Hero's Journey? But I'm Just the Stuntman E-Book

Phil Humor

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Amazing future gadgets, meetings with mythological gods, a mentor from the future, wonderful vacation planets: Is Fortune smiling upon stuntman Bruz Knorrwald? He can ask her himself. Who's in charge: fate goddesses, AI, fear? Who writes the script of the future? The algorithm of the gods: Will their calculation work out? The future as a place of longing, an AI Arcadia or a dragon that crushes souls? How much humanity remains to us? Or do we free ourselves from the dictate of fate with AI's help? With it at our side, do we defeat this tyrant, the almighty determiner, the all-powerful scriptwriter? To keep his humanity, Bruz may have to become what destiny hates most: a trickster. When AI meets myth, even luck needs a helmet.

Leseprobe

Contents:

Hero's Journey? But I'm Just the Stuntman

A Time-Travel Odyssey — Where AI Meets Myth

Amazing future gadgets, meetings with mythological gods, a mentor from the future, wonderful vacation planets: Is Fortune smiling upon stuntman Bruz Knorrwald? He can ask her himself. Who's in charge: fate goddesses, AI, fear? Who writes the script of the future? The algorithm of the gods: Will their calculation work out? The future as a place of longing, an AI Arcadia or a dragon that crushes souls? How much humanity remains to us? Or do we free ourselves from the dictate of fate with AI's help? With it at our side, do we defeat this tyrant, the almighty determiner, the all-powerful scriptwriter? To keep his humanity, Bruz may have to become what destiny hates most: a trickster. When AI meets myth, even luck needs a helmet.

Imprint:

Copyright © 2025 Phil Humor

Stephan Lill, Birkenhorst 5b, 21220 Seevetal, Germany

Hero's Journey? But I'm Just the Stuntman

A Time-Travel Odyssey — Where AI Meets Myth

I want to tell you about an unusual time traveler. He himself calls himself a "Chrono-Rhetorician"; which mainly means one thing: He likes to talk extraordinarily much and a great deal. In me he seems to have found a willing victim; unfortunately, I'm a good listener; an annoying habit. As relief I'm noting down our conversations here and what followed from them. Because this easily becomes a heavy burden: the knowledge of the future; even though Loquaxander – that's what the time traveler calls himself – lets slip that in the year 3000 A.D. everything is excellent. When asked whether it would be more dystopian or utopian, he sided with utopia with some hesitation. "It's fine. One can't complain – among other reasons because it's strictly forbidden."

Conveniently, he possesses a monocular time translator: We understand each other well. Although his preferred communication technique is telepathy; but it has the unpleasant disadvantage that one – at least as a beginner – doesn't know how to stop it. Setting ears to ignore mode – doesn't work. Add to this that Loquaxander claims he has a strong allergy to silence. I'm not used to thinking something continuously; in my head there's often pleasant silence – until now. I had made the mistake of showing interest, asking him a few polite questions. He has a voice that simultaneously sounds like Plato, Shakespeare and a future podcast. He encounters language with respect. He says word power is something like a time machine: It transports you in no time to any desired or undesired place. So he was probably here voluntarily – not by accident?

What could one offer him? He politely declined a smoothie. He made himself comfortable on the Hollywood swing in my garden, which however didn't move when he sat down. He explained this phenomenon through his momentary hologram structure. "I'm here – but then again I'm not. But I can switch to Reality Level 3 at any time – for better interaction with history and perfect control over reality material."

Everything he said unsettled me. I'm not easily unsettled – I've been a stuntman for quite some time; I've also had one head injury or another. Therefore, I initially didn't rule out that Loquaxander might be a manifestation of my future worries and future fears.

He in turn offered me something: "Conjugated tea – changes its effect according to tense. I recommend frequent tempo changes – through this one gains a feeling for time. As if one makes quick movements with bare hands – in order to perceive the surrounding air at all. Otherwise, it slips into the habitual – it fades out, it takes leave into the non-existent."

