12 April 2013

This is not Fiction.

...I suppose that much is obvious.   I was about to post a fresh piece of flash, taken from a mega-stupendous ultra-compendium that I am working on, when my breakfast arrived.  Let me share this with you...

A greasy, blue-lipped lady brought my pancakes to my table with a cough and a tremor. Don't you hate that?  The cough deposits all kinds of germs onto your pancakes, and the tremor spills your coffee.  "Hey, Jack, here's yer bloody hotcakes,"  she coughed at me.

"Thank you," I replied, covering my mouth and nose with an errant piece of camphor-soaked ermine.

"What'cha writin'?"  she asked, slapping my breakfast down in front of me.

"Nothing of any importance," I said.

"I wrote something once," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. " You wanna' hear it?"

"Sure," I said, "why not?"

"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a boy named little Mikey Nitrous, who would eventually be known to the world as Mr. Michael Nitrous of West 43rd Street..."

"Wait a second," I said, "Michael Nitrous is MY character...you couldn't have written that."

"Yeah, " she said, "you're right.  I got it off a website."

"MY website," I said.


"Well, tell me," I said, "why on earth would you steal my character?"

"Well," the blue-lipped waitress croaked,  "I didn't want to get caught."


"Someone once told me that if you're gonna' cop, cop from the best..."

I felt my fuzzy little melon begin to swell with pride.  "Oh really?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, "but if you don't wanna' get caught, cop from the worst."

I looked down at my pancake.

"You want I should get you some syrup for that?"

I ate my pancake dry and washed it down with a  cup of cool phlegm.

Back to the woodshed.

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