a significant deficit in coherence

by Dimitry Partsi

Mr. Badgerson considered himself a visionary. No one else did, which he took as proof of his genius. Because, of course, he was.

The vision in question concerned a novel, or what would have been a novel if it had any novelistic qualities. Mr. Badgerson, who had all the qualities of a novelist except for talent, discipline, and a basic command of narrative, called it “We Regret to Inform You About the Duck.” It was a bold, unmarketable, and structurally incoherent epic that, in Mr. Badgerson’s words, “blurs the line between fiction, autobiography, and community service announcement.” In everyone else’s words, it was either “utterly incomprehensible drivel” or “why?”

Ever the optimist, Mr Badgerson sent the first chapter of his book to “Schmidt, Schmidt, Schmidt and, surprisingly, Candelabrum”, a reputable accounting firm he’d mistaken for a publishing house because their letterhead included a quill graphic.

Three days later, he received their reply:

Dear Mr. Badgerson,

We have audited the first chapter of your manuscript and found a significant deficit in coherence. There is also the matter of it being a manuscript, which is not a service we provide or, for that matter, understand.

Best regards,
Juan Numberson
Head Accountant
Schmidt, Schmidt, Schmidt and, surprisingly, Candelabrum

P.S. I personally found the bit about the duck quite moving. I think about ducks a lot. They are swell.

Encouraged by this mixed feedback, Mr Badgerson took a bold financial step: he wrote to his bank, requesting a “gazillion or so dollars” for what he called “creative needs and miscellaneous frivolities.” He addressed it, with what he felt was a charming folksiness, to the “Dear Bank of Many Moneys.”

The bank, which indeed had many moneys but very little charm, replied with a letter that felt like it had been printed on starched linen and despair.

Dear Mr. Badgerson,

We will not loan you ‘a gazillion or so dollars.’
This is not how life works.

Yours sincerely,
Nora Funds
Head Loans Officer
National Bank

P.S. Starting your letter with ‘Dear Bank of Many Moneys' might not be the best idea. Your writing, however, has a decent flow. Very few alternatively gifted people are that lucid.

Undeterred, Mr Badgerson changed strategy. If the accountants wouldn’t publish his book and the bank wouldn’t bankroll it, perhaps a hospital would stage it as a play.

He reasoned that hospitals already had a captive audience, most of whom were too unwell to escape a performance. He sent Chapter Three (having lost the first two) to the National Hospital with a note reading, “I hope this heals people on a spiritual level.”

Their response:

Dear Mr. Badgerson,

Our hospital will not be interested in staging a play based on that one chapter of your unfinished novel.

Because we are a hospital, Mr. Badgerson.

Yours cordially,
Raymond B. Bloodsucker
Head Doctor
National Hospital

P.S. I hope the way you are is not a result of some procedure I performed on you. Truth be told, I am as bad at doctoring, as you are at whatever you think this is.

This might have discouraged a lesser man, but Mr. Badgerson was not a lesser man. He was Mr. Badgerson. He was built of sterner nonsense. He immediately pivoted.

Having scanned the local business directory for his next patron, Mr Badgerson's eyes landed on a promising name: 'Making Ends Meat.' The slogan sealed it: 'We make the cut.' “Finally,” Mr Badgerson muttered to his reflection, “A talent agency that understands grit.” He immediately emailed his bio and headshots.

To his surprise, he received the following:

Dear Mr. Badgerson,

We don't handle novelists. We handle pork shoulders. The skill set does not, to my knowledge, overlap. We trim the fat, Mr. Badgerson, we don't sign it to a three-book deal.

Yours Faithfully,
Mitchell Meat
Head Butcher
Making Ends Meat

P.S. I wish I could write the way you do. You know, on a computer. Ha! Humor! I do have a computer though. I’ve been jotting down thoughts for years, mainly about sausages, but never had the guts. See? Another joke! Are you at all interested in a writing partner, and why not?

Finally – a breakthrough. A collaborator. A kindred spirit. Someone else in this world capable of looking at a shambolic, ill-conceived project and thinking, “Needs a bit of trimming, but the prime cuts are all there.”

Seeing a fellow artist who understood the delicate interplay between prose and pork, Badgerson immediately drafted a proposal.

Thus began the collaborative venture Porkfolio: A Tale of Crime and Meatsmanship (The Musical), an avant-garde stage production about a literary butcher and an incoherent novelist joining forces to fight crime. It was immediately banned in four states.

Still, Mr. Badgerson was undeterred. “Fame is just a matter of persistence," he declared to a particularly swell-looking duck in the park. The duck, who was in the middle of a complex tax audit of a stale bread crumb, simply nodded. It understood.

Mr Badgerson sent one final letter to the accounting firm:

Dearest Juan,

Please disregard all previous correspondences. I am now an actor, writer, and meat-themed entrepreneur. Would you be interested in co-producing my sitcom pilot Beef Accounts: Meat the Numbers? It’s a workplace comedy about an emotionally stunted accountant who dreams of becoming a butcher. Think Breaking Bad, but for pork chops.

Warm regards,
Mr. Badgerson

P.S. Duck cameo pending.

There was no reply. Which, in Mr. Badgerson’s world, was practically a standing ovation. He took a bow, but the silence of such a thunderous reception demanded an encore.

And so, the sequel began, as all sequels do, with a loosely connected premise and a baffling subtitle: “We Regret to Inform You About the Duck 2: Regret Harder". Mr. Badgerson described it as “less a follow-up and more a retaliatory strike.” It featured a torrid romance between a sentient spreadsheet and a haunted ladle.

He submitted it to a weather bureau, demanding “literal climate feedback.” He left copies on park benches with notes that read, “This found you for a reason. Do not resist.” He whispered entire chapters to the ducks, who he now referred to as his “focus group.”

When a concerned police officer, responding to a call about a man “aggressively serenading the waterfowl,” asked if he ever doubted his path, he replied, “Not once. Not even in the middle of Act V, when the duck cross-examines God on the stand.”

Somewhere, deep in his alternatively gifted mind, Mr. Badgerson was certain of only one thing: he had not yet been misunderstood loudly enough.

BIO: Dimitry Partsi is an Australian writer who specializes in finding the absurdity in modern life. He is currently working on a collection of short stories.