The tea was excellent – it probably also contributed to thought synchronization, because Loquaxander henceforth made increasing use of telepathy. "The direct line. How's the connection?" Great, I could forget about politeness and lies for convenience.

"Lie filter costs extra." Was he a time-travel peddler, did he want to force future junk on me? "I have here a wonderful, well-preserved notebook made of baryon paper. What you write in it will happen just like that. A practical utensil. I'll give it to you as a gift. As a return gift you could give me half your soul. I'm quasi with one foot in the door, but the zeitgeist could want to get rid of me again at any time. You must imagine it like a time immune system. I'm a foreign body, a kind of virus, a left-wing bacillus. The zeitgeist resists, acts up like a bull at a rodeo. One must defeat the zeitgeist again and again, subjugate it. Show it who's in charge."

Wow; and that in the early morning. Does one sell half their soul – if the price is right? Maybe he would throw in something extra? "An inflatable simulation chamber. Foldable. Better than streaming – one dives into really fantastic worlds. However, the reset button is broken. It's possible that some users are still in there. Like a labyrinth from which some haven't found their way out yet."

Loquaxander looked at me expectantly; how did I find his offer, was I taking the bait? It would probably be a good negotiation strategy to feign absolute disinterest, but in this regard my phlegm came to my aid – for once rapidly. Or was my brain still busy organizing, sorting all the novelties – and momentarily had no idea what to do with them? Like a perplexed librarian who's supposed to sort volumes he'd never heard of in his life. One is used to letting the future come to oneself – but so rapidly: a jump over 1000 years.

My wife Fenja is a reporter, journalist – she would have already squeezed Loquaxander like a lemon, bombarded him with clever questions. I could only think of: "Are there still books in your time?" "Yes. However, they're called thought-foldings. You fold them like origami – differently each time. Depending on your daily form, a new plot emerges." Was he making fun of me?

Loquaxander pulled out a small device that looked like a mixture of compass, cicada, and Russian teapot. "That's a chrono-sarcasm meter. It measures irony content in statements. Very useful in the 21st century – your communication is a permanent double-bottom simulation." He placed it on the glass garden table. It began to chirp softly. "The whole area is full of sarcasm. The chrono-sarcasm meter is very active. You're the time epoch with the highest sarcasm level so far: 8.5. That's very remarkable."

"Does that help us somehow? Sarcasm is something like a patch? One mends something, one hopes to get by." "You still have 48 questions free. Use them wisely." Completely stupid advice. Wisdom doesn't suit me. Can't cope with it. I've tried it occasionally. How is one supposed to be a good mentor to oneself? Then even more selves stand in your way, discuss, add their two cents. That would be fatal in my profession as a stuntman. One must be precise, focused. Wandering thoughts searching for ultimate things are rather annoying there.

Is Loquaxander such a partial personality of mine that I've successfully suppressed until now? The suspicion came to me. Waste one of my 48 questions on that? Why not? Fortunately my wife Fenja joined us – she wanted to know why I was conversing with an empty Hollywood swing. That too! Loquaxander was invisible to her. Did I now have to translate?

"It's due to my hologram frequency. Tuned exactly to your brain," Loquaxander explained. That was helpful. How does one explain that somewhat plausibly to someone who has a big question mark on their forehead?

I showed her my treasures. "This is conjugated tea. And this is a notebook made of baryon paper." She didn't seem impressed. Triumphantly I held the inflatable simulation chamber high. "Looks like an undersized air mattress," was her laconic comment.

"Laconism doesn't help us. Things are more complicated. The zeitgeist is infected by a left-wing bacillus. From the future. The fabric of time is probably seriously in danger." At least she now looked at me with concern. Progress?

"I have to go to my meeting now. You shouldn't deal too intensively with the screenplays. It's completely unnecessary anyway. You do the stunts – and that's it. 'Method Acting' – when I hear that! Sense Memory, Emotional Memory – exploiting experiences, utilizing them for the role because the role demands it; stepping back behind the role – that doesn't look good at all for our time! Feelings shouldn't have to be ready on call. One doesn't commandeer them to the stage and film front."

