Bad Apple

I really enjoy being in Think-A-Holic Lounge on a sunny afternoon when hardly anyone's there and sunlight filters through the two front windows. I feel like less of a think-a-holic and more like a regular guy when I quietly knock down a few in the afternoon and then walk leisurely home.

This afternoon, however, there was this annoying hotshot in there (see pic) and I could tell right away he was from Big Apple City and that he was in publishing. I couldn't help overhearing his boisterous bragging as he talked the leg off Angus, the ghost bartender, and one of the barmaids who had nothing better to do than sit there and listen since she had no customers to wait on. The goofy smart aleck, who looked like Darth Vader turned inside out, kept pressing her knee and she let him do it because he had a reputation as this great big tipper in The Bad Apple.

I gladly listened to his lame lies and sorry come-ons as I nursed a watered-down drink, until I heard something that made me want to invite him outside and, of course, I'm not the type to start a fight. Especially not in a bar because there are way too many guys willing to do that at the drop of a hat.

Anyway, this publishing guy (and I'd bet a fin that he was an editor for a big publishing house) said, "Writers are like sheep. You simply lead them to the trough and then to the slaughterhouse. Zip zip. Hell, publishing is easier than shooting fish in a barrel."

I left the Lounge shortly thereafter in a big huff but not before the barmaid spilled a drink on that hideous creature and Angus stole ten Solar Dollars off him. I'll have to remember to give both of them great big tips next time.

A Warning from Hell

I looked in the mirror today and this is what looked back.

I said, "Who are you?"

"The Jersey Devil, who in the hell do you think?" it said.

Then I said, "Why do you look like one of the Great Publishing Wizards of Big Apple City who scare off all the new voices in fiction and spend all of your time guarding your worn-out lair of ethnically-chosen authors?"

And the thing in the mirror said to me, "Because we are one in the same."

I said, "You're wasting your time, here, because you don't scare me."

It laughed and then its image began to waver and fade, but not before I heard it say, "You'll never sell a book, Michael Casher, you'll never sell a book Michael never sell a book never sell...."

And then my own face smiled back again and I continued shaving like it had never happened. Actually, I was tickled pink that someone had recognized me as Michael Casher and not merely his alter ego. Just like a lot of psychological side kicks, I like hearing a good lie once in a while and then pretending that I'd just heard the truth.

Author's Note 5-5-14: That's right, you lurking Jewish bastards, It's YOU who kept me out of the bookstores. Because my fiction wasn't filthy enough to be promoted by whores and dark-souled greedy traitors like you and Steven Spielberg to fill your filthy coffers. God's chosen people, YOUR ASS. The Draconians invented that "iniquitous fairy tale" just for you people, because they knew how to get you fuckers by the short hairs, with the hideous notion that you were members of an "exclusive club" when what you really were was the greediest and most hateful group of human beings to ever cover the earth with your terrible numbers. You call us Goys and revel in it and when we type the word "Jew" into Google search we're committing a hate crime. Not on your life. Who in the hell do you people think you ARE? YOU are the goddamn criminals. And you damn well know it.