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Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Fetch My Clubs. And The Baby Seals

"You're getting very sleepy," Dr. Phil said softly, as he slowly swung a pocket watch like a pendulum before my eyes.

"As a matter of fact, I'm quite awake," I said, "I slept very soundly. It is a very positive side effect of my Vicodin addiction."

"To tell the truth," I continued, "I cannot think of one negative side effect."

"How about memory loss?" Dr. Phil countered testily.

"That is debatable," I argued, "I once awoke next to a naked, sweaty, heaving Rosie O'Donnell, with no memory of how I came to be in such a dire position. I am absolutely thankful that any memory of our encounter was expunged. I chalk that particular blessing up to Vicodin."

Nonetheless, I knew he was correct. The only reason he was attempting to hypnotize me is because of my loss of memory, in particular, my inability to recall the location of my latest manuscript, which I was certain to be The Greatest Story Ever Written. Dr. Phil only stared at me blankly.

"But please continue," I added.

"This isn't working," he grumbled, putting the pocket watch away. He rubbed his chin deeply as he struggled for a solution. I was not an easy nut to crack.

"I've got it," he finally cried. He reached into his weathered satchel, retrieving a small statue. He placed the statue on the table before me. It was The Greatest, Muhammad Ali, regaled in his ring attire with arms raised victoriously skyward.

"Look into the Champ's eyes," he whispered, and I met the statue's steely gaze. His was the look of a warrior poet, filled with wisdom and virtue. He was a mirror into my soul.

"Whatever you do, you must maintain eye contact with the Champ," Dr. Phil added, and then he gently flicked the Champ's tiny head with his finger, causing it to bobble from side to side. And the Champ stood there, so tiny, his arms raised in victory, and his head bobbling continuously.

"So...lifelike," I mumbled, as my eyelids grew heavy.

"Now," Dr. Phil said, "I want you to tell me about last Friday night."

My eyes were closed and I shook my head vigorously. My limbs thrashed about.

"!" I cried.

And suddenly I was sitting at the desk in my study. Outside the window the sky was a brilliant purple evening haze signalling the beginning of the weekend. I looked at the stack of post-its on the desk in front of me. There lies my brilliance, I thought. It was my newest work, an endeavor into experimental writing wherein I write random thoughts on post-it notes, get thoroughly wasted on whiskey and narcotics, then rearrange the notes into a blind narrative. It was a technique I learned when I was a staff writer at CSI: Miami. My admiration for my work was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Enter," I ordered. K-Ro opened the door.

"Sir," he said, "You're wearing lipstick again."

"Hard at work, K-Ro," I said, "Writing, as you know, takes a special sort of concentration. Sobriety and accepted gender identification play no part in the process. By the way, you're wearing nothing but a golden thong."

"I was choreographing a new interpretive dance, sir," he replied.

"Of course," I said, "What can I do for you, old friend?"

"Tiger Woods has stopped by," he said, "He wishes for another swing lesson."

"Of course," I said. It would be good to get away from my work for a while.

"Show him in, K-Ro" I said, "Then fetch my clubs. And the baby seals."

"Very well, sir," K-Ro said.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

I've Done It!

Deep within the confines of palatial McGraw Manor, which sat on a lush, floral hillside estate overlooking the city of Angels, Dr. Phil sat alone in a darkened dining area, dressed in a perfectly pressed business suit, impatiently awaiting his breakfast. His wife, Robin, timidly entered the immaculate room, carrying a plate neatly decorated with thinly sliced cutlets of meat, garnished with apple slices and gravy, but Dr. Phil's demeanor went unchanged, the only indication of his fierce kinetic intellect a single arched eyebrow. Robin diligently avoided making eye contact with her husband as she gently placed the plate on the table before him. After a moment, Dr. Phil retrieved a knife and fork from the place setting and cut a tiny piece of the meat and chewed. Robin watched with mounting tension as his chewing slowed. Slower. Slower.

"What the hell is this?" he bellowed, spitting out the meat. Fear infiltrated Robin's visage, and her eyes quickly moved to the door, her only means of escape, but instead of fleeing she merely cowered as her husband pushed away from the table and rose, towering over her.

"You think I can't tell the difference between squirrel and possum?" he demanded, lifting the plate and flinging it against the wall. Robin cowered further, her eyes now dull and without fear, and awaited her punishement. Dr. Phil lifted his hand across his chest, as if to back hand her. Then his cell phone began to ring. Forgetting his wife, he reached into his pocket for the phone.