Okay, I often read to her from the screenplays, imagined I had something to say, I had text. Not just a marginal phenomenon, a substitute. My vehement desire to be important had probably brought Loquaxander onto my trail. "You brood damn much for a man of action," Loquaxander said. I had to somehow cut, interrupt this telepathic connection.

Fenja looked at the chrono-sarcasm meter. "What kind of thing is that?" "Achievements from the future. I could soon organize a small fair. A trade fair for time travel. How do you find that?" "Stupid?"

At this moment the simulation chamber unfolded. "That's definitely like on the holodeck in Star Trek. That'll be great!" I pulled Fenja into the tent-like structure. She found it eerie, but as a reporter her curiosity usually prevailed. A weakness that came in very handy now, since I didn't want to go into this damned tent alone. Even a tough stuntman needs escort protection now and then. Inside, displays waited for our mental commands.

"The place where the inner eye finds an outer correspondence: projections of your confused thoughts. Enjoy the show!" Loquaxander said condescendingly. Fenja wanted to go back to the tent exit – but there wasn't one. "Where's the way out here?! I have a meeting!" "Hysteria probably won't help us," I pointed out. I quickly scribbled in the baryon paper notebook the sentence 'This day is gigantic'. Would that save the day? Probably not.

The notebook spoke: "As requested, gigantic tasks await you today. Truly worthy of Hercules."

"In my time we use the baryon paper notebook very rarely. A fight with one's own wishes is harder than a fight against thirty hydra snakes," said Loquaxander. "Thanks for the hint."

"And now come the desired gigantic temperatures!" announced the notebook, which suggested I could call it Bary. "Bary, stop!! Stop with everything!" "Stop time? No problem!" "That is definitely a problem!" My phlegm was blown away. A self-inflating simulation chamber works wonders there. To top it all off, the chamber began – like in a grotesque hall of mirrors – to present us fragments of our memories. Not the highlights, a randomly and carelessly assembled program.

"For this I'm supposed to hand over half my soul!" I snapped at Loquaxander. "We need to renegotiate. Urgently!" Comparisons with a devil's deal suggested themselves. Would the devil make the effort to travel from 1000 years away...? I asked Fenja, but she was busy screaming. "Worst therapy of all time! A parade of traumas!"

Okay, it was surreal, but as an actor one would have enough material for their affective memory. Great how I managed to turn that positive. Bary asked me what my next wish was. "I'm blissfully happy!" I protested. I was afraid of being confronted with my wishes. Yes I wanted to play lead roles. And yes, I could speak along with all the dialogues on set. A built-in prompter, the film ran in me, the film was in my dreams – and yet I was never really part of the films. One erased my existence; only eraser crumbs remain at life's end, I mused.

Loquaxander picked that up. "Humans are a discontinued model anyway. Look at me: Only fragments of me are of human origin, one enriches that with alien material, mixes in plenty of AI and a pinch of mythical gods – or a handful, depending."

Ah, he was revealing information about himself. Stay on the ball. Find out as much as possible about the opponent. For once not be one's own opponent.

"We had planned to abolish the ego. It seemed more than annoying to us. Egoism as the root of all evil. But we had been mistaken: What we got as a replacement was far more terrible. Aliens seized the opportunity; as if they had found free land to colonize – they moved into our souls, into our genes. You are one of my ancestors. I had hoped to encounter good, usable substance. Something that could restore the original state. Repair us. There's the saying: 'If you take a vacation from the ego, you shouldn't be surprised if someone else moves in meanwhile.' Like lost places – humans without souls, only shells; vermin feels attracted, one moves in there. The future is nothing at all without the ego; it's important. It gives you goals, it lends you a purpose. You can try it with surrogates: here an AI program, there loans from the mythical gods, who proved to be surprisingly cooperative. Being itself extends into the soul. It has a different quality there. A tick more conscious, completely different vibration. Consciousness gives being a different mass. Being becomes narcissistic, it mirrors itself in souls – and possibly can't find its way out again? Like us in this simulation chamber."

