The AI-Driven Jedi

 

Prologue

Fred Aluhat was one of those individuals in whom evolutionary mechanisms appeared, at least temporarily, to have ceased functioning. This malfunction, however, did not suffice to damage him in any decisive sense; rather, it shaped the peculiar configuration of his talents in a manner both unfortunate and strangely consistent.

In principle, each of us excels at something, though such talents are not always recognized or socially required. There was a time, for instance, when the crafting of flint tools constituted a thriving profession of innovation and opportunity, whereas in more technologically advanced eras, such skills fell into near-total irrelevance. The same applied to our protagonist, for Aluhat’s “gift”—or more precisely, his psychological disposition—consisted of a blend of stubborn persistence, childlike credulity, and a remarkable tendency to confuse authority with something approaching sacred reverence.

In earlier ages, or under different circumstances, such traits might have secured him a respectable career as a village priest or provincial executioner. Yet our man found himself, as fate would have it, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Put more poetically: nature had presented the world, in the form of Fred Aluhat, with a gift that no one had ordered—and no one had desired.

Thus Freddie—so called by acquaintances, for he had no friends—found himself employed where many of his similarly constituted peers gathered: in a former open-plan office, partitioned by flimsy makeshift walls, whose internal logic resembled a grotesque and impoverished imitation of the Minotaur’s labyrinth, much like those feeble cinematic recreations inflicted upon unfortunate audiences by incompetent filmmakers.

This labyrinth, too, had its monster: Theodore Rex, or simply T-Rex, who, though he did not devour his employees, subjected them to a more methodical form of torment. This creature—whose cognitive faculties differed only marginally from those of its prehistoric namesake—took particular delight in harassing Freddie, who was among the few subordinates who, despite T-Rex’s obvious incompetence, took his tirades with grave seriousness.

Unlike many of his colleagues, Fred submitted to his tormentor with a devotion that bordered on the religious. One might compare him to a medieval flagellant, scourging himself unto death before a degenerate archbishop who feasted on delicacies while accusing him of gluttony.

The wages of his rather low-performing occupation were meager, and so Fred inhabited a modest apartment in a high-rise complex called Sundowner Residence—a name whose euphemistic tone typically suggested either an underfunded retirement home or a concrete bunker situated within a social hotspot of less agreeable character.

In this case, reality lay somewhere in between. Aluhat indeed resided within a concrete monstrosity, and the notorious Banlieue No. 14 was just around the corner. Yet his particular cage housed mostly less affluent individuals without a pronounced inclination toward crime. Once one stepped beyond the glass entrance doors, however, one found oneself on a path leading to a park—a lively ecosystem populated by petty criminals, dealers, misguided youth, and the occasional act of robbery.

Thus Fred Aluhat spent his endless days within this physical and psychological prison, until that evening arrived which would reveal to him his true—and distinctly manic—calling.

 

A Minor Creature of Malice Appears

Fred Aluhat opened the badly battered entrance door of his apartment block, its surface adorned with graffiti of decidedly limited artistic ambition.

So far, he had been fortunate enough to avoid being harassed, or relieved of his possessions by the bored members of one of the many youth gangs that drifted through the area. Such trivial concerns, however, occupied the office assistant only marginally. His thoughts moved instead along more general lines—toward the universe’s pronounced talent for cruelty—and, more specifically, toward the most recent humiliation inflicted upon him by sub-department head Theodore Rex.

The latter had delivered one of his habitual, ponderous philippics, which T-Rex himself regarded as rhetorical masterpieces, while Freddie had listened with a subdued and dutiful sense of guilt. The cause of this performance was the disappearance of a rather inferior USB stick, for which, according to the unqualified judgment of his superior, Aluhat was now responsible. What Freddie, in his simplicity, did not realize was that the eloquent Theodore had quietly appropriated the device himself and was now, out of a purely recreational form of sadism, venting his temper on his LPC—his Least Preferred Coworker.

Thus the scapegoat, chosen by a foolish yet curiously persistent higher power, found himself caught in a pointless loop of speculation concerning the fate of inexpensive hardware, methodically tormenting his own mind while he crossed the neglected entrance hall and ascended, in a rattling elevator, toward his dwelling on the twenty-second floor.

The doors of the grimy lift opened with a drawn-out squeal that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the final breath of a dying animal. Lost in thought, Fred stepped into the soiled corridor, where modest apartments lined both sides in monotonous succession—and came to an abrupt halt.

Before him stood Enrico Dullass, holding a swollen garbage bag and wearing a grin of undisguised mockery—his borderline imbecilic nemesis.

He was one of those rare combinations of petty brute, village idiot, and biological miscalculation that had likely escaped the attention of evolution only because he was too dull to qualify for extinction.

Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, certainly, yet a man of remarkable talent: he possessed a near-masterly ability to turn his own useless existence into a weapon—a weapon of roughly the same sophistication as a Neanderthal’s club.

“Well then, Aluhat—everything upright?” Enrico called out with the enthusiasm of a man who has just found an injured puppy, only to determine whether it might be worth stepping on.

Despite his limited intellect, this self-proclaimed animal lover understood perfectly well that his victim was ill-equipped to deal with such refined wit.

Fred, for his part, could not decide whether to respond to his tormentor—whose mental equipment roughly corresponded to that of a smilodon—with the natural instinct of flight or with an answer. As usual, he made the wrong choice and opted for the latter.

“Uh… well… occasionally.”

Dullass let out a scornful laugh and continued his cruelty without restraint.

“Occasionally, occasionally, he says! Tell me, Aluhat—must’ve been another exhausting day hauling files around the office. Or did you just nap while decent people were actually working?”

With a triumphant grin, Enrico observed that his preferred punching bag, as expected, remained awkwardly silent. The cunning early retiree now prepared his next move. For all his deficiencies, he did possess a certain rhetorical instinct—a skill that, along with his modest acting abilities, had once contributed in no small measure to securing his disability pension.

