The Swordsman and the Typewriter

It all happened the day that technology started to take ahold of us. It was that day in 1872 that my life turned for the worse.1

I practiced the art of fencing, and was obsessed with the past. And so, I never cared too much about what the tinkerers and scientists did to fill the void in their lives. Make no mistake, I was a luddite of the highest degree, and had refused to touch the cast-iron machines of the future I was being forced into.2

That having been said, I was somewhat of a hermit. I felt the best way to stay away from the evil of technology was to avoid the corruption of society whatsoever. I grew or made everything I needed, and hid far away from the confines of the populace, who were certain to chastise me for my adherence to the old ways. Besides, I could never read or write, which further complicated my difficult lifestyle.3

I distinctly remeber it was a summer day, although I couldn't tell you the date. Some big wig decided to hike through the woods, believing it to be some peaceful break, or some such idiocy. The man was missing a few nuts and bolts, apparently, because it was not long before he managed to strand himself from his beloved civilization. He wandered to my shack, desiring nothing but to be escorted back to some sign of intelligent life. I quickly tired of him, so decided to help grant his wish.4

What a fool I had been! Within moments, I had fallen within the man's trap. The first thing he noticed was that I was in shambles, wearing nothing but rags and a sword that has been in my family for generations. I was certain that he feared some sort of brutal death. As we strolled through the forest, there was an certain uneasiness that he exuded: a tension that I had mostly ignored.5

I could tell this man was a little green. It seems the deeper into the forest we went, the more he began to distrust my judgement. And perhaps his own was well founded, because suddenly, we were attacked by a firebreathing land-carp. It was a difficult task, but I was able to slay it with one fell swoop of my blade.6

His distrust began to subside. He invited me into the city to have dinner with him, as a token of appreciation or something like that. I was a little suspiscious of the thought, but I hadn't eaten in days. I figured that I would take advantage of the man's goodwill and return to the forest, never to set foot on unholy ground again.7

That was the second of many mistakes that I had made. When we got into the city, it was unlike anything I had ever seen. Buildings were the size of skyscrapers, and people were actually wearing clothes. We returned to his store, which was located along the downtown area. He had informed me that he owned a newspaper, and showed me all of the subtle bullshit that goes into producing garbage.8

That's when I saw it: the most beautiful object ever. It had buttons of bakelite and little levers that put this black substance on paper whenever you hit them. I instantly started hitting all the keys at once, jamming the beast more than once. His employees stared at me, but he payed me no mind. He must've thought I was a kid in a candy store.9

We went to an Italian joint soon after. We ordered this mystical food he called lasagna, whatever that is. He bought a bottle of wine, and no less than 15 minutes I was drunk for the first time in my life. Even with all of these damning wonders of the city, I only had one thing on my mind henceforth: how I was going to betray my new friend by stealing what he had explained to me as a typewriter. I asked him all sorts of questions about it. He seemed a little bewildered as to why I took so much interest in such a commonplace device, but explained things nonetheless.10

Four bottles of Chardonnay later, I decided it would be best to shed my rags, which was not terribly appealing to the police. The man explained that I've never seen civilization, much less understood the purpose of clothing, and that I must be forgiven. The police warned me that they would forgive me, but that it was an offense punishable by stoning.11

I would not take this. The man would not push me down! I decided, in my drunken stupor, to instead run. The police did not chase me, however. They were only paralyzed, bewildered by my eccentric behavior. I started my trek back to the press, where I would become known as the Greatest Typewriter Theif to ever live.12

Before too long, I had stolen every typewriter in the city, and there was a huge price on my head. The mayor had coerced extraterrestrials to do his dirty work for him, and they were soon on a manhunt for my very soul. Fortunately, they were only chasing me on minature tricycles, and I could fly.13

As I flew above the city, I began to wonder why I had never been to this abombination against the Lord before. I also wondered why I hated technology so much, how I was going to cart all of the typewriters back to my secret mansion in the Dover Cliffs, and why trees looked so much like broccoli. All of these were insignificant, however, as I was being persued by cannibalistic walruses. I sobbed. I cried. I prayed.14

To no avail I was swallowed by my persuers. However, I would soon become a happy man, as I established a friendship with the parasites within. Just then, the damn nurse decided I was rambling for too long and needed my daily dose of antipsychoactives.15