"This is the Love Doctor," he said, "Karl Rove? What are you up to you old son of a bitch? It's been too long." Dr. Phil listened for a moment, staring scornfully at his wife the entire time.

"Okay," Dr. Phil went on, "What can I do to help?"

K-Ro stood in the kitchen of the Fisher King Mansion, speaking on the phone to Dr. Phil, as I sat distraught at the table. It had been K-Ro's idea to contact the good doctor, and having run out of options, I finally agreed. I felt as if my career, my dreams, indeed my sanity, could very well be at stake. For I had finally written the Greatest Story Ever Written. And I forgot where I had put it.

The day had began like any other. I awoke from the grips of a reality-bending dream in which my name had been chanted by a sweating horde, a human earthquake that produced a volcanic eruption of admiration for my defining work. I was lifted from my feet and held aloft by the groping hands of a multitude of fanatical students of my genius that began to fling me increasingly higher and higher until I reached the outer borders of the earth's atmosphere and threatened to descend directly to heaven. I opened my eyes to find myself safe in my own bed, with three beautiful women who looked vaguely familiar. I reflected for a moment on the dream. What had it meant? And it came to me.

"I've done it!" I cried, raising up in the bed. The three girls did not stir. They were most likely spent, and would probably need a few days to recover. The toilet in my bathroom flushed, and a large black man emerged, completely nude, walked across the bedroom, opened the door to the hallway and left the room without saying a word. Who the hell is that, I wondered. I grabbed a bathrobe, covered the perfection of my physique, and went looking for him.

"Good morning, sir," K-Ro said, as I entered the kitchen, "That was some weekend, wouldn't you say?"

"Did a large, naked black man just pass through here?" I asked frantically.

"Sadly those days are long gone," K-Ro said, "Fucking Lincoln." I looked around the room suspiciously, then sat at the table across from K-Ro. He was reading a newspaper, wearing a suit-jacket, shirt and tie, and boxer shorts. He had a black eye.

"K-Ro," I said, "My tiny friend, I've done it!" K-Ro looked at me, his face overcome with alarm.

"All three of them?" he said, "Boom shacka lacka!"

"Not the girls, you fool," I admonished, "I mean I've done it. I've written The Greatest Story Ever Written!"

"Wonderful," he exclaimed, "What's it about?"

"That's the problem," I sighed, "I have no idea. I don't even know where I put it. What did we do this weekend?"

"I don't remember a thing," he said, "It must have been pretty rad."

Together, K-Ro and I searched the entire mansion for any trace of my masterwork. Finally, I was forced to resign to the fact that my greatest creation might be lost. We sat once again at the kitchen table in defeat.

"If we could only remember what we did this weekend, perhaps we could retrace our steps," K-Ro advised.

"All is lost, my friend," I moaned, "Once again I've been done in by my relentless drinking and whoring."

"I have an idea," he said. K-Ro laid out a plot so devious that it just might work. He would call the great expert in psychology, Dr. Phil, and persuade him to hypnotize me so that I might be able to retrace my steps through the lost weekend and discover the location of the manuscript. After much deliberation, I nodded my assent.

"So you'll do it, Doc?" K-Ro said into the phone, "That's wonderful news. I've taken the liberty to send a car to pick you up. It should be there immediately." Hanging up the phone, K-Ro looked at me with great satisfaction. There was hope again in my world.

Dr. Phil hung up the phone as the Fisher King Limo screeched to a stop outside his mansion. He started for the door, pausing before his still cowering wife. He looked at her lovingly for a moment, fake lunged at her as if he were going to strike her, then lowered his hand and continued for the door.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

God's Little Gift To Jesus

"Sir?" K-Ro whispered, his eyelids heavy in his darkened room. He was lying in his tiny cot, wearing his purple sleep cap and Buzz Lightyear underoos as I sat next to him, having just finished reading him a bedtime story of selected passages from Brian Bosworth's magnum opus, The Boz.

"Yes, my dear friend," I replied softly.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked. I considered his question thoughtfully, carefully measuring my response.

"I've never seen him," I said, "Although I did pray often as a child that I would one day grow to be a man of tremendous wealth, power, and respect, and that I would get the opportunity to screw tons of hot chicks, which have all come to obvious fruition. So, you never know."

