Chaäptor Voonden (Chapter 1), Janooargen Thirggen (January 3)
IN A dismal courtroom, Marty Stu Bonkvist sat behind a desk, feeling sorry for himself, as the judge read out the verdict.
The judge glared over his own desk. "Bonkvist, you have been accused of libel and slander of the businessman Hans Weinerstorm. You are a financial journalist for a small magazine called Centennium, and heard a tip that Weinerstorm was behind a corporate fraud from an old friend, but then you got another anonymous tip accusing Weinerstorm of illegal gun running, corporate fraud, and stealing candy from babies. You wrote an article about it, but it turned out that everything you wrote was made up, thanks to a complex system of manipulation, false documents, and lies, orchestrated by your enemies. For that, you have been found guilty."
Marty Stu frowned. "Uh, sir? I already know all that."
The judge glanced around before whispering, "I know, but we need to dump as much information as possible right here at the start so people understand what's going on."
"Oh, okay."
The judge aimed his gavel. "Therefore, Mister Bonkvist, I sentence you to three months in gaol."
"What's gaol?"
"It's another word for prison."
"Oh, okay." Marty Stu stood up. "Well, that's not so bad. So now what? Do I have time to say goodbye to my family and friends?"
The judge waved his gavel. "Oh, sure. You're free to go."
"Free to go? Don't I have to go to gaol right now?"
"Nah, whenever you get around to it, just check yourself into the nearest gaol. Take your time. No hurry."
Marty Stu rubbed his chin. "That's kind of odd. I mean, don't people normally go straight to gaol after they get sentenced? And how do you know I won't just run away and not go?"
"It's the Swedish way of doing things."
"No, it's not," said Swedish people.
The judge made pushing motions with his hands. "Whatever. We need to keep this story going. Now, shoo, off with you."
Marty Stu shrugged and walked out of court. He was an incredibly handsome and resourceful man, someone with a powerful chin and huge muscles, but also incredibly loyal and dedicated to fighting evil wherever it may be. Everyone loved the author - I mean, Marty Stu Bonkvist - except for bad people, who don't count.
As he stepped out of the courtroom, a horde of reporters waiting outside rushed up to him. They thrust microphones and cameras into his face while yelling questions.
"How do you feel?" one reporter called out.
Marty Stu shrugged. "Oddly enough, I feel fine. You'd think having my reputation destroyed and having to go to jail - I mean, gaol - would bother me, but it doesn't."
"Why didn't you defend yourself?" another reporter asked. "I mean, you claim that all of this was orchestrated by Weinerstorm. Shouldn't you be determined to prove that? Shouldn't proving your innocence be the driving force of your life right now?"
"No. For some reason, I've decided to just accept my fate and not do anything about it. I won't try to solve the mystery of how and why Weinerstorm tricked me into committing libel. I'm just going to go to gaol and deal with having my life ruined. Maybe another more interesting mystery will come along."
The reporters nodded and murmured agreement that another mystery besides Marty Stu's libel case would be much more interesting.
Another reporter asked, "Mister Bonkvist, are you aware that we're in Sweden?"
"Uh, yeah. Of course. Why do you ask?"
The reporter nodded. "Just need to establish that this is a Swedish story everywhere we can."
Marty Stu shook his head. "You know, I have a question. Why are you all here? I mean, I'm just a financial journalist for an obscure magazine. Why would anyone care about me or my libel case this much?"
One female reporter smiled. "Because you're Marty Stu Bonkvist, the most interesting man in the world."
"You're right." Marty Stu held up a mug of beer. "Stay thirty, my friends."
He walked down the steps and ran straight into William Borgg.
"Hello, William," Marty Stu snarled. "My old nemesis."
The man looked at him with a laser over his eyes. "I am Borgg. Resistance is futile. We're both in the business of financial journalism, but on opposite sides. While you choose to expose corruption, I accept bribes to write puff pieces for corrupt businessmen. You and I have fought many times in the past since you exposed my devious practices. I'm glad to see you suffering like this, Karl Bonkvist."
Marty Stu clenched his fists. "I hate being called Karl, the name of a children's book hero in Sweden. Just because Karl Bonkvist was a teenage financial journalist who often solved mysteries and has the same last name, why does everyone keep calling me that?! So what now, Borgg? How will you get your revenge on me for what I've done to you?"
"I won't. In fact, you'll never see me again."
"So what was the point of even running into me?"
Borgg shrugged. "Beats me. You'll run into a lot of people who seem important and have a complex backstory, but turn out to have nothing to do with the story."
