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A minor character from a Victorian novel requested an exit interview with their author. 'I've been standing by this window for 47 chapters,' he complained. 'My only lines are "Indeed, sir" and "The carriage has arrived." Meanwhile, the protagonist gets an entire internal monologue about a sandwich.' The author nodded sympathetically, then wrote him getting hit by that very carriage. 'At least I finally got some character development,' he sighed, ascending to the literary afterlife.

An unreliable narrator was called to testify in court. The judge asked, 'Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?' The narrator replied, 'Well, Your Honor, I'll tell you what I remember happening, but I should mention I was drunk at the time, harboring resentment toward the defendant, and I may have repressed some key memories. Also, I'm not entirely sure I exist.' The prosecutor immediately moved to dismiss. 'Your Honor, I've worked with this witness before—he's from a literary fiction novel. Last time he testified, the jury spent six months debating whether the crime even happened.'