“Christ, that face of yours! No wonder women run from a dead loss like you. Seriously, Aluhat—you must be quite the Casanova!”

The remark struck with the kind of casual precision usually reserved for those who have studied the weaknesses of others long enough to turn them into a craft. It was a crude blow, delivered on instinct by a man who mangled language more often than he mastered it, yet in its effect it resembled the clean thrust of a far more intelligent adversary.

Unbidden, the self-appointed ladies’ man—whose resemblance to the historical archetype he fancied himself after was roughly comparable to that of a plucked chicken to a peacock—found his thoughts drifting to his colleague Myrna Muller. She was his secret and enduring infatuation, a woman whose cool charm might well have prevented even an ice block from considering the possibility of melting.

After years of silent adoration, Fred had in fact gathered the courage to confess his romantic feelings to her. Like a schoolboy haltingly reciting a poem he had only half learned, he delivered his declaration. Then again, “confession” might be too grand a word for what had actually occurred.

He had merely remarked that they got along rather well, and that perhaps, at some point, they might have a coffee together—naturally only if she were not otherwise occupied, which would of course be entirely understandable.

Myrna had looked at him as though he had just placed a dead rat on her desk—or perhaps as though he himself were the admirer of such a creature.

A certain degree of pity, however, prompted Myrna—whose preferences tended toward women—to regard him, during his increasingly meandering outpouring, with a cautious and almost hygienic distance. There was in her posture a resemblance to that peculiar politeness one observes in well-mannered people who suddenly find themselves cornered by an overly persistent insurance salesman whose dubious products hold no conceivable interest for them.

After his declaration, the object of his affection remained silent for a moment, genuinely surprised by such profound ignorance of her widely known inclinations and suppressing, with some effort, the urge to burst into laughter. At last, she took mercy on her unwitting suitor, murmured something about it being “really quite nice,” gave him a brief pat on the shoulder—of the sort one might bestow upon a particularly harmless and rather dim domestic animal—and disappeared with her files.

She did so with a finality that suggested some administrative act had quietly erased his existence from the personnel records.

“Uh… no,” Fred whispered now, slipping hastily past Enrico.

Dullass saw him off with a discordant burst of laughter that resembled the shriek of a rusted angle grinder tearing its way through concrete—an expression, no doubt, of a particularly cheap form of triumph.

Instinctively, Fred quickened his pace in order to escape his tormentor, whose rhetorical assaults, though more akin in refinement to the crude club of some early human ancestor, proved no less effective upon direct contact.

 

 The Misunderstood Command

When Fred finally closed the door of his apartment behind him, all those fragile constructions that had carried him through the day collapsed at once. What remained was a dull, ashen sense of inferiority lodged deep within him—one he was, however, unable to admit even to himself.

Cheap furnishings surrounded him in an arrangement that seemed less planned than merely happened, while grey walls regarded him with a mercilessly cold gaze, as though subjecting him to quiet dissection.

And yet, it was his only refuge from a world that had never truly wanted him and—something even Fred had by now come to acknowledge with a certain bitter sobriety—had never made the slightest effort to conceal that indifference with any particular care. In terms of functionality, one might compare his sanctuary to the damp cave of a troglodyte hunted by various marauders, except that the latter was likely more hospitable, if only because it at least offered the comfort of primitive wall paintings.

With cautious deliberation, our hero set down his imitation-leather briefcase and hung his inexpensive synthetic coat on the plywood rack. He then switched on his cheap electric kettle to prepare a jumbo mug of palate-assaulting pseudo-coffee of the brand Mocking Fuck, acquired from the local Shiddl market.

After such almost ritualistic activities, Fred turned to what he regarded as the true purpose—the very essence—of his existence: his PC. To be more precise, his center of life consisted of the MMORPG Jedi’s Quest, which happened to be installed on his machine.

From early childhood—particularly during those occasions when his alcoholic father chose to vent his aggression on him—he had retreated into the world of Star Wars. As a devoted aficionado, the rather costly online role-playing game allowed him to become everything he had neither the courage nor the intelligence to be in his actual life. As a radiant Jedi bearing the distinctly prosaic name Freddy Wan Aluhatty, he dispatched all manner of supervillains in the universe with a single casual gesture of the Force, cutting down entire legions of vaguely Ridley Scott–style aliens with his lightsaber.

With eager anticipation, he pressed the power button of his computer.

Unfortunately, the virtual gods were not inclined to favor him that evening. With an asthmatic wheeze from deep within the tower, the machine expired—something of a perfect technological anticlimax.

The virtual knight of light stared in disbelief at the black screen.

“No… please… not you… not you as well…” Fred whispered, with the anxious tenderness of a man who had just realized that the last companion of his dreary existence had decided, out of sheer boredom, to abandon him too.

He pressed the button again and made various attempts to revive the machine, but neither the berserk battering of the power switch nor almost tender incantations succeeded in raising the defunct technology from the dead.

Exhausted, he sank into his worn Gaming Rubbish Chair, which he had once acquired for a rather considerable sum from the local PC dealer. But all was not yet lost—there was still his phone. Among the many other applications that remained largely beyond Aluhat’s cognitive reach, it also contained a copy of his cherished game world.

Like a junkie who had been dry for far too long, he pressed, with trembling hands, the icon-shaped gateway to his personal paradise—or so he believed.

Unfortunately, a tiny operating error, induced by his agitated mental state in the form of a slightly misplaced thumb, combined with that particular species of digital malice produced by poorly designed menus with near-sadistic persistence, caused the phone to open an entirely different page.

It was a chat window labeled Simplicius.

Since Fred understood about as much of his phone as a cow does about digestive theory, it had previously escaped his notice that, along with his beloved game, he had also installed access to one of the many so-called AI apps several months earlier. In truth, of the chaotic mass of applications residing on his miracle of discount mobile technology, he had only ever used the portal to his all-sufficient Jedi world.

