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PREFACE: What you may be about to read is some of the worst writing I've ever wrote. The preface in particular is face meltingly embarrassing. It looks like Grok wrote it. My only defense is that I wrote this while a teenager, but... Well, let's put it this way. S.E. Hinton wrote THE OUTSIDERS, and I wrote WHEAT.


Fuck. Look at that word for a moment, if you will. Don't want to glance back and lose your spot? No problem, I'll write it again for you. Fuck. It's quite the powerful word. A percentage of people who are holding this book right now have decided that they won't bother with such an egregious novel, and instead, they will be switching over to a more age appropriate novel, such as If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. Another percentage of people have decided that I am a very evil wordsmith for having smithed such a foul word, and have taken to the internet to besmirch my name with ridicule and contempt. Perhaps there are hundreds upon thousands upon millions upon billions of different percentages of different people who reacted in different ways to the powerful entity known as Fuck. Whatever or whoever those percentages are, we are left with one final percentage.


That's right. You did it. You have successfully scampered up the treacherous mountain of vocabulary that now lays behind you, never to be read again, unless you fancy this novel enough to give it a second go (you won't). Your first of four objectives is now complete. You may now be asking yourself some questions. Who is this absolute buffoon who's congratulating me through the impossibly immobile form of communication known as written text? Why am I still reading this clearly ridiculous novel when I could be reading a classic such as If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? What the hell does Wheat mean? Allow me to answer all of your questions with a question.

Who gives a shit?

Kick back. Lower the chair. Recline in your bed. Smash a bottle over the desk so you have a useful tool for warding off thieves attempting to confiscate this book. Are you comfy? No? Get comfy. I'll wait. Good? Okay. Listen. You and I, we're about to embark on a rather exquisite journey, a journey that follows the lead of Wheatley. Wheatley is an odd child. For starters, he isn't a child at all. Rather, he's a teenager. Secondly, Wheatley has no last name. Well, actually he does, but it's rather redundant. Wheatley Wheatley. His parents thought it would be funny. Ha ha. They died in a horrific transcontinental boating accident. The joke is on them.

Wheatley resides with his uncle Thomas, who is, quite frankly, a total fucking… Ah, but you know? I'm spoiling the story by telling all of you this. Instead of dwelling further on the usage and power of the word fuck and how much no one gives a fuck about Wheatley, let's start the story. A grand story, full of adventure, woe, and shit no one actually cares about. This… is a story about Wheat.


Did you know? 9 out of 10 Wheatleys are, in fact, pretty cool. I have a team of scientists hunched over my shoulder right now, and they're all in solid agreement: the research states that nine Wheatleys, when in a group of ten, are very fucking cool. One Wheatley helped tie the shoe of another Wheatley. A very bold Wheatley stepped forth and started reciting melodies that soothed the rest of the Wheatleys, especially the two Wheatleys in the corner who were exchanging sexual favors for each other (Did you know? 2 out of 10 Wheatleys are, in fact, homosexual). The kindest Wheatley offered to buy every Wheatley in the room pizza! However, there was one Wheatley among them who sat in the corner. What was he doing? Was he imagining fantasies that could only be acted in imagination? Perhaps he was jealous of the homosexual favors being presented in the adjacent corner. Whatever he was doing, it doesn't matter, because ultimately, this Wheatley was, in fact, a loser.

He didn't want to talk to the other Wheatleys. One Wheatley approached this loser Wheatley and asked him if he'd like to share some riveting jokes. Loser Wheatley responded by stumbling on his words for a few seconds before pulling out his Nintendo 3DS and turning to face the wall.

Thus, you and I, dear reader, can extract from this information that we have scientific backing to the notion that 9 out of 10 Wheatleys are, in fact, fucking a-okay, and 1 out of 10 Wheatleys are, in fact, cringe inducing freaks. I believe that this exposition can help you understand the situation of our socially awkward hero, Wheatley Wheatley, or rather, Wheatley, or rather, Wheat.

