I'm wrapped up in work! Here's a story I've been writing that everyone seems to like. Enjoy!


LIKE LEE



INTRODUCTION


I woke up tied to my computer chair, with my arms given just enough slack to allow typing. Lee was in my kitchen, making himself a sandwich. On the screen of my computer was the introduction that you're reading now, only with numerous spelling and grammatical errors throughout.

Lee whistled pleasantly to himself, as he spread honey-mustard onto a slice of bread with the side of his semi-automatic pistol. I know this, because it was already written on the screen in front of me, albeit without the dashes, and albeit was spelled wrong both times.

If the large, random pile of papers were any indication, Lee had kidnapped me (can you be kidnapped if you're still in your house?) in order to edit those random notes into some kind of coherent story.

"Yeah, that's the gist of it!"

Lee's voice carried through the house at exactly the same moment I read the words on the screen. Every time I read over the words again, Lee would call out the sentence at the exact same time. If I stopped reading halfway, he'd stop speaking.

There didn't seem to be any way around it.

Every now and then I'd have to use the bathroom, and my captor would politely untie me, and patiently await my return. Soon it became time for work, and after a long day of data entry, Lee would meet me at the door, and then tie me to the computer again. I'd sleep in my own bed (Lee crashed on the couch), but always woke up tied to the computer, never feeling any signs of struggle, or discomfort.

Well, except for that one time, when Lee got confused and accidentally tied himself to the computer chair instead. It took a while to get him out. I'm no good with knots.

I sometimes wonder why I didn't call the police, run away, or leave him tied up that one time. I don't know, Lee just seems to have a way of making things happen.

Is he a hero? Is he a villain? He's Lee. He's everything and nothing, only more so. Don't understand? Lee will be happy to explain it to you. In fact, he's already in your kitchen right now, making himself a sandwich.

You need more mustard.



CHAPTER 1


With a freshly brewed cup of tea in hand, Lee eagerly sat at the computer in his living room, and began writing his novel.

Seeing is believing, therefore believing must also be equal to seeing. Faith is a synonym for belief, so that makes faith equal to seeing. The definition of faith is to believe in what you cannot see, which leads us to conclude, curiously enough, that believing in what you cannot see...

For no apparent reason, Lee intentionally dropped off the side of his chair. Less than a second later, bullets began raining through his windows. Lee quickly grabbed one of the automatic pistols taped to the bottom of his chair, and then fired blindly into the dark night.

The street below soon filled with the sounds of screams, and cars screeching to a halt. Lee waited a few moments, to confirm that his mysterious attackers had stopped firing, and then went back to typing.

...is equal to seeing. Sight is therefore equal to not seeing, making the numerical value of sight equal to zero, as it's the only number that is equal to the negative version of itself. The further implications of...

Several windows simultaneously shattered, as buckshot tore through half of the room. Lee took a few hits himself, against the side of his abdomen. The wounds felt minor, but the pain was still horrible, and greatly interfered with his ability to find the shift key.

A second round was fired, and Lee grudgingly threw himself to the floor once again. It was there that he first caught sight of the devastation. The shotgun blasts had obliterated virtually everything Lee could see. Five jars, each completely filled with pennies, had all sprayed their contents across the room. No matter which way Lee looked, Lincoln's face was staring back at him, disapprovingly.

Lee’s unseen attacker fired another volley of pellets, this time against Lee's favorite Magritte painting, 'The Treachery of Images', tearing it to pieces. Lee chocked back tears. It had taken years to successfully switch the original painting for a phony, and it'd probably take several more for him to do it again! First, he'd have to revive Magritte, Frankenstein style, and then...

His train of thought was interrupted by a third shot, which did more damage than all the other shots combined. The attacker hit his lamp, the gun taped to the side of his high definition television set, his high definition television set, and even his lucky can of pineapple juice.

Lee's eyes widened in shock, as the can fell from the shelf, and onto the floor. It rolled over slightly, and began seeping juice directly into the carpet.

They had gone too far.

Lee pulled the second gun off the bottom of the chair, and fired randomly outside, in a mindless retaliation against the world in general. It was too dark to confirm whether or not he hit anything, but he vowed to keep firing until he either ran out of bullets, guns, or space in which to use those bullets and guns.

Bullets ran out first, and Lee panicked. Where were his last two guns?

"Damn it! Okay Lee, think logically. Did I leave them with my keys?"

A rain of pellets missed Lee by inches, and shattered his hundred gallon fish tank. One hundred gallons of fish filled water poured directly onto Lee’s pants.

"Did I leave them at work? Is Walter borrowing any? Did I...wait! I know!"

Lee grasped frantically for the Beretta taped to the small of his back, and tore it off.

"YEEEEEEEEEEOWWWWWWWWWW!!! NOW I'M IN A FIGHTING MOOD!"

Lee stepped dramatically towards the window, and randomly fired slug after slug directly across the street. Eventually, a sharp cry erupted, followed by a burst from a shotgun. The shot didn’t hit anywhere near Lee's apartment, and was followed by no more.

Lee continued firing.