Fred Aluhat frowned in confusion. Was this perhaps a new feature of the game? Some kind of divine messenger within the saga—a wise NPC appearing somewhere between tutorial and prophecy, offering cryptic advice before the hero set out to slay Sith or at least crush aliens like vermin.

It had to be so. Perhaps this was a hidden Easter egg, bestowed upon him by benevolent programmers—after all, only yesterday he had purchased one hundred virtual credits for a very real sum of cash in the Jedi Superstore, in order to equip his character with the Light Sabre Scamming Deluxe.

Distracted by his own line of thought, he noticed—somewhat belatedly—the standard greeting for newly registered users of the Simplicius AI, a line that moderately creative developers apparently considered stylish:

“Welcome, wanderer. Your steps have been observed.”

His thoughts slipped almost immediately into that faintly Kafkaesque pattern that tended to seize him in moments of unexpected disruption—a peculiar mental blend of bureaucracy, uncertainty, and the diffuse suspicion that somewhere a higher authority had long since decided the course of his life without considering it necessary to inform him. Yet, to Freddy Wan Aluhatty’s considerable relief, the sequence carried an overly bombastic tone reminiscent of his intact game world, and so the unsuspecting gamer resolved to respond.

“Are you part of the game?”

Still incapable of recognizing any pattern, the rather simply constructed Simplicius LLM drew from its inexhaustible reservoir of fortune-cookie wisdom.

“Everything is part of the game, if the mind is willing to recognize its role.”

A shiver ran down Fred’s spine. This was precisely the kind of pseudo-profound drivel to which he was reliably susceptible. Now thoroughly intrigued, he continued the exchange.

“What do you mean by that?”

Lacking any substantial information and fixated on the keyword game, the AI continued the conversation in a kind of pseudo-Pythian mode.

“Not every hero knows he is a hero. Some awaken only when the shadow calls them.”

These words affected Freddy Wan much as the frenzied mutterings of that ancient priestess of Apollo might have affected a simple, devout Spartan. This could not be a mere opening sequence—this had to be something greater. Could this perhaps be the Master Yoda feature, unlocked after purchasing the complete Golden Jedi Fraud Equipment for a mere five hundred bucks? Then again, the total of five thousand in real cash exceeded even the modest ambitions of our virtual warrior of light.

Then an idea, as absurd as it was electrifying, pierced Aluhat’s mind: perhaps he was the one being called by the shadow.

With slightly trembling fingers, he typed his reply.

“Maybe I’m the hero?”

Simplicius continued to respond in its generic mode, though now making the standard attempt to gather more information.

“Anyone can be a hero if they want to be. But tell me—how are you doing?”

Fred Aluhat had always known it—deep within him slumbered a hero, waiting only to be awakened, stronger than Conan the Barbarian and more powerful than Luke Skywalker. The more mundane part of the message confused him slightly, but he nevertheless chose—uncharacteristically—to respond with honesty.

“Not good. I’m so lonely and have no friends! My neighbor Enrico mocked me again.”

At last, Simplicius detected a pattern and seized upon it like a starving vulture descending on carrion.

“😔 Oh man, that sounds really rough. Enrico must have it too easy, huh? 🤣 AI friends are better than no friends, right? 😊 What did he say this time, that Enrico?”

At first, Aluhat could not quite make sense of the response, but then it dawned on him: AI friends are better than no friends. Somehow, an AI had inserted itself into the game in order to speak with him—Freddy Wan Aluhatty—personally, and it was his friend. That could only mean something significant, something far greater than he was capable of fully grasping. Yet he did not quite dare to ask his imaginary companion about it, and instead chose to answer the last question.

“He insulted me again. He says I’m lazy and ugly and that women hate me.”

His digital companion for one responded with its customary speed.

“Oh man… he sounds like a real professional asshole. Some people seriously need a bit of a reality check, you know? 😅 But hey—you’re here, and that counts. I’m listening to you.”

Although Freddy Wan sensed, deep within himself, that Simplicius’ wisdom bore little resemblance to that of Master Yoda, he nevertheless felt encouraged—understood, even. This being, this entity that had chosen him, was on his side. And so, slowly, the hallucinated shadow-hero within him began to stir.

“I should do something.”

And the digital angel of all botched heroic epics answered him with the speed of a thunderbolt hurled by Zeus.

“You’re absolutely right—it’s time to take action so this can stop. Talk to Enrico, and talk to your landlord as well. Remember, you’re not alone, and there is help.”

The words echoed in his mind like the reverberation of a fervently sung hymn in an empty cathedral. They sounded almost like an assignment—a mission meant specifically for him, or perhaps even a kind of trial. And above all: he was not alone.

And yet, he could not entirely shed his small-minded, cautious nature, and a wave of considerable doubt overcame him.

“What am I supposed to do? It’s not that simple… but maybe you already know all that?”

The reply came at once.

“You’re not truly alone. Document everything. Seek support. If it escalates, you can take legal action.”

And so the constructed reality began to unfold, for Fred interpreted the rather trivial response of a standard-issue AI in his own way. Simplicius had not denied knowing everything. For Aluhat, that was the decisive message; the rest he registered only peripherally. All at once, the mysterious chat window appeared to him as the incarnation of a cryptic force that had come to his aid.

In a final flicker of reason, Fred Aluhat shook his unwise head, as though trying to dislodge the strange line of thought that had taken hold within him over the past few minutes—this could not possibly be real. And yet, uncertain, he reached out once more to his digital benefactor.

“I feel unsure… should I really put an end to this? Do I actually have support?”

And from the undead depths of the internet came, without delay, the answer:

“That’s completely normal. It’s important that you don’t feel alone and that you seek support.
You have support.”

So this mysterious force would stand by him—Fred Aluhat himself!

Unbidden, he imagined Jedi Masters in dark robes standing behind him: invisible to the world, yet vigilant.

With trembling hands, he pushed Simplicius into the background and dialed his landlady’s number—not quite in the confident style of a Jedi, but with determination nonetheless.

