The End of Everything

By Jimi Fritz

It is midnight at the Winterbourne Psychiatric Institution. The only sound is the staccato hammering of a Smith-Corona Silent-Super typewriter. The crack of its Bakelite keys ricochet through the corridors like six-inch nails pounded into a solid mahogany plank. Known only as Fritz, the man at the typewriter rails against the world while plottin

• Language: English
• Publisher: SmallFry Enterprises Inc
• Release date: Jul 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9780968572146

Jimi Fritz

Jimi Fritz has been a filmmaker, musician, writer, entrepreneur, roustabout and trick cyclist extraordinaire. He's written two feature length screenplays and a non-fiction book about rave culture. He is a heterodoxical polemicist, a sceptical polymath, an iconoclastic antitheist, and an aficionado of Stoicism.

Book preview

The End of Everything

An ironic black comedy

Jimi Fritz

Copyright © 2023

SmallFry Press, Victoria, BC

The End of Everything

Copyright © 2023 by Jimi Fritz

Registered with Archives Canada

Registration number: 1176731

ISBN Number: 978-0-9685721-3-9 

Printed by Marquis in Quebec, Canada

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Published by SmallFry Press, Victoria, BC.

Email: [e-mail]

Cover Art: Virginia SmallFry

***

Thank you to my team of dedicated proof readers:

Louise Stahl, Virginia SmallFry, Lindsay Taylor, Trina Woods, Cam Cumming, and Greg Cummings.

Other books by Jimi Fritz

Rave Culture, an Insider’s Overview

Confessions of an Ethical Drug Dealer

www.jimifritz.ca

***

This book is dedicated to Virginia SmallFry

with whom I share this path.

Like gibbons and geese, we are mated for life.

***

Any resemblance to real persons living or dead is likely intentional.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once.

—William Shakespeare

Somewhere in a distant corner of the universe, a ripple

in space-time erupted, and a series of events began to

unfold which would inevitably lead to the end of everything.

—unused fragment from The End of Everything

by the writer known only as Fritz

Dancing with the demons, looking for a fight

Lying in the darkness, never learned to be polite

Searching for the right word, waiting for the line

And the pounding of the typer, in the middle of the night.

—From the song, Ode to Bukowski by James Fry

Table of Contents

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Epilogue

1.

Wherein we learn about the transformation of a once stately home, we are introduced to our protagonist and the unenviable predicament in which he finds himself, and we discover the solution to all his problems.

Midnight. Late February.

The last of the winter snow is melting as the first crocuses, snow drops and hellebores tentatively poke their heads from the grounds of the Winterbourne Psychiatric Institution.

Previously known as Winterbourne Manor, the building was originally built in 1929 by a Russian oligarch with a fortune amassed in the Kashubian lumber industry. By the mid-1940s, both the trees, and his fortune, were no more. Increased export duties had squeezed profits and the industry never recovered. Trees that took two hundred years to grow were chopped down in minutes and impossible to replace. The once stately home was abandoned and almost lost. In 1952, after a lengthy legal battle, it was eventually surrendered to the state and repurposed as a mental asylum. The mighty fall, the meek inherit.

Its remote location, far from civilized society, made it a good choice to house those whom the State has decreed unfit for conventional standards of social intercourse. From a distance, the building is an impressive and eclectic example of the late-Gothic style with Baroque and Palladian influences, as well as Georgian facades. Its extraordinary and flamboyant design includes balustrades, porticos and parapets. The massive grey-stone building, comprised of three stories, is flanked on either side by turrets and towers. A long gravel driveway, fast becoming reclaimed by crab grass and other weeds, leads to a large circular driveway in front of the grandiose main entrance where Roman Doric columns frame imposing double doors hewn from two-hundred-year-old Russian oak trees.

Surrounded by flower beds and tiered gardens, the property, which was once meticulously manicured and tended is now neglected and left to the ruination of weeds and worms. The relentless procession of time, a lack of funding, and a general apathy towards the mentally ill, has reduced this once magnificent monolith into a crumbling wreck. Moss and fungi infect the cracks and fissures of its neglected walls like a terrible skin disease. More than a hundred acres of surrounding woodland are scattered with giant oaks, elms, and ash, some more than 500 years old. With the army of Russian groundskeepers long gone, it has reverted back to a wild and tangled mess of forest which can be said to mirror the mental state of the current residents. The overall effect is one of disintegration and rot, though the keen eye of an art aficionado familiar with the aesthetic of wabi-sabi, which accentuates the acceptance of transience and imperfection, may well be inspired to remark on its decaying beauty. Gorilla Billy, in a rare moment of clarity, once described the building as a fabulous disaster.