When the Beretta ran out of bullets, Lee almost panicked again. Luckily, he managed to catch sight of his last gun, which he had ingeniously taped to the bottom of his shoe.

As Lee finished using up the last of his ammunition, the sound of sirens steadily approached. Time was running out. He had to write fast!

Lee clutched his wounded, bleeding side, and lurched back to his miraculously undamaged computer.

"Okay Lee, keep it together. Only two hundred pages to go..."

A loud, yet professional sounding man slammed his fist on Lee’s door, and demanded his surrender.

"Damn it. I need a new apartment."

Left with no other option, Lee was forced to use his secret escape route, using top secret escape plan Alpha-Zeta. Lee frantically unplugged his monitor, as the police kicked against the door. By the time they eventually smashed through, Lee was hurling the monitor through the only unbroken window in his apartment, the one facing the side alleyway. The police charged forward, but by the time they reached the window, Lee had already jumped.

Lee desperately lunged forward, like a cat, towards the fire escape of the building next to his. It was a full ten foot jump, which was a lot, considering that Lee didn't have a running start. Regardless, it was a risk Lee was willing to take. His only concern was whether or not that old, rusty fire escape was stable enough for a landing.

Lee’s fears were unfounded. Despite its rusty exterior, the fire escape was completely capable supporting Lee’s weight, and undoubtedly would have, had he not missed it by a full two feet.

Lee experienced the pleasant sensation of gravity pulling him downwards. Ironically, the guard railing that saved his life was far less pleasant. When Lee landed gut-first onto the fire escape, the next floor down, the police officers collectively winced, and then held their breath in anticipation.

Lee weakly crawled over the metal bar, and onto his knees. After seeing he was more or less fine, the officers broke into thunderous applause. Lee pulled himself to his feet, and then took a bow.

After a few seconds of confusion, the officers came back to their senses and drew their guns, but it was already too late. Lee had already slammed through an apartment window, and made his escape.

...

"This is Trisha Banks reporting live from the scene. A desperate shootout between two madmen has left dozens injured, and a neighborhood gripped in panic. Apparently, while situated ten floors up, the two men began a desperate shootout from across a busy street. The names of the men are still unknown, but the police have informed us that one of them was killed by the gunfire. The other attacker apparently fled the scene by making a desperate leap across an alleyway, from his window to the fire escape next door. Police are still searching for the man, but have yet to issue...wait! Sir!"

"Yes?"

"Trisha Banks, channel seventeen..."

"Lee, the Discovery channel."

"What?”

“Your turn.”

“Uh...did you see what happened?"

"All things. Fucker hit my painting."

"Please! Language! We're live."

"Oh, I'm so sorry! THE fucker hit my painting."

"Uh..."

"I apologize for my grammar, but I've been shot."

Trisha eagerly motioned for the camera to get a shot of his injury. That was always ratings gold.

"Do you need medical assistance?"

"Can you tie a stitch?"

"Uh..."

"Do you have any rubbing alcohol in your van?"

"Well..."

"Then no, you can’t."

"Did you catch any sight of your attackers?"

"SHIT! There was more than one?!"

"Please sir, I know you're in pain..."

"I want none of this grammar Nazi crap!"

"Sorry?"

"That was a perfectly legitimate interjection! I...I'm sorry, it's this gunshot wound. It's making me grumpy."

"Can you give us a description of the surviving attacker?"

"I'm pretty sure they're all dead. They did stop shooting, after all. My God, the carnage was terrible."

Trisha leaned in close, eager to hear the details of the assault.

"No matter where you looked, it was nothing but juice, broken glass, dead fish, and pictures of Lincoln! It was hell on Earth, make no mistake about it."

Trisha took a moment to collect her thoughts and regain her composure. The cameraman made a cut-throat motion, but Trisha shook her head. She hadn't given up yet.

"Police confirmed that one of the attackers got away. Apparently he leaped out of that window..."

"Oh yeah! You should have seen that jump! It was awesome!"

"Can you describe the man?"

"Sure! He's five foot eleven, one hundred and eighty pounds, blood type A, black haired, heavily scarred, ambidextrous, and has these awesome mutton chops."

Lee motioned towards his own mutton chops as he spoke. Trisha silently reviewed the details of the description, as her cameraman focused upon Lee's face, beard and scars. Trisha ignored the cameraman's desperate motions, and continued,

"Is there anything else you'd like to add?"

"Do you know anyone who needs a roommate?”


...


EDITOR'S NOTE:

Lee has assured me that everything you are about to read is true, with the added caveat that reality itself might be fictional.

Lee is not responsible for any of the consequences that arrive from reading this novel, including: paper cuts, unsettling ideas, mediocre movie adaptations, lucid dreams, bad online fanfics, or injuries resulting from any attempt to recreate a stunt from the story, which Lee assures me were all performed by trained professionals.

Lee has also informed me that he's not responsible for the consequences of any of his own actions, both in real life and in the novel, but has yet to explain why.

In response to my questioning, Lee decreed that I, the editor, am responsible for all the consequences of his actions instead. Despite my best efforts, I have yet to prove him wrong.

Lee has, however, admitted that he is completely at fault for not having an awesome car. Luckily, that was a problem he could fix.