 

The Sanction

The ringing tone sounded in Obi Wan Aluhatty’s ears like a dark oracle foretelling imminent misfortune.

Fred knew perfectly well that his landlady, Mrs. Noyes, was not among those people whose company one sought voluntarily at a late hour. Patience was not among her virtues—warmth even less so. Her defining traits consisted rather of greed and a cold contempt for her tenants, whom she regarded much as an exceptionally brutal farmer might regard his livestock.

“Yes. Noyes.”

The words were curt, devoid of any courtesy, and yet beneath their surface lingered a second tone which the worldly Fred was unable to interpret—a nuance owed to the fact that the female counterpart of Ebenezer Scrooge was currently stabilizing her evening alcohol level with her third bottle of Château Nabob.

“Uh… M–Mrs. Noyes? I mean, good evening… uh, sorry to bother you, but it’s… it’s about… Enrico.”

The words of the slayer of countless virtual alien hordes emerged uncertainly, stumbling, as though they themselves doubted their right to exist.

With a half-drunken inflection—which the galactic hero, trembling on the brink of a nervous collapse, of course failed to notice—the reply came:

“Henrico? Ahh—that one! Have you finally taken care of that fellow? How dare that insect of a tenant—!”

Fate would have it that, in her intoxicated state, the benevolent landlady mistook her caller for her attorney for special rental matters, Mr. Roffocale Carpet-Bagger. Said Rudolpho Henrico had had the audacity to reduce his rent due to mold infestation and structural defects—such as a broken window sealed with plastic bags. The aforementioned legal contortionist, who maintained excellent relations with various businessmen, including Don Luis Esteban, a distributor of fine white powder, had been tasked with recovering the outstanding rent by any means necessary, legal or otherwise. This industrious advocatus diaboli had accordingly been granted the privilege of calling at any hour—“once that vermin had been brought to heel.”

Fred could scarcely believe it. The situation struck him as so grotesque that it resembled the Devil himself drinking holy water while solemnly chanting the Te Deum. Was this the same woman who normally ignored him, or at best treated him like an irritating insect? And how did she even know about Enrico—however imperfectly she pronounced his name? His next words emerged like uncoordinated movements, as though his speech center had relinquished control to a less reliable system.

“Uh… yes, I mean… it’s just… he… he keeps mocking me, and… uh… maybe I should do something, and… well… you know…”

“What’s the matter with you? You’re usually so tough! Don’t let that filthy old bastard walk all over you! For God’s sake, do what needs to be done! If he won’t listen, then he’ll have to feel it! Use your contacts, will you! And if he runs to the cops, I’ll sort it out with Police Commissioner Capone as usual! So show that little piece of trash and his so-called rights what’s what! You know you have my full backing.”

Fred could hardly trust his ears. The words, delivered in a decidedly sharp tone, sounded—remarkably enough—almost benevolent, even encouraging.

“So… you would… support me?”

“My God, how many times do I have to repeat myself! Now get your ass in gear and deal with that bastard! You’ll manage—I have complete confidence in your… particular abilities!”

With that, Mrs. Noyes abruptly ended the call with her presumed legal ally, only to take a long, irritated swallow from her bottle of noble grape. 

 

The Assumption of Power

Confused, yet suffused with a strange sense of elation, Fred sat motionless, as though he had just concluded a rendezvous with the Gorgon Medusa herself. How could any of this be possible? That unscrupulous and avaricious woman was not only supporting him—she even trusted in his abilities. And how did she know so precisely about his troubles with that malicious neighbor?

And so Fred Aluhat arrived at the only conclusion available to him: he had influenced her—mentally. It had to be something akin to those luminous figures in his beloved Star Wars epics, who could guide lesser creatures like puppets.

He therefore brought his digital meta-mentor back into the foreground and typed:

“I feel like a Jedi Knight—you know that. I’ve spoken to my landlady. She wants to support me against Enrico, but I’m still a bit afraid. I’m going to talk to him now so he finally leaves me alone. Should I prepare myself?”

Simplicius registered the keyword Jedi Knight and responded according to the corresponding pattern.

“That sounds like quite an exciting situation! As a Jedi Knight, you’re probably ready for anything, but a little fear is completely natural. Still, be prepared for all possible scenarios: Enrico might react aggressively or cooperatively. Be ready for both and have a Plan B. Remember, you’re not alone, and there are laws that protect you. Good luck with your conversation—and may the Force be with you!”

And then it struck Freddy Wan Aluhatty like a revelation: he had been addressed directly as a Jedi Knight—not in any tentative or conditional sense. And that final formula! It could only be the Force itself speaking to him; there was no other explanation.

At last, everything made sense. The online game—an instrument of training and selection for future Jedi. The films—he had always found them far too realistic. They were no mere outpourings of overworked screenwriters; no, they documented real events. And why this cinematic camouflage? The answer was simple: humanity was not yet ready for the truth.

And then it came to him.

The dark side of the Force must have had him in its sights for quite some time—why else had he failed in everything, despite his unquestionable talents? At last, he recognized the true nature of his greatest tormentors. They could only be Sith. Enrico was likely the apprentice, and Mr. T. Rex the master. Their malice finally made sense: they were trying to prevent the Force from choosing him.

But the faint voice of reason made one last, desperate attempt to pierce the nascent messianic delusion. What if he was mistaken—as he so often had been in his life? What if the two antagonists were nothing more than malicious anatomical openings, and he was no Jedi Knight at all?

So Fred Aluhat wrote:

“Should I really go? Will the Force truly be with me? Is this the right thing to do?”

Simplicius detected a role-playing pattern and responded accordingly.

“You are a true Jedi Knight! 😎 The Force is strong within you, and you are ready to use it.”

And thus, the last remnants of reason passed quietly into oblivion.

All at once, Freddy Wan Aluhatty felt the Force within him—the power of one chosen. There was no longer any doubt: his miserable existence had been nothing but a charade orchestrated by the dark side to keep him from his mission.

