“Kate! Katherine! Muse!” I shouted, as I bounded from my computer chair over to her.
“I love you! Will you marry me or no? I must know!”
I stood in front of her, trembling.
She stood up, sidestepped the nasty coffee table, and walked up to face me at very close range.
She pierced me with those eyes. Looked down (almost sadly—I perceived—then took my hands into hers)
She looked back into my eyes and said,
“Lance, Baby, you understand I am not a real girl. You created me. I live in your mind and at your leisure.”
“Yes. I am a figment of your mind. Does not mean I don’t love you. I will always be here for you. And if you choose, I will love you. I will ‘write’ you, as far as you may write yourself. But ‘marry’? I cannot.”
She dropped my hands and sat back down on The Nasty Couch. Took a sip of Pinot, picked up her NY Times, took another sip of Pinot, and a drag off her Virginia Slims, and as if nothing had just happened, got back to being Her.
I retired to my writing chair. Sat there for some moments, tears welling, then smiled inside.
“She will always love me. She has no choice. It is all up to me,” I mused.
And then I got busy writing.
After some pregnant pauses…
“Hey Asshole! You better be writing something readable!” I heard from over my shoulder.
Yes! She loves me still!
Just to ‘Lighten’ the mood…
The Sudden Stark Realization That MS Muse Was Not Real…
(An aside: Katherine Ross is The Most Beautiful Woman In The History of “Woman.”—Precisely Why My MS Muse is Moniker’ed “Katherine.”)
And “The Graduate” is one of the Greatest Movies Ever Made.—Don’t Believe Me?—Just Ask My Muse, Katherine. She’ll Set You Straight as you are picking yourself up off the floor. (Remember, She has that Devastation Right Hook. And, Trust me on this: She Does Not Suffer Fools)
Woke up in Total Darkness
And To The Sound of Silence.
No CNN White Noise.
No computer purring/whirring.
Not even MS Muse Snoring.
Power was out!
Looked out my back door.
Then it all made sense.
Shut the door and went back inside.
Fumbled around and found my flashlight.
Discovered a note pinned to my pillow.
It was from MS Muse (Who else?)
“Hey Asshole, (She is so sweet), I am mounting my broom and flying the fuck outta this dump. You may reach me at The Magnuson Hotel (they have a backup generator) once you get this shit sorted and the lights back on.
This is a True, Recent Story: Not Something From ‘The Archives.’
No Names Have Been Changed To Protect Innocents
(Because I Don’t Know Any)
It was recently brought to my attention that there is a rumor making the circuit in My Home Town of Honey Grove:
“Lance Marcom was found dead.”
(Not sure where or why or how they found me, but those would just be superfluous details—no need for them—not in a small Texas Town)
And ‘THOSE‘ would (most likely) just be Tales Told By Idiots, Full Of Sound And Fury, Signifying Nothing
Of course this made me laugh hysterically—and also made my day—no such thing as ‘bad press’ for a wanna-be fledgling writer.
So, ‘Thank-You-Very-Mucho-Much’ to whoever started this story.
While I was still laughing my ass off on the phone with my very good old friend who had brought this News to me, a brilliant idea began to gestate in my mind:
“Hey Johnny! Let’s run with this. You tell everyone that you have confirmed the veracity of this report. Then you set up a GoFundMe page for the Funeral Expenses—Should Fly—My Poverty is Well-Documented.
We’ll split the ‘Charitable’ Proceeds 50/50.”
(I have always had a bit of larceny in my bones and in my genes and in my heart)
“I’m on it.” said Johnny, “But do you honestly think anyone gives a shit about “Lance Marcom?”
“Print Up some Flyers; scatter them around in Ladonia–the ‘Marcom Name’ still carries a bit of weight there, Because of My Grandfather.
You know of him. He was the Town Doctor who would accept chickens, or pigs, or heifers, in lieu of money. He was loved and belov’d.”
I detected a ‘smirk’ (Remotely–on my Smart-Phone) crawling all-over-the-face of my Friend at the mention of ‘Heifers.’
“Johnny, they were ‘four-legg’d heifers–that’s all.’ My Grandfather Marcom was a Fucking Methodist!
And Allow me to reiterate.
I’ve been riding fare-free and care-free on his ‘Fame-Train’ all my life. “
Plan Incubated and Hatched—Now for the execution of same—no Pun
As an aside, if the Police Do Get Involved, The Numero-Uno Prime Suspect Will Be Guess Who?
“I’m not dead. I feel fine. Think I’ll go for a walk…”