The first floor of the Winterbourne Psychiatric Institution is dedicated to assessments, day patients, substance rehabilitation, and short-stays. There is a constant ebb and flow as punters are admitted, evaluated, classified, and catalogued, along with a seemingly endless supply of new participants. Some arrive heavily drugged and passive, others anxious and combative. Some will be treated as outpatients. Others will never leave.

The second floor houses long-stays and permanent residents—just how permanent is never revealed. Long-stay punters exist in an undefined limbo where the promise of freedom is dangled like a carrot at the end of an indeterminate stick. It is a cruel game where even if the carrot is won, you are likely to be beaten with the stick. Intrusive evaluations are performed, giving the false impression that freedom can be earned. But the odds are stacked and the casino is rigged.

The third floor is exclusively reserved for no-hopers, sub-normals, the hopeless, luckless, and the criminally insane. It is a warehouse of tortured souls and shattered lives. It’s where the rubber meets the room, and all hope of liberty is long lost. I reside in a small grey-walled shabby room on the second floor, which is where I now toil at this document.

***

The Smith-Corona Silent-Super typewriter is neither super, nor silent. In what is now the midnight hour, this god-forsaken place is finally quiet. The day shift have returned to their supposed normal lives and the inmates are safely strapped down, stored away, and drugged into oblivion. Notwithstanding the constant chorus of snoring, restless moans and the occasional muffled scream, the only sound now is the staccato hammering of this typewriter; the crack of its Bakelite keys ricochet through the corridors of this hard-surfaced building like six-inch nails being pounded into a solid mahogany plank.

This Smith-Corona Silent-Super, originally manufactured in 1959, has yet to be serviced or repaired. No computer can make this claim. The act of writing on a typewriter slows the writing process, making it more considered and thoughtful. It is the difference between riding a horse and driving a car. The former is a visceral experience, a physical interplay between horse and rider; you feel the muscles twist and contract and smell the salty sweat of the beast. The latter is a cowardly surrender to a machine you will never fully comprehend, and one that will endlessly confound you. A computer offers lines of unfathomable and inscrutable machine code which only exists in a theoretical universe. In contrast, a typewriter leaves you with a real artifact, material evidence of a creative endeavour; a physical objet du réalité.

The Smith-Corona Silent-Super conveys a simple honesty, a direct cause and effect. The type bar swings and strikes the platen with a satisfying splat of ink, giving each letter its own unique personality. At the conclusion of every line, one is reminded of real progress by the gratifying shunt of the carriage and the decisive clang of a friendly bell. The sound echoes through the room like a chime of freedom; a clarion call to arms. The mechanics are exposed and naked for all to see. A typewriter has nothing to hide. It will never deceive you. A computer, on the other hand, will make promises it cannot keep. It will trick you with the potential of perfection, lure you in with its slick, glowing interface, creating the illusion of total control while exuding a condescending exactitude designed to undermine your self-esteem. Just when it earns your trust, it will do something so inexplicable, so surprising, so inscrutable, that no technician, however well trained, will be able to fully explain exactly what went wrong.

And lest you brand me a cranky old trout who is out of touch with modernity and who clings to the past with all the nostalgic verve of an incorrigible romantic, consider this: most of the great literature in this world has been written with either a pen or a typewriter. The renowned humanist and satirist, Kurt Vonnegut, wrote everything on a typewriter, as did Cormac McCarthy who used an Olivetti Lettera 32 exclusively for forty-six years. After his death, the machine sold at Christies Auction House for $254,500 USD. Most likely, my Smith-Corona Silent-Super will be more modestly priced, but no less valuable. The great American playwright Sam Shepard wrote every play and every screenplay on a Hermes 3000. Two-time Pulitzer Prize winner David McCullough wrote everything he ever produced on a 1940 Royal manual typewriter. And if you think these machines reside strictly in the purview of the classical novelist, I urge you to think again. Woody Allen has been pounding on the same manual Olympia SM-3 typewriter for sixty years. Every book, every joke, every article, as well as fifty feature films, have been produced on this junior model machine. Furthermore, American singer/songwriter and seven-time Grammy award winner John Mayer uses a Brother GX6750 to inspire his writing. Even Oscar winning actor Tom Hanks is an enthusiastic fan of the manual typewriter. He has over 200 typewriters in his personal collection. Which one is his favorite? The Smith-Corona Silent-Super.