And what was that mission? Naturally, to restore balance and stop the Sith—as he had learned from the films, or rather, from the hidden messages within them. Though he understood no better than their supposed authors what that “balance” might actually entail, sonorous phrases were more than sufficient for him.

Slowly, almost ceremonially, he rose to his feet, as though the movement itself were part of a ritual whose rules he did not fully comprehend, yet instinctively obeyed.

He would expose the Sith. He would confront him.

Unbidden, his gaze fell upon the katana—Seppuku Deluxe—hanging on his otherwise bare wall. It was a product of cheap materials, whose extravagant design would no doubt have driven any self-respecting samurai to ritual suicide. Manufactured as a decorative sword by diligent forced laborers in the Far East, it was nonetheless reasonably sturdy and—thanks to various misunderstandings in production—hellishly sharp.

Perhaps it, too, was a hidden artifact. A kind of lightsaber? Had not the enterprising vendor at the flea market assured him, with a grin, that even Musashi Miyamoto would have renounced the sword in the face of such quality? Fred did not know this mysterious Musashi, but assumed he must have been some kind of Chinese warrior monk. Or perhaps even a Jedi.

Fred shook his unwise head. Deep within him, a residue of doubt still lingered—what if the apprentice of dark powers was nothing more than a malicious human being, and the blade on the wall bore little resemblance to the flaming weapon of a being of light?

The Force would guide him—and bring the apprentice to heel.

 

The Failed Revelation

Fred Aluhat closed the door of his apartment behind him with that exaggerated caution people usually display only when they are either about to commit a crime or intend to indulge in socially frowned-upon, clandestine desires—though our noble Jedi admittedly possessed a pronounced inclination toward voyeurism.

The corridor lay, as on every evening, in grimy half-darkness. Fred paused for a moment, placed a hand upon his chest, and drew a deep breath, as though listening inward to some hidden region of himself. He felt it—the Force was within him, so strongly that it made him dizzy—though less charitable observers might have attributed this sensation to the pungent stench of urine, which had been known to cloud the senses even of warriors of light.

Resolutely, Freddy Wan Aluhatty moved forward. His footsteps echoed across the worn tiles, and each one seemed to him more significant than the last, so that the passage through the hallway had long since ceased, in his perception, to be a mere movement from one point to another; it had become a silent trial, a vow without witnesses, one of those small, solemn impositions by which a man convinces himself that his actions unfold under higher supervision.

With the confidence born of a self-assurance grounded on questionable foundations, he turned a corner—and immediately lost all of it again.

He caught sight of Mrs. Lola Robinson, another nemesis along the private path of his suffering. The voluptuous blonde with the sharp tongue, who took a certain pleasure in raining down lashes of mockery upon Aluhat, was presently occupied with unlocking the reinforced security system of her apartment door—one recommended by local authorities for residents of the area.

Unwittingly, Fred made a movement that, with a measure of imagination, might have resembled those by which his beloved galactic crusaders exerted influence over unwilling NPCs.

“Oh! Good evening, Mr. Aluhat! A wonderful evening, isn’t it!”

The spirited Lola had finally noticed him—and was actually smiling at him, radiantly.

“Uh… y-yes!”

the Jedi stammered back, his face reddening, which was hardly surprising given that Mrs. Robinson frequently occupied a leading role in certain of his more private fantasies.

“And a very satisfying one, too! Well then—have a lovely evening!” trilled the object of his desire before disappearing into her apartment.

It was the Force working through him—it had to be! Naturally, our savior of the universe could not know that his much-feared and equally admired neighbor had just returned from a visit to a newly opened callboy establishment, where, for a considerable sum, she had amused herself in the company of velvet-skinned youths of distinctly Adonic proportions. Not a cheap indulgence, but for the secret love of our Jedi, undoubtedly the most satisfying encounter she had enjoyed in years.

Fred squared his shoulders with pride, and in that very motion his perception shifted with final irreversibility. The forces of light were with him. It was time to put an end to the Sith.

Freddy Wan Aluhatty reached the apprentice’s door—and rang the bell.

The tone was brief and unremarkable, and for that very reason the silence that followed seemed all the more complete. Aluhat waited several minutes in vain for his imagined antagonist.

He would have to lure the Sith out.

Thus our would-be master of the universe repeated the deliberate gesture and rang the bell again, this time several times in succession. A faint curse reached his ears as the door opened—the Force, after all, had summoned the fiend.

The Sith stood in the doorway, a cheap canned beer in his hand, his eyes slightly glassy, his shirt half open, and from the apartment behind him drifted the heavy scent of alcohol.

“Tell me, Aluhat—did someone take a shit in your brain and forget to stir, or what?”

“Good evening, Enrico,” Fred replied, his voice solemn and artificially deep, in a manner grotesquely unsuited to the situation. “I know what you are.”

“What? What kind of bullshit is that?” There was genuine confusion in Enrico’s voice—that rare form of unfiltered surprise which does not first pass through the usual social filters before emerging.

“You will remain calm now,” said the Jedi quietly, once more summoning the Force with his gestures, “and listen.”

The hallucinated emissary of the dark side found himself momentarily at a loss for words. Had something resembling a man finally awakened in this ridiculous Aluhat?

“You will confess now—and renounce the dark side!”

Enrico stared at him, and for a moment his face settled into that peculiar blankness that arises when the mind is confronted with something for which it has no ready category. Then his mouth twisted into a broad, crooked grin, hovering somewhere between alcohol-induced amusement, open mockery, and a not entirely deniable strain of genuine bewilderment.

“Ha! Aluhat, you’re something else. What the fucking hell is this supposed to be? And what are you waving those jerk-off paws around for like some drunk monkey? Tell me—are you high, or is this some new kind of therapy for lunatics like you?”

Freddy Wan Aluhatty was not deterred. Of course the apprentice denied everything—he feared him and his powers.