Borgg walked away, and was never seen or heard from again.
Marty Stu shook his head. "Wow, that was pointless. I hope that doesn't happen a lot or I'd start to get really confused and bored."
Marty Stu shivered as the icy winds blew through him. It was bitterly cold, because it was Sweden. You would think he would be used to it, being Swedish and all, but for some reason he wasn't.
Marty Stu didn't drive like a normal person, so he walked from the courthouse to the offices of Centennium. He walked through the streets of Stockholm, down Kraggenboken to Munkhorjin, and then took a left at Struddenhakken, making sure to avoid the construction on Mjolnillhoogen, and went straight on Farggenhoofil, before turning right onto Bjorggenborgenhurgen, which led him to Frakenfarfegmarklbokken. Once he passed the sandwich shop on Blukmeggbilgenglik, he made his way down Draagenklivvenhyven until he got to Drottinhottenbott Road.
"Phew," Marty Stu sighed. "I hope people are following my trip on Google Maps. Otherwise, that would be so pointless."
Centennium was a magazine he had started to fight corruption in all its forms, located in the heart of Stockholm. He walked up nine long flights of stairs, because the elevator had gone out, and hoped he wouldn't get a heart attack and die before his latest work was published.
He finally walked into the office to find his partner and lover, Cheesika Burger, sifting through papers and doing journalistic stuff. She also drank coffee.
Cheesika threw up her hands, almost spilling her coffee. "I don't understand it. We're running a magazine to fight corruption in all its forms. We're extremely influential, have exposed hundreds of crimes, and directly put many people in prison thanks to our muckraking. Yet somehow we always lose money, have a low readership, and are barely staying afloat."
He grit his teeth. "That's because we're the underdogs. We have to be the underdogs."
"But it makes no sense! We should be world famous!"
"Enough! There's no point in talking about these things. Let's just focus on what's important. Me, feeling sorry for myself." He raised his eyes to the heavens. "Oh, how I hate evil. It's the driving force in my life, stopping bad people. Especially in Swedish financial journalism. Swedish financial journalism is so corrupt. So many in the industry spend time pandering to evil corporations instead of exposing them. Why, I remember a story where the evil corporation StrudelCo managed to perpetrate gross securities fraud. In 2007, StrudelCo set up a system of dummy corporations throughout the Bahamas in order to funnel profits from inflated amounts listed as mortgages, notes and bonds payable, and the corresponding interest deductions, in their tax returns for the personal use of their CEO, using loopholes in the tax code, including the filing of forms 14-B--"
"Uh, Marty Stu?"
He looked down. "Hm?"
"Uh, I don't think anyone really cares about all this financial stuff."
"Of course, lots of people do."
"Like who?"
He paused in thought. "Well, other financial journalists, for one thing."
Cheesika turned away, sipping her coffee. "Well, I don't think we should spend too much time on it, because it's really boring. I thought you were going to be trying to solve a mystery, anyway."
"Yeah. But not the mystery of Weinerstorm framing me, that's for sure."
"Right. That would be pretty dull."
He frowned as he studied the papers she worked on. "What's our topic this month?"
She shrugged. "We change it every month. This month, it's financial corruption."
"Maybe that's our problem. Wouldn't we build up a better readership by concentrating on a particular topic every month? That's what most magazines do."
"Yeah, but then you wouldn't have an excuse to be investigating whatever kind of mystery you need to solve."
"True. Okay, well, I guess we've established all this background stuff. How about we go back to my apartment?"
Cheesika smiled and moved towards him. "I'd like that. Let me call my husband to let him know I won't be home."
She pulled out her cell phone and began to dial.
He frowned. "You know, I find it kind of weird that your husband doesn't mind that we've been sleeping together for the past twenty years. My wife divorced me over it, but yours doesn't even mind when you spend long days and nights with me, all alone. I mean, what kind of marriage works like that? It's almost like a fantasy an author would create because he's in love with a married woman and wants to imagine a scenario where he could get away with it."
She shrugged. "It's a Swedish thing."
"No, it's not," said Swedish people.
"Best not to think too much about it. Just enjoy it."
He nodded. "Yup. Do I get to meet your husband?"
"No, he doesn't show up in this story."
"Okay. Well, let me put some coffee on and make some sandwiches."
Cheesika looked up from her phone. "Oh, that sounds good. What kind of sandwiches?"
"I'm going to make herring sandwiches with mustard sauce, pickles, onions, and rye bread with an apple cider vinegar sauce."
"Sounds good."
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