***

And so I find myself in this peculiar predicament, fated to suffer without trial or justice, a rusty cog in a forgotten clock, grinding away in a mechanical maze with no way out. Why am I here? Surely the incident itself is insufficient to explain my present quandary; a momentary lapse of judgement perhaps, but hardly grounds for a life sentence in a mad-house. Nevertheless, here I am, drifting towards a non-existent future and looking back to a fading and irrelevant past. Time, the most precious resource of all, is stuck in an eternal now, endless and unchanging. Untethered from the customary machinations of life, I am adrift in a set of circumstances beyond my control; a helpless victim lost in a pitiless void. An invincible spirit is my only shield against this intolerable state of affairs.

Since my initial arrival two months ago, I have been subjected to the most callous and inhumane treatment. Like a common criminal, I have been pressed and probed, interrogated and investigated. I am spoken to like a wayward child and my rights and freedoms have been stomped underfoot by institutional jack-boots determined to bend the will and crush the spirit. But I cannot be broken and will not succumb to the dictates of an unjust system. For the most part, I remain silent and keep these fools guessing as to my true nature and intentions. I will give them nothing for free.

Subsequent to my disorderly admission, and a decidedly unprofessional two-week assessment, I am now installed, like a piece of old furniture on the second floor and have been classified as a long-stay, permanent resident. But like time itself, permanence may be an illusion relative to the perception of the subject in question. At any price, I am determined to preserve my dignity and resist tyranny in all its forms. I will not buckle to the injunctions of a system built on the principles of domination and bondage. I remain the head of my state and the sovereign ruler of my country of one. In response to the many wild and inaccurate assumptions made in this cracker barrel on a daily basis as to my mental health, let me be clear: my mind is sharp, alert, and firmly in my grip. I remain in full control of my faculties, despite a constant battery of allusions to the contrary.

According to the substantial efforts of my recent intelligence gathering, along with subtle insinuations from the dimwitted staff, I have managed to glean some critical information concerning my fate. From a careful analysis of all available information, it has become obvious that I may never be permitted to leave this miserable place. If there be no end to this torment, I am forced to take charge and become the master of my own destiny. For where is one to find fortune and freedom but within one’s own mind and heart?

Another troubling set of facts has recently come to light and must be carefully weighed against all available evidence. Along with the barrage of psychological indignancies and the constant misguided suppositions as to my mental instability—the totality of which I wholly reject—I have further been subjected to a series of thorough and demoralising physical evaluations. The results of these invasive investigations, various scanning techniques and biological assays, have brought to light a number of heretofore undetected health concerns.

It appears my prostate gland has turned against me. For no good reason that can be medically explained, it has swollen up to the size of a jackfruit, choking my urethra and rendering my urinary tract a crooked and treacherous highway. It appears that gains in longevity are off-set by the indignity of attrition. We are outliving our urinary systems and no amount of powders, pills, and potions can stave off the inevitability of potentially life-threatening surgery. The prospects that this condition will result in any significant improvement are dim, and outcomes are uncertain. Meanwhile, the inability to completely empty my bladder results in frequent urination throughout the night and leaves me sleep deprived and in a foul mood. There are two drugs for this condition, both of which come with the promise of impotence and vertigo. For this reason, I have elected to forgo treatment in an effort to avoid these serious side effects. That I am not married or sexually active is of small consolation, and as a taller than average man, a dizzy spell resulting in a fall presents a greater distance to topple and therefore the chance of greater injury. Like everything in life, we must apply a risk-benefit analysis.