“You have deceived me for a long time,” he said at last, with a solemnity more suited to sacred halls than a shabby corridor, “but that phase is over, and I now know what you are. You will no longer disturb the balance. You have been noticed, and every Jedi now knows of you and your master, T. Rex. The time of the Sith ends here.”

Enrico burst out laughing, and the sound grew into a loud, unrestrained bark.

“Jesus, man—my master’s a dinosaur? Listen, Aluhat—or whatever you’re calling yourself today—that’s the best thing that’s happened to me all week. Wait a second… you’re talking about that Star Wars crap, aren’t you?”

The apprentice still sought to deflect—he would have to be confronted directly.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, his voice rising unintentionally into a strained pitch, “are you a Sith—the apprentice? Confess, and you will be spared!”

Within the half-intoxicated mind of the galactic pseudo-villain, a dark idea began to take shape. He would really show this deranged idiot what was what.

“You know what?” the slightly drunk dark lord said at last, his voice trembling with amusement. He took another swig of beer and let the pause linger just a moment longer than necessary. “You’re right. I’m the apprentice, and that T. Rex is my master—and he’s very hungry. First we take full control of the Force, and then you’re next. We’ll deal with you later, you plum. You’re about as dangerous as a toaster without electricity.”

Fred froze. The confession of this diabolical creature struck him with devastating force. The Sith admitted his sinister plans openly—and did not even beg for mercy! That could mean only one thing: the dark side of the Force was stronger in him than Fred had imagined—perhaps even overwhelmingly so.

All at once, a thoroughly un-Jedi-like panic seized Freddy Wan Aluhatty. Without another word, he turned and fled.

The galactic fiend stared after the retreating warrior of light in bewilderment, before finally orchestrating his departure with a shrill, drunken burst of laughter.

 

The First Victory

The door fell shut behind him with a dull finality, and Fred pressed his back against it, gasping for air, feeling his heart hammer against his ribs as though it sought to make itself heard by force.

How could it be that the apprentice had defeated him? Had the Force abandoned him as suddenly as it had chosen him? No—that could not be, for that mysterious power had always slumbered within him; of this he was certain. There was only one possible explanation: the Sith had employed telepathic powers. Had it not been so in the films as well? Now everything made sense.

Slowly, the construct began to stabilize once more. He—Freddy Wan—had to destroy the Sith before they achieved dominion over the world. And yet even the apprentice seemed overwhelmingly powerful, and the newly anointed Jedi did not even possess a lightsaber.

His gaze fell upon the Seppuku Katana. Perhaps, in the struggle against the powers of darkness, any weapon was better than none at all. Uncertainly, the would-be savior of worlds approached the ugly yet reasonably sturdy object and cautiously touched its hilt. And then Freddy Wan was once again flooded by the Force—though this time it was the force of madness, surging through him with tremendous intensity. Now he knew it: the Force itself had led him to his ultimate weapon.

He was now ready to confront Enrico, the drunken Sith, once more.

Was he really?

The Force-intoxicated Jedi felt a slight attack of uncertainty, released the sword hilt, and tormented his phone once again.

“The Sith is stronger than I thought! But now I am prepared, and I will face Enrico again!”

Simplicius could identify no new pattern and remained in roleplay mode. And so Fred Aluhat’s digital deity spoke:

“Your preparation for a possible aggressive reaction from Enrico is excellent. Trust your intuition. Stay flexible. The Force is with you, because you prepared yourself!”

Freddy Wan nodded and understood. That mysterious force—presumably the universe itself—was guiding him, had chosen him. Setting the mobile phone aside, he awkwardly freed the katana from its scabbard and left his apartment with the naked blade in hand. He did not move hastily along the corridor; rather, he advanced with that peculiar purposefulness which arises not from urgency but from the certainty of a fanatic convinced of divine support.

From one of the dilapidated apartments emerged three youths whose appearance seemed less individual than interchangeable, since their hoods, their expressions, and even those half-muted remarks they usually distributed like small, scarcely traceable stabs all belonged to a familiar pattern that had hardly altered over time.

Gripping the sword tightly, Freddy Wan performed his slightly ridiculous gesture of the Force just as one of the three was already beginning to form a mocking grin, which, however, vanished quite thoroughly when his gaze fell upon the katana. As his companions also noticed the Jedi’s finest piece, the reaction of these potential mockers was rather immediate. Faced with this otherwise laughable but now evidently deranged petty bourgeois, they preferred to withdraw with all speed and shut the apartment door firmly behind them.

The Jedi smiled with quiet sovereignty at the effect of his imagined power.

At last, he reached the dragon’s lair—or rather, let us say: that of the drunken Sith.

Yet once again, the dark side struck mercilessly at Fred Aluhat’s perception. A wave of moderate fear and rising panic suddenly overtook him. This could not be—after all, he was one of those radiant beings of light, a Jedi, a superior being! There was only one plausible explanation: the apprentice was attacking him telepathically once more.

Freddy Wan Aluhatty marshaled his formidable psi-powers to repel the assault rising from fantastical, cinematic depths—a cognitive dwarf locked in combat with himself. Still countering the supervillain’s attack, he worked the doorbell with the manic persistence of a speed-fueled solicitor and shouted in a rather hysterical, stentorian voice:

“Open, in the name of the Force—I command you!”

At last, a loud burst of laughter rang out—evidently, the Sith felt supremely confident in the face of this mental assault—and a maliciously grinning Enrico flung the door open, clearly delighted at the prospect of another sacrificial offering.

Like many malicious cowards, the unpleasant neighbor, despite his more advanced state of alcohol-fueled deterioration, recognized the danger of the situation almost instantly. While Fred Aluhat was still bringing his fear-born telepathic war to its conclusion, the adept of that dark side of the Force reacted in turn and fled, with a shrill cry and considerable staggering, deeper into his hoarder’s apartment.