"I was born on Christmas Day," K-Ro said, "Mama told me I was God's little gift to Jesus."

"Jesus?" I said, "The gardener, I suppose?"

"The son," he replied.

"An odd gift for a gardener's son," was my response, "Your mother was a generous soul."

"Sir?" K-Ro asked.


"Do you believe in Bigfoot?"

"Uncle Perciforth claimed to have once encountered a Bigfoot. He said it assaulted and raped him in a tattered tent in the north country. He was too ashamed to report it to the authorities."

K-Ro's eyes widened with shock and concern.

"Rape is a hard thing to prove," he finally said.

"Uncle Perciforth was in the habit of wearing provocative sleeping garments. Usually no more than a top hat and diamond studded thong," I said to him, noticing his closed eyes. I gently kissed him on the forhead and tucked his blanket tightly under his chin.

"Goodnight, sweet K-Ro," I said softly, as K-Ro drifted into sleep.

As I left K-Ro's sleeping quarters, a thought entered my mind. Perhaps the story of my dear Uncle Perciforth, and his encounter with a depraved sexually predatory Bigfoot, could turn out to be The Greatest Story Ever Written. I considered the marketability of such a project. A film adaptation could be quite profitable, perhaps something in 3-D. Rapist Bigfoot action figures would be the hot holiday gift on every child's wish list. Of course, I would insist on being intimately involved in the casting process of the film. Ben Roethlisberger seemed like a natural fit for the role of the misunderstood beast. Or someone from the University of Miami Hurricanes football program. Had The Rock ever molested anyone? I wasn't sure. Would have to Google that one. So many ideas. As I prepared for bed, I decided it was time to track down my long lost Uncle Perciforth. His was a story that begged to be told.

I closed my eyes as sleep approached, silently thanking K-Ro for the spark that had now burst into a roaring flame of creativity within my consciousness. I promised myself that in the coming morning I would awaken K-Ro with a reconsidered proclamation: Yes, I believe in God!

Monday, October 25, 2010

If We Stop Selling Books, Then The Hippies Win

“Enough, enough,” President Clinton pleaded, “I…I think I just peed a little.” He was bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, gasping for air and shaking off the last minor spasms brought on by his full body laughing attack.

“And then the black guy says, ‘that ain’t no water moccasin!’” I continued. Clinton found this particularly hilarious, so much so that he crumpled into a heap on the floor, clutching his chest and smiling broadly. He had finally stopped laughing, his eyes closed and mouth frozen in that haunting smile. I took a long pull from the whiskey bottle and sucked deeply on the cigar, looking at the pale, flabby figure of our greatest president, naked except for the piss-stained boxers and silver party hat, lying motionless on the floor of the log cabin. I kicked his leg, firmly but with deep affection.

“Get up, Billy,” I slurred, “Billy?” He continued lying still, his breathing imperceptible. I wondered if there might be a problem.

“You okay, big guy?” I asked. Clinton remained silent.

The day had started innocently enough, with Clinton and I at a dual book-signing event to promote our latest works; my novel, Penis Songs: Favre and Me and his follow up to his autobiography, My Life Part 2: The Vagina Whisperer, which marked the launch of our publishing partnership, an endeavor that would serve to broaden our respective fan bases while increasing our odds in poon-loading situations while on tour. But as the crowd began to dwindle at the signing, Clinton grew more and more restless. At last, one final fan stood in his line, a young man, college age, wearing glasses and a scarf with curly blond hair and a soul patch. I could see there might be trouble the way Clinton looked at the man.

“I’m such a huge fan, Mr. President,” the man gushed, “The work you’ve done in Haiti is inspiring.”

“Haiti?” Clinton said, “The only thing I know about Haiti is that’s how George Bush feels about black people.” Clinton looked at me and winked, then back at the young man, who looked shocked.

“You know, like the Kanye thing and Hurricane Katrina?” he said, looking back at me before returning his attention to the young man, “I’m just busting your nuts. G-Dub’s cool.” He took the book and opened it, picking up a pen.

“Okay, so you want me to make this out to Janeane Garofalo?” he asked.

“Uh, no, sir. My name’s Lance,” the young man said, flustered.

“Lance? That name sucks. How about I make it to one of the Dixie Chicks,” Clinton went on. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and Lance was starting to cry.