An MRI has also detected deposits of a fibrous and fatty material which has built up in my left anterior descending coronary artery. This important artery provides the majority of blood-flow to the heart. Sometimes facetiously referred to as the ‘Widow Maker’, it is responsible for most fatal heart attacks. I have been assured that this plaque build-up is currently small, stable, and unlikely to cause any problems, but as a degenerative condition it will inevitably only get worse. As the blockage increases, as it predictably will, the decreased supply of blood to the heart causes angina which manifests as chest pain and shortness of breath—symptoms which I am currently experiencing at this very moment. It is only a question of time before my heart begins its final, deadly attack. High blood pressure, or hypertension, has also been piled on to my growing list of maladies.

Added to this seemingly endless list of defects is a large and persistent bunion on the big toe of my left foot which has swollen to the size of a golf ball, causing a slight, but unmistakable limp. The effect is further exaggerated due to my above-average height. Try as I may to mitigate its impact by stuffing napkins into my slippers, I am still left waddling about like a drunken penguin.

As if these afflictions were not sufficient to grind my soul to dust, I have become aware that my teeth are crumbling like rows of dilapidated buildings. One by one they loosen and are lost, leaving me with several gaps, one of which is to the right of my upper front teeth. The resulting look of gormlessness undermines my above-average intelligence. It is a constant source of irritation and a persistent reminder of my impending mortality. I can also report that, at times, when conditions are just right, I can actually feel the life-force draining from my body like water from a leaky bucket.

The aggregate consequences of these combined ailments are a constant reminder that my time on this crumb of cosmic dust is counting down to my inevitable demise. The only variable to this outcome is whether my end will come sooner or later. Consequently, I find myself faced with a dilemma that has no satisfactory outcome; I am playing a game that cannot be won, and like all games involving a measure of chance, it becomes a matter of making the best move possible, rather than the best possible move. One thing is certain; a life sentence in this rat’s nest with no reprieve or respite is without doubt a fate worse than death.

But I am getting ahead of myself. For the sake of clarity, I will now describe the line of thinking which has brought me to my current resolution.

As I see it—and I do believe my superior perception and awareness allow me to see more clearly than most—I have only three clear choices.

The first option involves accepting my unfortunate circumstances, surrendering to a life of servile subordination and a blind embrace of my pathetic lot. This course of action, however, requires total surrender to bungling authorities who I refuse to recognise and for whom I have no respect. The threat of a life of subjugation and subservience makes this option both odious and unacceptable, for is not freedom the highest and noblest of all human truths, and autonomy the loftiest goal? Without it we are no more than brainless bovine to the slaughter. I am reminded of the enlightened slogan emblazoned on each and every New Hampshire license plate: Live Free or Die.

This leads to my second option: a daring and dramatic escape to freedom.

I have had ample time to study the comings and goings here at the Winterbourne Psychiatric Institution. The facility is fairly well fortified. Card locks installed on all doors prevent free movement from floor to floor and both the main entrance and foyer are heavily guarded at all times. As well, the orderlies and nurses are ever alert to potential absconders and keep a suspicious eye on the punters at all times. There have been successes in the past, but none have remained at large for long. Escapees are generally brought back trussed and bound and yelling and screaming. As tempting as freedom may be at any price, what would be the final outcome of such a venture? Even if my escape was successful, as a fugitive on the lamb, I would be forever compromised. At best, I could only hope to wander the streets as a mendicant, penniless and infirm. I am reminded of the great Dostoyevsky who gambled away all his money and ended up begging on the streets of Moscow. At one point, his wife was forced to sell her underwear for food. And I think of Knut Hamsun’s protagonist in Hunger, who slowly starves in the streets of Christiania, albeit with a wonderful poetic flair. But what freedom lies down that road? In all likelihood, my eventual capture would result in an embarrassing spectacle, an ignoble return to this booby-hatch and a further loss of freedom, thus rendering the whole endeavour a complete failure. I may even end up in a worse situation and be relegated to the third floor from which there can be no escape.

Option number three: suicide.

Plato once remarked that those who practice philosophy correctly, practice dying. In this respect, like Plato, I remain philosophical. Death really does solve every problem a human being might have—instantly and decisively. Life is hard, living is hard; death, in comparison, can be a simpler, less problematic solution. Once we transcend the bitter sting of mortality, we are left with the sweet peace of death.

I have had a longer life and an easier time than most. My death, like my life, like the lives