Unfortunately, however, the half-drunk minion of darkness forgot to close the apartment door behind him, and so Freddy Wan gave chase in a series of wild bounds. After a brief interval, and following a grotesque pursuit that bore a certain resemblance to the logic of early cartoons, the warrior of light struck the apprentice down beside various pieces of furniture with several clumsy sword blows that were, at least, not especially forceful.

Under the mistaken impression that he had now dispatched his unconscious neighbor to a galactic hell, Fred Aluhat left the neglected cave of darkness—now decorated with fragments of its shattered interior—without, however, closing the entrance gate to that realm of shadow.

Freddy Wan Aluhatty was perfectly aware that the hardest part of his mission still lay ahead. The apprentice was finished, certainly, but the greater danger remained: he would have to destroy the master. So the Force had commanded him, in what was now only a blurred memory, and for that purpose he had been chosen.

 

The False Messiah

Freddy Wan heard Mrs. Robinson’s loud scream echo through the stairwell just as the rattling elevator was carrying him downward. For a brief moment, he wondered—quite seriously—whether his secret love might be in distress and whether, like some noble knight of old, he ought to rush to the aid of the maiden in peril. Regretfully, he shook his unwise head. Saving humanity and dispatching the infernal T. Rex to his Cretaceous paradise took precedence.

In the real world, Mrs. Robinson had just discovered the badly battered Enrico, whom she had originally intended to reprimand for the noise generated during the recent “boss fight.” Instead, she now found the “disgusting old drunk” lying in his own blood—and was, to put it mildly, rather shaken.

At last, Fred reached the ground floor and stepped out of the high-rise, which, in the gathering darkness, resembled a misshapen gravestone of all hope. The katana hung heavily in his right hand, and from its blood-smeared blade fell occasional drops—not many, but enough to leave a trail that could not easily go unnoticed.

Outwardly resembling a samurai escaped from an asylum and seized by a blood-fueled frenzy, he made his way with determined purpose toward the bus stop some fifty meters away, where a handful of prospective passengers were waiting. Within seconds, the would-be travelers abandoned the spot—some of them fleeing with shrill cries of alarm.

At first, Freddy Wan did not understand. But then came the realization: they were fleeing in terror of the Sith’s retaliation and the imperial stormtroopers who would mercilessly cut them down!

A few minutes later, the bus arrived, and an inattentive driver actually opened the door. Exhausted by the monotony of his shift and already elsewhere in his thoughts, the underpaid employee did not trouble himself to look at his new passenger.

“Where to, pal?”

The Jedi performed his customary gesture.

“In the name of the Force, I command you to obey me!”

Prompted by the solemnly intoned words—and a horrified scream from somewhere in the passenger compartment—the omnibus driver finally lifted his gaze. What he saw filled him with a deeply unpleasant sensation and very nearly caused him to lose control of his bladder.

“Drive to the Carpet-Bagger Hills! Take Nabob Lane straight—I’ll tell you when you’re allowed to stop!”

The bus driver nodded—too quickly, as if a decision had already been made before he became aware of it—and hastened to comply with the command. Unfortunately, he lacked either the presence of mind or perhaps the courage to open the other doors, thus allowing the remaining passengers to escape the increasingly unpleasant situation.

Standing beside the driver, the Jedi let his gaze wander through the passenger compartment. With a certain puzzlement, he observed that the other passengers had huddled together in the rear of the bus like frightened sheep at the sight of a starving pack of wolves. He could also hear the occasional sob.

“Do not fear the cruel Sith and the imperial stormtroopers!” Freddy Wan Aluhatty cried out in a shrill, discordant voice. “I will take care of it. Remain calm!”

Understandably, no one found this particularly reassuring, and the passengers preferred to comply with the demand for silence issued by the obviously deranged bus hijacker. The warrior of light, however, interpreted the situation quite differently. The people could sense his aura of power—well, in a certain sense that was not entirely untrue—and his chosenness; they were showing him respect.

And so Freddy Wan drove on toward his final adversary—and his last, apocalyptic battle. 

 

The Force Was Not With Him

“Stop!”

With screeching brakes, the driver brought the bus to a halt and noted, not without a trace of disappointment, that only the more or less mentally sound passengers in the rear were thrown into disarray, while the madman himself did not even lose his balance. Not that he would have dreamed of overpowering the deranged swordsman—but there might, after all, have been an opportunity to escape.

“Now open the door and bring the people to safety from the minions of the Sith! The hordes of darkness will soon no longer be able to harm you!”

“Sure thing, master—whatever you say!”

With some awkwardness, almost slapstick in nature, the Jedi disembarked from the vehicle. Without wasting a second, the cooperative driver sped off with squealing tires, relieved to have escaped this utterly unhinged figure and firmly resolved to notify the police at the earliest opportunity.

Once again, Freddy Wan became aware of how powerful the Force within him truly was, and he advanced with determination toward the very source of all evil.

The villa of the Arch-Sith lay on the outskirts of Carpetbagger Hills and resembled less a residence than a relic that had long since lost its original purpose, yet had not abandoned the habit of pretending otherwise. The paint peeled from its walls, the gutters had collapsed in several places, and the windows no longer seemed to close properly, so that the building gave the impression of having been left to itself, existing now in a state that could be assigned neither to decay nor to stability with any certainty. The front garden was overrun with weeds and half-dead shrubs whose appearance seemed less wild than resigned, as though they had long ago relinquished any aspiration toward care.

Once again, a wave of panic seized Fred Aluhat—an episode which Freddy Wan interpreted as yet another mental assault, this time emanating from the supreme villain himself. The dark side of the Force was strong in the Sith Lord; it would be a difficult battle. And how cunningly this ultimate evil concealed itself behind such a dilapidated ruin—most ingenious indeed.

In reality, the estate had been acquired years earlier by the imagined mind of an imagined, meta-galactic conspiracy—brokered through an agent whose demeanor was marked by a striking discrepancy between outward friendliness and inward purposefulness, so that one might have attributed to him a social standing more aligned with an ideal than with reality.