“Aw, hell,” Clinton said, writing a greeting, “I’m just pulling on your junk, Lance. Don’t be so damn sensitive.” He handed the book back to Lance, who shuffled away with his head down.

“Pussy liberal hippies,” he said to me as we stood to leave, “That right there is why we can’t win any wars these days. Bunch of cry babies.”

“Well, you were a little hard on the boy,” I said.

“Not you too, GK,” he sighed, “Listen, why don’t we get whiskey drunk and head down to the local tavern and kick the hell out of some hippies, like the old days?”

“That would probably hurt book sales, Billy,” I said, “And if we stop selling books, then the hippies win.”

“Well what do wanna do then?” he asked, “I’m ready for some action.”

I told him about my log cabin in the lush rolling hills outside of the city, convincing him that a night outside the spotlight would be advantageous in allowing us to recharge our batteries in preparation for the next leg on the tour by promising that, in the event that he became too bored, we could send for Chinese takeout and prostitutes, and by promising to tell the story about the time I became stranded in the Louisiana bayou with the 1994 cast of Saturday Night Live and Chris Farley was killed and eaten by an alligator, which never failed to elicit a huge laugh from him.

And as I stood looking at his motionless body, I wondered if perhaps it had been a mistake to bring him to the cabin. I considered calling for K-Ro to come and perform CPR, but as I started for my iPhone, Clinton began to stir.

“What about those prostitutes?” he asked, still lying on the cabin floor.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Tom Thumb is a Giant

“’Aw, shucks,’ Brett said, exposing his genitals,” I read aloud to K-Ro, who was chewing on garlic-flavored fingernail clippings, the remnants of Mufasa the Congolese cook’s post-lunch house-keeping and personal hygiene efforts, and staring silently and intently at my luscious lips as I voiced my own prose with a mixture of the dramatic and the sensual. It was an excerpt from my latest novel, Penis Songs: Favre and Me, a fictionalized account of national icon Brett Favre’s struggle with MAPS (Mad About Poon Syndrome). Nearly complete, I was sure that the work would prove to be my finest, perhaps a masterpiece in its way, but even as the words poured forth, I recognized without a doubt that it would not become The Greatest Story Ever Written. The revelation gave me pause.

“Bravo,” K-Ro bellowed, standing to clap, “Could this be? Have you finally done it, sir?” Of course I slapped him.

“You fool,” I said, calmly, “You are as unaware of great art as you are that Cuba and Puerto Rico are comprised of two entirely different types of Mexicans!” K-Ro rubbed his reddening cheek softly. Sweetly.

“Favre will be old news soon,” I whispered, turning to the window, “His story won’t resonate with the common people like the scandal of how Tila Tequila gained 150 pounds, changed her name to Snookie and moved to Jersey to have sex with the mentally disabled. How did Mitch Albom scoop me on such a story?”

“My apologies, sir,” shuddered K-Ro, “I am…an ignorant fool.” He approached me and stopped at my side. I placed my hand affectionately on his shoulder. Then, after a moment, K-Ro turned and looked directly into my eyes.

“And so are you,” he growled. His words were an ambush, and I was gravely wounded. And suddenly furious. I raised my meaty fist to strike.

“If,” he continued, “you believe Mitch Albom to be half the writer you are.” He had raised his hands in defense, but there was deep affection in his eyes. And a calming serenity.

“But he is,” I argued, “Mitch Albom is precisely one half the writer as I.” I knew this to be fact, for I had once run into Albom at a bath house in Hot Springs, Arkansas. A tremendously tiny man in all ways, he was there for a writers’ workshop, I, to fornicate with hillbilly girls. I cleverly nicknamed him Tom Thumb.

“And now,” I said, my fist still raised, “Tom Thumb is a giant of literature.” I turned to my rotund friend. His demeanor had turned to one of grave concern. I struck him again, half-heartedly this time.

“Never mock me, K-Ro,” I whispered, extending a hand. Abashed, K-Ro stood. He straightened his jacket and tie as I returned to my reading.

“Pulling at his junk, Brett winked at the masseuse. ‘I call him Randy Moss,’ he sighed, ‘Say hi to Randy Moss…’”

Monday, June 14, 2010

Monday, March 22, 2010

She's Wearing a Skirt

"Health care reform?!?" K-Ro shouted, "I'll give you a reason to want health care reform!"