Okay. No more prefaces. It's time for the real deal. Do you still have that smashed bottle on hand, readers? There is a stealthy ninja among you who seeks to rob you of your novel and other precious belongings (but really, what is more precious that a shitty novel such as this?). Whack him in the face a few times. Really cut those wounds deep. Good, good. Now then. Get comfortable, and ignore the growing blood puddle forming beneath your feet, or stubs, or whatever you're rocking under the waist. This… is a story about Wheat.


Wheatley... was alone. You can take this two ways. You can choose to interpret the preceding sentence as meaning that as a person, Wheatley was lonely. Perhaps you're right, and he's incredibly lonely. He's more lonely than a three-legged pup barking in the streets or Adolf Hitler alone in his air raid underground bunker right before he mistakes his cyanide pills for oxycodone. The truth is, however, that while Wheatley is lonely, I meant to convey that at this very point in time, a rainy day with the sun at war with the clouds, Wheatley was alone.

A ticking clock provided the dreary backdrop for Wheatley's Sunday morning. He rose from his bed like a vampire rising from his coffin, only the vampire is a complete loser and also has never had a girlfriend. Wheatley slowly scanned his room with an air of sleepiness, followed by collapsing onto the bed. His body rose again, then fell, and so the cycle repeated itself. Wheatley managed to throw his covers off after an hour passed, then slumped to the ground where he laid for another hour. Ticking from the clock presented the time as 4:51 a.m., a time incorrect due to improper calibrations, as one could notice the sun still battling the drizzle outside and make an observation of the time based on that instance. Wheatley wouldn't be able to, however, as scrambled for the blinds, shielding his eyes from the pervasive rays that had intensified through the several passing minutes.

Wheatley turned his attention to his computer, which became his best friend for the next few hours. He had all sorts of entertaining adventures, such as shitposting on reddit and tumblr. Unsatisfied with the time wasted when he really meant to have played his new game, he quickly booted up Psycho Captain (but not before troubleshooting launch issues). The video game allowed Wheatley to assume the position of Captain W. Heather, a merciless space pirate who also ran pawn shops along interstellar highways. The gameplay was mediocre, but Wheatley was not bothered by it; he simply was in it for the highly praised story.

Two more hours passed and the sun had successfully won its battle with the rain, though anyone positioned in Wheatley's room would never have that knowledge. Wheatley had successfully pushed through the defences of Gorgo Zorgo Dick, the nemesis of the Galactic Pawn Ship Fleet and, of course, Psycho Captain himself. Gorgo cowered in a corner, shielding his face with his mangled hands, pleading for his life. Heather stepped forward as Wheatley held the "W" key. Sweat dripped down both the protagonist and the player. Gorgo repeated the same dialogue line he had uttered already three times, a glitch that failed to shatter the raw immersion Wheatley was dipped in. A gun was drawn and a casing clattered to the ground in one fell swoop. Wheatley saved the game, then tore himself away from the computer. His parents had come home from church.

With his backpack slung over his shoulder, Wheatley was the spitting image of an imbecile, but that didn't stop him from boarding the school bus with the intended destination of hell. Wheat scoured the rows of seats for empty space, but found none among an ocean of peers. He dreaded the thought of sitting in the back, where empty space resided. A hoarse yell from the bus driver hurried Wheatly over to the back against his will. He cemented himself in the corner and pulled out his 3DS, which he forgot to charge, leaving the battery at a measly one bar out of three.

It was not even five minutes into his gaming session when one of the occupants of the bus turned to face Wheatley. She smirked a shit eating grin and asking Wheatley the daring question that he endured so many times before: "Whatcha playin?" Sweat began accumulating on Wheatley's back. He faked a weak smile and paused his game, delivering a death sentence to himself. "S-s-senran Kagura…" Throughout the entire delivery of this sentence, Wheatley realized that he had made literally the dumbest decision ever in announcing the game of a brawler that features gratuitous fan-service and nudity.

Wheatley. You moron.