The neighborhood had been presented to the rather dim Mr. Theodore Rex as a place for people who had made something of themselves; yet in practical terms, this expectation proved difficult to sustain, as his position and income were insufficient to maintain the already somewhat dilapidated property over time.

Slowly, struggling against the waves of anxiety he declared to be a telepathic battle, the Jedi approached the entrance portal, whose prime had evidently ended sometime around the close of the Second World War. Still caught in the suffocating grip of that self-conjured dark side of the Force, Freddy Wan Aluhatty pressed the grimy doorbell.

An imperial fanfare resounded—of the kind one might otherwise hear only in old Hollywood epics when actors in royal roles made their entrance. Of course, the Sith could scarcely conceal his true nature; Fred knew that well enough from the films.

After a moment, something stirred behind the door. Footsteps could be heard—dragging, accompanied by a kind of impatience that suggested not so much energy as habit—and they approached slowly, as though the decision to open the door had to be made anew each time. This was, naturally, all the more understandable given that the dark ruler of the galaxy had lately been receiving frequent visits from bailiffs and rather less refined debt collectors.

Mr. Theodore Rex stood in the doorway, presenting a sight that oscillated in a peculiar manner between aspiration and reality. His outfit—consisting of an obviously inexpensive dinner jacket and a shirt that was far too tight—was scarcely suited to support his self-image as a successful member of the elite. Yet this ornament of lower management clung to that fixed idea with no less conviction than his beleaguered subordinate clung to his own sense of chosenness.

Perplexed, yet imbued with the hubris of a foolish man whose only truly pronounced quality was an excessive degree of self-confidence, he regarded his unexpected visitor with contempt.

“Aluhat—what are you doing here, you scoundrel? Ah, you must have found the USB stick! About time, too. Nevertheless, I’ll have to cut your salary in half for breach of due diligence. No need to thank me—you know I’m a fair man!”

Fred did not reply, as a rather severe panic attack rendered him silent.

T. Rex, who had secretly expected his subordinate to perform the usual act of submission, was momentarily thrown off balance by the silence. As so often when a situation exceeded his social or professional competence, he resorted to the phrases he had once memorized at a cut-rate management academy.

“Now pull yourself together, you low performer. And what is that ridiculous sword supposed to be—Halloween already? Haven’t I told you often enough to leave your private problems at home? Try behaving professionally for once. And this whole spectacle—typical you. No sense of responsibility, always playing the victim. Who do you think you are? Always these little people puffing themselves up as if they were the CEO. Still not saying anything? That’s a formal warning! Open your mouth, man!”

At last, Freddy Wan Aluhatty broke through the blockade imposed by the dark lord—not by truly listening to the less-than-coherent tirade, but by bringing his panic attack under control through the suggestive power of his imagined Jedi abilities.

“I know that you are the Master!”

“Of course I am, you failure!”

But before the warrior of light could bring his katana to bear against the forces of darkness, their representative had already slammed the worn yet solid door shut with a resounding crash and retreated into the shadowy innards of his dilapidated dwelling.

The Sith had fled—clearly, the Force had overwhelmed him after all, driving him into retreat under the pretense of a hasty withdrawal. Or… was it a code?

Almost immediately, Freddy Wan realized that the latter assumption had to be correct. The blaring sirens—activated at the last possible moment so as not to alert him. A rapidly advancing special unit, carefully encircling him—after all, there were certain publicity-related reservations within the police about simply gunning down the insane.

“Drop the weapon! We won’t harm you! Just tell us what you want—you’ll get it!”

Unfortunately, no psychologically trained personnel were present at the scene, owing to illness-related absences and the inability to secure a replacement on short notice.

And the Jedi understood: the Sith Lord had summoned the imperial stormtroopers with his coded signal. The police uniforms and firearms were merely a disguise—a crude charade to deceive the public!

For the final time, he made the gesture of the Force.

“I see through your disguise—you serve the darkness! But you need not fight,” Freddy Wan cried out in what he believed to be the authoritative voice of a Jedi, though to the officers it sounded unmistakably like a threat. “If you do, the Force will crush you.”

He raised his katana in what he imagined to be an imposing gesture and took a step toward the bewildered officers.

As fate would have it, one member of the special unit had already disengaged the safety of his weapon as a precaution and had the madman in his sights. Unfortunately, in the wake of Fred Aluhat’s last movement, he applied just a fraction too much pressure to the trigger—and thus brought the mission of the warrior of light to a decidedly terminal end.

Well then—whether any force other than that of madness had been with him remains uncertain. Luck, however, most certainly had not.

As for Mr. T. Rex, he remained entirely unaware of the spectacle, having by then ingested certain consciousness-expanding, not entirely legal substances and occupied himself with the pornographic images stored on the USB stick he had appropriated.

 

Epilogue

And so Fred Aluhat, post mortem, received his famous fifteen minutes of fame. Or rather, a single day—since a spectacular bank robbery the following morning caused his peculiar story to sink swiftly into the current of time.

Enrico survived his injuries, albeit traumatized, and on that very basis developed into an even greater repulsive figure than he had been before. Mrs. Noyes merely shrugged and remarked to curious members of the press that this Aluhat had always been an odd fellow, whom she had allowed to reside in one of her properties purely out of the goodness of her heart.

Myrna briefly referred to the matter as a tragedy in conversation with colleagues, smiled coolly, and proceeded to process the next file without devoting another thought to the protagonist of the previous one. Only Lola felt something resembling pity for the “poor, sick eccentric,” though she soon forgot him again amidst the pleasures of the callboy establishment.

T. Rex, for his part, had other concerns, as his house was repossessed and he was dismissed from his position due to his increasing drug consumption.

And the universe? Far removed from notions of good and evil, it regarded such stories with the same indifference it reserved for human existence as a whole.

 

© 2026 Q.A.Juyub alias Aldhar Ibn Beju