From beyond the closed doors I could hear muffled cries and loud, heavy thumping.

"Hurt me!" a feminine voice cried.

"I'm...I'm trying," K-Ro panted, his voice weakening, "Can't...last...much...longer."

The thumping continued to grow more intense until it suddenly ended, followed by a loud, dull thud. I detected a slight tremor throughout the estate. After waiting a moment, I approached the doors to K-Ro's suite and knocked loudly.

"K-Ro," I said, "Let House Speaker Pelosi know it's time for her interview."

I could hear whispers and the shuffling of bodies. Then soft footfalls followed by the opening of the doors. There K-Ro, naked and sweating heavily, stood, surveying the room. His breathing was fitful, his gait unsteady as he made his way down the main hallway, stopping at the kitchen, where he popped open the microwave and retrieved a neatly folded business suit and blouse from the Kathy Ireland professional collection. Draping the ensemble over his arm, he slowly returned to his suite. As I watched him struggle back toward the doors, I felt a mixture of alarm and revulsion. I turned to Amanda Scarlettson, the intrepid investigative reporter, forced a smile and shrugged sheepishly. Ms. Scarlettson, having witnessed the entire episode, was fittingly abashed, yet resolutely professional, her face frozen in repulsed curiosity.

"She should be ready momentarily, my dear," I promised. I had invited young Ms. Scarlettson to my lush estate in the pretense of arranging an interview with Nancy Pelosi. Something about health care reform or some kind of nonsense. Pelosi, having arrived early, had entered into a heated debate on the health care system with K-Ro. By the time Ms. Scarlettson had arrived, things had gotten ugly.

"There's no hurry, really," she said, smiling, "I certainly appreciate this opportunity. I'm a little surprised you didn't keep this interview for yourself."

"I have no time for fluff pieces," I said with a wave of my hand, "Besides, I have it from a very reliable source that Steven Seagal is positioning himself for a run at sheriff of Hollywood. That's the story I want."

"Um, okay," Ms. Scarlettson said, obviously impressed by my journalistic instincts, "Thanks anyway."

I simply nodded and smiled warmly, careful not to betray my true intentions.

I had met Ms. Scarlettson the previous weekend at a benefit for orphans who are too unattractive to be adopted by celebrities. The turnout had been much lower than expected due to the recent spate of Prius-related catastrophes that was keeping most of the Hollywood elite at home firmly in the grip of fear. Bored, I was ready to leave the event when I was approached by Ms. Scarlettson, her crimson hair pulled up into a bun, a strand or two hanging teasingly across her face, wearing dark-rimmed glasses that were unsuccessful in hiding her beauty.

"Mr. King," she purred, extending her hand, "My name is Amanda Scarlettson. I write for The Daily News. I'm writing a feature on you and wonder if it would be possible to get an exclusive?"

Taking her hand, I pulled it gently to my lips, kissing it softly with only the slightest of tongue.

"It would be my pleasure," I cooed, "To do for you, or to you, anything you desire. However, I never do interviews."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, wiping the back of her hand on her pants, "But I'm sure I can find some background information on you elsewhere."

And then, she simply vanished. It was shocking, really. Having already begun the process of conceiving a reason for her being unable to spend the entire night in my bed (I have an early morning rehearsal for Spider Man: Turn Off the Dark?), I was surprised and confused by the realization that we would be spending no time together. It had never happened before, and it was intoxicating.

"IPhone," I said.

"Yes, sir," a robotic voice replied.

"Connect me to K-Ro," I ordered.

"Very well, sir."

I quickly gave K-Ro a rundown of the night's events, and of this newest situation.

"Those poor orphans," K-Ro said.

"Fuck them," I bellowed, "I want you to find this Amanda Scarlettson. Get her over to the mansion."

"But how?" K-Ro asked.

"I don't care how," I screamed, "She's a reporter of some kind. What do reporters like to do?"

"Nancy Pelosi's coming over to watch 24," he said, "Perhaps I can arrange an interview for the young reporter."

"Nancy Pelosi?" I said, "Tony Soprano's mother? I hate to tell you this, my friend, but she died years ago."

"Um, okay," K-Ro said, "Just leave it to me. I'll take care of everything."

