Christmas Past

I knew it was too good to be true. We haven't had to endure the disturbing presence of The Author From Another World for almost three years and last night he waltzed into Think-A-Holic Lounge, big as you please and still glowing all over. He bellied up to the bar and ordered a Buxx Brew from Angus. Then he unwrapped the big-ass package he had under his arm and held this thing (see pic) right in front of my face.

"How much will you give me for this?" he asked. When I didn't respond right away because my jaw had dropped onto my chest he said, "Huh? Huh? How much?"

"I'll give ya fi' dollars for it," I said, and slapped a Solar Fin down on the bar. A dozen heads turned our way and Angus McCloud, our big-ass head bartender, cupped a big-ass hand behind his big-ass left ear and leaned in our direction.

"Sold!" said The Author from Another World. And then he chugged the entire bottle of Buxx Brew, the malt beverage that makes all female creatures in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine (we drink it to maintain our dignity tanks when they're dangerously low). He set the empty bottle down so slowly on the paper coaster we all thought he'd keel over dead. But all he did was burp. It was so loud it hurt my ears and they're still ringing today as I write this journal entry.

"Have another?" Angus asked the indie author's shimmering specter.

"Nope," he replied and then he added, "See you in the funny papers." Then he left. Then I quickly hid that hideous painting under my arm. Then I ran.