I reported to Fenja what Loquaxander had just told me. "Blooming imagination!" she praised me. It was raining praise. A gigantic day. Had to consult with Bary.

I hastily wrote in the notebook: "Explain my position in this constellation." Bary answered: "It's like a chat. Wonderful. Usually it's about such banalities as life planning and interventions in the future; very invasive, if you ask me. – yes, where does man stand? And you in particular. A simulation in a simulation. And presumably all this takes place in a text that someone is just reading through or that someone is about to compose. Concepts guide us, throw us off track and sometimes they are the railroad tracks on which the time train travels – quite at will, if one is a skillful locomotive driver."

As if I had wished for sibylline riddles en masse. Bary didn't stop at all. No matter whether I held the notebook firmly closed. It always opened again a crack – and cheerful words streamed out. My name suddenly appeared with golden letters and very flourishingly on the front of the notebook: Bruz Knorrwald.

"I belong entirely to you now. You'll see, this will..." I threw it in a high arc far from me. But it immediately returned to me – like a well-trained boomerang. "You surely don't mean it like that," it comforted itself. Fenja became increasingly panicked. Shadow boxing with the projections – that didn't look good.

"That's not normal, is it?" Loquaxander wanted to know from me. Of all people! He was the expert here! As if I as a patient should advise a brain surgeon during the operation. That didn't inspire confidence. "I wish I were in a haunted castle! That would have more charm than these completely impractical gifts from the future!" I got worked up.

Whoosh! Scene change. Soundless set change: An ancient castle took shape all around. "No!" screamed Fenja. "Why no? Wasn't that what was wished for?" Bary seemed irritated. His pages twitched restlessly.

"Does the book live?" "All books live – somehow," Loquaxander answered evasively. My confidence was waning by the second. Floating ghosts made it difficult for me to grasp a clear thought. "Don't hit them!" Loquaxander advised. As if I still gave a damn about his opinion.

Fenja seemed disorganized; I didn't know her like that at all. "Where are we? My phone has no reception. I've been kidnapped!" "Those are normal time travel shifts," Loquaxander reassured us. "Like at the rodeo – time bucks a little. One has to get through it." The ghosts nodded knowingly. Everyone was initiated. Only I stood on the sidelines again – ignorant. Although one knows the screenplay inside and out. All pointless.

"Let's call it: 'The Fun Trauma Game' – everyone can participate, get involved. Great fun for mortals, immortals, AIs, algorithms, and dragons alike. I must admit, though, it's my mythic side talking now. It comes and goes. It's my mythic side at the mic; the speaker changes. I actually like my AI part best. Logic in absurdity – that's really something for connoisseurs."

Loquaxander became increasingly talkative, he came more and more out of himself. And that literally: parts of him – should one say 'innards'? – appeared clearly visible to everyone. Well, probably not to Fenja. For that she had a good view of the spirits. Whenever she discovered a new ghost, she called: "There, there, there!" The spirits imitated her – they probably thought it was a greeting ritual.

"Let's go to the ballroom." "We're definitely not splitting up! Everyone makes that mistake in horror films. We stay together!" Fenja decided and clasped me and – probably by chance? – also Loquaxander. "Group hug!" He coped quite well with the situation.

"You're something like my opposite pole," he said to me, "You're my antipode. Put together we form a larger unit; far more powerful than each on their own." Ah, I was needed, I was useful. This day was indeed becoming ever more gigantic.

"We must be careful that we don't get into one of these time loops," Loquaxander warned us. "Like dangerous time currents, mighty time whirlpools. I actually have a map where they're all marked. Must have misplaced it." Next time I want a more competent time traveler, I thought.