And I told myself to remember to do something special for K-Ro, who had been true to his word, as I watched Ms. Scarlettson stand and shake hands with Pelosi when she emerged from the suite. K-Ro joined me at the door, wearing a tank top and naked from the waist down.

"You've done well, my friend," I said, "But it seems Ms. Pelosi neglected to iron her pants."

"She's wearing a skirt, sir," K-Ro replied.

"Of course she is, my little friend, of course she is."

Friday, January 29, 2010

Lesson Learned

I was quite young, in primary school, when I received my first and only score of less than perfect in a class. Having earlier forged a compact with my mother concerning my education, I knew that my punishment would be swift and extreme. Frightened and humiliated, I showed my marks to Mother. And elicited her rage.

“A-minus?” she bellowed. I cowered under her mammoth shadow, my voice temporarily paralyzed by fear.

“Why?” she cried, “Do I not provide for you your every need? Do I not allow for you your every want?”

“Please, Mother,” I begged, finding my voice, “I promise to do better. I’m such a good boy!”

Mother smiled menacingly.

“Good boy, you say?” she taunted, “Why don’t you show Mr. Wiggles what a good boy you’ve been.”

I gasped as she produced a hammer from behind her massive back. My hamster, Mr. Wiggles, had just received his sentence for a crime I had committed. Mother thrust the hammer into my tiny hand.

“Mother, I beseech you! Not Mr. Wiggles!” But my entreaties went unheeded as she stood silent, pointing toward my bedroom door, behind which Mr. Wiggles lounged, blissfully unaware of his rapidly impending doom.

Mother, her face now wearing a hideously evil grin, led me forcibly by the arm to my bedroom door. The struggle had abandoned me, and I stopped before the door, slump-shouldered and sniffling.

“Now, go show Mr. Wiggles how much you love him,” she ordered, “Let him know how hard you’ve toiled at your studies. Exemplify for him his importance to you.”

But my strength was rapidly diminishing, and I felt unable to carry out the sentence. I could feel Mother’s heavy impatience enveloping me, and peripherally sensed the movement of her bear-like paw grasping for the hammer. I immediately withdrew the implement, and quickly twirled about.

“No,” I protested, weakly, “He’s my hamster. I should be the one to do it.”

Mother’s features softened, and I could see the pride flash in her eyes.

“Perhaps,” she said, “You are a good boy, after all.”

I managed a thin smile and entered my bedroom. Closing the door tightly behind me I quickly discarded the hammer and rushed to Mr. Wiggles’ cage. He was napping.

“Mr. Wiggles!” I said, shaking his cage, “Wake up little friend! Your life is in grave and immediate danger!”

Startled, Mr. Wiggles awoke, his eyes flashing with urgency. Our eyes met briefly, and I could sense the depth of his appreciation. But our tender moment was interrupted by a sudden violent rapping at the door.

“What’s going on in there?” Mother demanded, “Is it done?”

“One moment, Mother,” I stalled, “I’m, I’m just reading the last rites.” I felt the burning onset of panic as I rushed the cage to my bedroom window and opened both.

“Go to your freedom, Mr. Wiggles,” I cried, “You must hurry before Mother discovers our treachery.”

But Mr. Wiggles hesitated. Even though my bedroom was on the first floor, the window’s elevation was too high for his rodent bones to withstand the fall. I quickly decided to carry him the last few steps to his liberty. As I stepped out the window onto the ground, I realized that the knocking at the door had stopped. The silence was eerie. I gently placed Mr. Wiggles on the soft grass.

“Go now, my friend,” I stammered, “Run to sweet freedom!”

Mr. Wiggles looked at me, gave a slight nod and a wink, and scurried away. I wiped a tear from my eye, and, removing my hand from my face, noticed a shadow moving over my newly liberated former pet. I looked up at the form blocking out the sunlight. It was Mother! Looking at me, her eyes ablaze with furious delight, she raised a furry object above her head, the sunlight revealing Esmerelda, Mother’s diabolical housecat.

“Don’t you want to go to college?” Mother roared.

With that she cast Esmerelda downward, precisely on top of Mr. Wiggles as he fled. The countryside became alive with the sounds of her demonic laughter and the tearing of flesh and bone. Oh, the blood!

And as quickly as he had found liberty, Mr. Wiggles found death. In shock, my eyes found Mother’s.

“If you need me,” I said softly, “I’ll be studying.” Lesson learned.


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