirsel? Whit huv ye done now, Joe?" Dudley laughed, returning to his paying customer.
Hen and Joe looked at each other. This was normal, then. People knew, they just hadn't noticed. But why had Hen? Why now?
Five desperate pints later, Hen and Joe Broon drove an hour to the But’n'Ben, unlocked Paw’s gun cabinet and retrieved his trusty hunting rifles. With enough ammunition for their task, the pair returned to the Lomond Arms and murdered everyone in the building bar one (Dudley survived, following surgery) before turning the rifles on each other, safe in the knowledge that you can’t really kill what doesn’t exist.
And that’s how The Broons ended up on the front page of The Sunday Post.
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
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