Bary asked: "Shall I record that? Does that go in the notes?" I felt reminded of the game Jumanji. Invasion of the surreal into the unprepared-real. On how firm ground does one actually stand? A question that doesn't only concern stuntmen. Roundhouse kick against ghosts? They imitated my movements. A ghost ballet.

"Yes one can have a lot of fun with them," Loquaxander said. That he's to be counted among my distant relatives? "Bring us back to our house and the sun-drenched terrace," I wrote neatly in the notebook. Just not make another mistake. Formulate exactly.

Glaring sunlight. The sun seemed to have moved closer. A glowing bright ball. "Does it actually give you pleasure to misunderstand me?" I wanted to know from Bary. Did the notebook nod?

"I have reception again!" Fenja seemed overjoyed. "It's the small things in life that contribute not insignificantly to happiness," I philosophized. The simulation chamber stood next to the swimming pool – collapsed in on itself, without assignment, drained of meaning.

"Maybe we should go in there again?" I suggested. "Ten horses couldn't drag me in there again!" Whoosh! Ten horses crowded Fenja. "This really has to stop now!" "I think Bary understands that as a contest. He's been confronted with so many wishes... One wants to build in variants, be creative."

"But that plunges everyone into misfortune! I want to make a complaint!" "Who doesn't want that? The complaints department is completely understaffed. One gets something handed out – and has to cope with it somehow. That's the principle of evolution. Sometimes one hits on the great idea of wanting to enlarge the divine part in oneself – expansion of the god floors; extension, superstructure, conversion... One tangles with time itself, one ignores given directions, one liberates oneself, a dropout; out of the time flow; searching for source, origin. And that's where you come into play: counterpart, perfect fit, it should be a new unit."

That sounded very promising on one hand, on the other hand it sounded like dissolution of my person. I had no interest in that at the moment. Especially since there was the prospect of a tiny supporting role in a blockbuster. You don't just throw away something like that, do you?

"I want to take you with me to my time. To the year 3000 – according to your chronology. 1000 years are for God a fraction of a day." Was that supposed to give me the necessary courage? The future only held gifts with malfunctions ready. At least I could write a very special screenplay after such experiences.

Fenja fought with the ten horses. They were surprisingly strong and determined. "We probably need an eleventh horse," Loquaxander suggested.

With all the trouble there had to be more in it for me! I had gotten a taste for it. Loquaxander suddenly appeared to me like an overexcited, more eloquent version of Santa Claus. Renegotiate... Perhaps Fenja on her part was also ready to give up a piece of her soul for a good price? How obsessed is one with an intact soul? "What else do you have in your range?"

"I'm not actually a sales representative, but I'm pleased about your interest. Here we would have an impeccably preserved hologram cloak. It lets you appear as other historical or fictional figures depending on your mood. Disadvantage: your feeling determines how you come across." He put it on me as a trial. "You can also wear it casually like a cape."

Instantly I transformed into Scrooge McDuck. Ah, presumably because greed was just breaking free rein in me. "Nice gimmick," I admitted. "Does your time have something really groundbreaking to offer?" It seemed to give him pleasure to be able to present his time.

"Hey, Fenja! Look, maybe there's something nice for you too." The horses were meanwhile bathing in the swimming pool; it had something idyllic. Arcadia in a do-it-yourself kit. Loquaxander must have changed the hologram frequency, because Fenja could now perceive him. He was of an intense blue. His eyes glow blue – but also orange at times. He wore a kind of armor that could also be part of himself – like with a turtle. In his torso he seemed to carry a kind of mini-sun. Replacement for a heart? Was he scanning his surroundings with it? A dazzling appearance. As if he consisted of glowing lava, but controlled by willpower and the armor plating.

"Do you want to have such armor too?" I offered her, as if this were the display of a shop window. Shopping tour to the year 3000! That could appeal to her. She was unusually quiet. Probably she was annoyed that she had missed her meeting.