The Postdicament of Doctor Fancyboots

“Good Riddance, Doctor Fancyboots!” cried out the clerk as Dr. Fancyboots left the mall.
“Thank you! You as well!” the good doctor called out after him. Doctor Thomas Wayne Grimfellelthydorgurlenbotten Smith, or, as his friends called him, Dr. Fancyboots, had just left the mall after a good spot of admiring all those sorts of boots as he was known for fancying. It was at that point in his life that he realised he had no idea of how to get home, or quite frankly, how he had gotten to the mall in the first place.

Dr. Fancyboots had quite many problems. This was not his first predicament, nor his last. This streak of problems began when he was born-- Dr. Fancyboots, like most people, was of course born his whole life. Except for a particularly strange day, but the Committee of Making Sure you Don’t Erase Yourself from Existence by Terribly Messing up at Time Travel had taken care of that rather swiftly. And like many of the problems he had been accustomed to, this one was again solved by his digital assistant and magical wizard hat, Q.

“Master,” began the cybernetically enhanced headwear, “I am detecting sudden onset retrograde amnesia. Might I suggest hailing a cab?”
. Dr. Fancyboots considered the suggestion for a moment, then mulled over it for a while, then pondered about it for a time, then mumbled something to himself before finally answering Q.
“Yes, of course. Wonderful idea.”
He then picked up one of the chunks of ice that had fallen on the tundra-covered planet of Chin’llyein where he lived, and threw it at the next passing vehicle.

“Oi! What was that for?!” yelled the driver. Dr. Fancyboots paid him no attention, instead choosing to climb in the backseat. Before any further questions could be asked, a shiny red car sped past them. Without hesitation, Dr. Fancyboots grabbed the back of the driver’s seat with one hand, pointed at the car with the other, and yelled “After that car!” The driver simply sighed, and complied with the demands. He had heard that wizards always know best. Of course, the wizard he had heard that from knew close to nothing, which was rather impressive for a wizard. Not many could come so close to knowing nothing without quite going all the way.

After two hours or so of driving around following the shiny red vehicle, it finally pulled into a parking lot, and Dr. Fancyboots and his compatriots arrived swiftly behind. Two figures exited the car, followed by two people, one of which frantically grabbed the figures off the ground as they were rather expensive and of two of his favourite characters from a long-running series that he had been into since he was a child. The other man, in possession of no statuettes of any kind, was wearing a suit and gave a concerned look. Dr. Fancyboots snuck up behind them to see what exactly was going on.

“So, what did you think?” asked the man in the suit.
“It’s not exactly what I’m looking for…” replied the man with the small effigies.
“Looking for something, eh?” asked Dr. Fancyboots. “I’m a wizard. I can help you find something.”
The figure stared blankly for a moment, and so did the other figure, and finally so did the man holding them.
“No offence, Mister Wizard Sir, but I do think I should rather trust a car salesman to help me find a car than a wizard.”

“I suppose that is logical,” admitted Dr. Fancyboots. Dr. Fancyboots had been to this car dealership previously, and was well known around these parts, so even a particularly strict security guard with as peculiar a birth certificate as Mr. “I suppose that is logical,”, had no qualms about admitting Dr. Fancyboots into the employee lounge. Once he had found a comfy chair and sat down, Dr. Fancyboots began to complain, saying,
“It makes no sense to me, why someone would trust a car salesman over a wizard in such matters. He only seeks to make a sale, and yet I have all sorts of things that could help him find the perfect car…”

“Why did you want to come here anyway, Master,” questioned Q.
“I am not quite sure,” confessed Dr. Fancyboots. “First I realised I had been overcome with amnesia and then as soon as I jumped into that cab I felt compelled to say ‘after that car!’ and such. I am possibly too hungry.”
“You could have this Greek wrap, if you would like, Dr. Fancyboots,” offered “I suppose that is logical,”.
“Thank you very much,” said the doctor, as he took the sandwich and hastily began to eat it.
“You know, it was imported from--” began the security guard before he was interrupted; and also finished the security guard, as he was interrupted.
“I don’t care about this gyro’s journey!” remarked the Doctor. “...Sorry for that outburst. I am rather confused today.”
“No worries.”

“Call for you, sir,” informed Q. “From the Bureau of Narrative Compliance. They want you to come down to the office as soon as possible.”
Dr. Fancyboots felt his memories slowly coming back to him.
“Why, yes! Of course. The good old BNC, just down the street, and across the way from my apartment. I must be going, then.”
The security guard, understanding the situation, tipped his hat to the Doctor. “Good Riddance.”
“Thank you! You as well!” and the Doctor was on his way.

Riddance was, of course, the festival day on which everyone was ridded of their unimportant memories. Everyone on Chin’llyein was able to live fairly happy and fulfilled lives thanks to the Riddance. The atmosphere contained strange chemicals that caused its residents to have sudden episodes of increased productivity and awareness, lasting on the order of twenty-two to twenty-six minutes usually, excepting the occasional special episodes that some would have. It was found that cutting out the parts between episodes, and even particularly boring things within episodes, led the citizens to be much more joyful as they never felt like they were wasting their lives on menial tasks. It was partly due to the occurrence of the Riddance that Dr. Fancyboots had no big concern about his sudden amnesia.

Arriving at the threshold of the Bureau of Narrative Compliance, Dr. Fancyboots hesitated, as was the mandated custom. He eventually made it inside, and walked up to the desk of the secretary who pushed out her candy bowl for him.
“Hello, sir. Would you like a mentor? Perhaps something else?”
“No; thank you. I have an appointment.”
“Oh, yes, I see that now. One moment.”
And before a moment had even passed a nearby lift dinged, but Dr. Fancyboots still waited for the moment to finish to be polite. Arriving at the floor he was appointed, Dr. Fancyboots met with Reginald Thoth, the Chief Narrative Counsellor.
“Ah, Doctor! Good to see you again!”
“You as well, Reggie!”
“Now, you probably don’t know why I’ve called you here today.”
“A fair observation.”
“Well, I fear you may be suffering from protagonism.”
“Is that so? Ah, yes… That would explain the amnesia. And the car-following.”
“Oh dear. It’s worse than I thought. We’ll need to get this cured quickly.”
“Yes, please, if you could.”
“Especially with the Riddance happening today… Hm, yes, indeed.”
“What shall you prescribe me?”
“It is as simple as this. Return to work, and everything should work out fine.”

Sceptical, but optimistic nonetheless, Dr. Fancyboots ventured through the building and sat down back in his office.
“Hm. What is it that I do, again? Do you remember, Q?”
“Sorry, Master. I can only help with wizard stuff. Like spelling.”
“I suppose that’s quite fine, then. Let me think…” At that moment, Dr. Fancyboots’ boss burst in the door, throwing a rather violent fit.
“There you are, Thomas! Where have you been all day?”
“Quite frankly, sir, I don’t remember.”
“Do you even remember what your job is?”
Dr. Fancyboots hesitated.

“Quite frankly, no, sir. All I know is that it’s supposedly the cure for protagonism. Now what could be the cure for protagonism…”
“Well, you had better remember soon! We need this alphabet done by Monday, and it’s only got 14 glyphs in it! What kind of alphabet has 14 glyphs?!”

At that, his boss stormed away, and it began to come back to Dr. Fancyboots. He was the one supposed to design the rest of the glyphs for this as of yet unfinished alphabet. That was his job, and apparently the cure for protagonism. He muttered to himself:

“Ah, yes, of course. Character development.”