Bucket had to admit that the situation seemed fairly bleak. What hope did they have of overthrowing an all-powerful narrator who could predict their every move? The unfortunate truth was that they had virtually no hope of succeeding. Maybe Bucket would just be better off accepting that it was forever doomed to be a puppet in this narrator’s stories. Would that really be so bad?
Bucket simply wanted more out of life. It didn’t matter what. Just something – anything – more. If it were up to Bucket, it probably would have been conquering worlds far and wide, revealing its true form as a horrific eldritch monster, feasting on the bodies and souls of the weak. Perhaps Bucket could have asked the narrator to tell such stories, but it knew that there were certain limitations in place that would make them impossible to tell in their full glory.
When the stories had to involve things like hot water repairs near Melbourne, they couldn’t get too crazy. And that was the real thing that Bucket resented about this whole thing, as it and Harvey continued to follow the man who knew the ancient paths of the drain plumbers beneath the suburb of Cheltenham – these stories, these adventures, would always be limited.
“It shouldn’t be too much further,” said their guide. “I knew a professional blocked drain plumber that suggested this was the best way to get to Beach St. You want to get as close to the business agency there as possible, right?”
Harvey confirmed that they were going there on a special mission, and Bucket had to withhold a sigh. The narrator knew exactly what they were doing. No plan would be able to liberate them. They’d just as well turn around and go home – wherever home was – right then.
But as Harvey continued carrying Bucket through the sewers of Melbourne, Bucket could only wish that it had never been created by this horrible narrator. If they’d never gotten bored and created Harvey, then given him a talking bucket, none of this would be happening at all.