I was on the verge of crying in my think-a-hol the other night around last call when Angus, the big-ass Think-A-Holic Lounge bartender, picked up on my blue mood and made a friendly remark."What are you stewin' over?" he cautiously asked me.
"Oh, nothing," I fibbed.
"C'mon, Jonco, I can tell when you're down," the big ol' Scot responded, "and I can also tell when you're lying. Now give, or I'll twist your ear until you do."
I knew that Angus, the big-ass ghost of a dead Scottish poet, was just being kind and polite so I gave in.
"Well," I acquiesced, "the other day I thought my other ego finally had a fan of his science fiction novels when this guy called Michael about his books and I answered the phone."
"Yeah," Angus urged me, "go on."
"Well," I continued, "he claimed to be a friend of a friend who was the nephew of a cousin I had who died last year. Or something like that."
"And?" the ugly old spook persisted.
"And he wanted me to burn some CD's of our e-books and give them to him so he could copy them and put his name on them," I blurted out, filled with anger and righteous indignation. "He didn't even have a clue that we published paperback novels and haven't done any e-books yet."
"Wow!" said Angus, his face and body language showing shock and utter disbelief.
"Wow, indeed," I said. "And I thought he was interested in buying and reading our books."
Angus said nothing. He simply patted my shoulder and poured me another shot of think-a-hol. And a double this time.
"This one's on the house, pal," he said. And then he disappeared into the kitchen to leave me alone in my misery.
By the way, I never met the insulting, outrageous caller who wanted me to help him steal my literary work and Michael's sci-fi work and make him a famous writer who would then compete with us. But I imagined that he probably looked something like this (see pic).
