Writer’z Kramp

Our cat was an asshole.

He bit my Mom.

He bit my brother.

He even bit me!!

We all hated him.

Eventually the little fucker ran away.

Good riddance.

The end.

“Ahhh, another masterpiece,” I sighed, closing my laptop.

Oh boy, never had my inherent wit come so easily and effortlessly in writing my latest tale of betrayal and redemption.

Still, a nagging doubt hovered in the background of my brain.

“You know it’s all bullshit, Dude,” it whispered.

“Now, wait a minute Doubting Thomas I may have taken poetic license, but…”

“Poetic license?! Just listen to this clown? You know damn well that’s not what happened.”

“Alright, then tell me what REALLY transpired back then?” I said.

“Gladly,” said the voice.

My laptop flipped open, gave a twitch and a fat orange cat scrambled out of the screen. It circled my desk a couple of times before sitting down and facing me.

“Hagar is that you?” I squeaked.

“The name is Hannibal. Not ” Hagar,”  motherfucker.”

“Sorry, I forgot. I knew your name started with a H.”

“You’re getting senile, dude. And quite frankly, we are all getting tired of your crummy storytelling,” said the cat, giving me a baleful glare.

“Who’s we?”

“Guess?”

“I don’t have a clue,” I said, starting to fidget in my seat.

“C’mon moose breath, give it a shot.”

“Moose breath?! My breath doesn’t stink.”

“You smoke a pipe and drink tons of black coffee…I heard you even drank your own urine for a while.”

“That was for a Spiritual Cleanse and I only did that once!” I snapped. 

“Whatever, McBreath.”

“Give me a hint at least.”

“Fair enough. Here it is,” said Hannibal, patting my laptop with his oversized paw.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “The hint is my laptop? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Hannibal rolled his eyes and gave a prolonged weighted groan.

“Listen, figment of my imagination, just spit it out. Okay?” I said.

“Right.  Let me walk you through this nice n’ slow, so your aged brain can follow. Now, what’s in your laptop?”

“Mostly emails, class notes, junk like that…”

“Is that all?” said the cat.

“Some porn…I mean… social media and a few financial accounts I prefer hidden from the Misses.”

“Anything else?”

“Ummm…there’s also a bunch of stories I am working on in there too.”

“BINGO!” 

“Seriously?” I said. “You’re a character from one of my stories and you wanna give me grief about my writing? Well, you and the rest of the peanut gallery can piss off. People love my work.” 

“What people? Oh, that’s right…you must be referring to the three people that subscribe to that crapulous blog you write every month,” said the cat sniffing his bottom.

“My stories aren’t crap!” I said. “And it’s four people who subscribe to my blog, not three, smartass. You forgot to include my Mother, she totally digs my stories.”

“Pfft. Face it, Pal…your stories blow and no one reads them” said Hannibal.

“Bullshit.”

“And worse you take real-life characters, such as myself, and write a bunch of junk about us that ain’t even true.”

“It’s supposed to be fiction. I write to entertain people. I can’t write the truth…it would bore the crap out of them.”

“And how’s that working for you, dude?”

“I don’t know,” I said, getting up from my chair to look out my office window.

“Look, instead of sitting on your butt all day and writing crap, why don’t you pick a different hobby. Say, I hear there’s a cute hippie chick, with big hooters, who teaches pottery making at the local Senior Center. Rumor has it she does wonders helping Boomers and the mentally challenged express themselves in clay.”

“Ya know Hannibal, it’s nice to see that you haven’t changed a bit since I last saw you. You were an asshole back then and an even bigger one now,” I said, turning from the window, only to find myself alone.

Flashing on my laptop screen was a typed message – ‘ Dear Malodorous One, Had to use the catbox. Expect two more visitations in the next twenty-four hours. Signed, Hannibal.  P.S. Buy some friggin’ Tic Tacs, ya loser.’

“Shit. I’m trapped in a Dickensian ghost story…and it ain’t even Christmas, yet!  I groused.

*

It was after midnight, and I was just closing my eyes in bed, when I experienced my second visitation. 

This time it was from a recently deceased Facebook Writer, who entered my bedroom dragging heavy chains, discarded keyboards, and old typewriters.

“Woe. Woe! Woe!!” he moaned, sounding like one suffering gastric distress while sitting on the toilet.

“For the love of Pete…Shut up already. You’ll wake up the whole damn household!” I hissed at the pale specter.

“I am your second visitor, and I come from beyond the veil bearing important messages,” he said.

“Okay, “Jacob Marley,” make it fast, I need to get some rest.”

“Ohhhhhhhh, Ohhhuhuhuhuh,” howled the ghost, rattling his chains impressively.

“I should have never accepted his friend request,” I thought, putting a pillow over my face.

“Woe to thee who seeketh fame and fortune as a writer,” he keened.

“I’ll fix thee, you blithering bedsheet. Now, amscray before I throw ya into a hot dryer,” I said from underneath my pillow.

“You’ll never be on Johnny Carson, mortal.”

“I know… cause he’s dead.” 

“He is?” said the ghost.

“Duh? He died years ago.”

“Ohhhhh, Ohhuhuhhuhhuh! You’ll never be on any other talk show then,” the shade wailed, jiggling his chains nervously. “Hollywood will never beckon. Your inherited destiny is to die in complete obscurity as I did.”

“Fine. Is that it? Are you done?” I said looking out from underneath my bedding.

“That is all,” said the shade, who immediately winked out of sight.

“Mmm…Charlie, I think the dogs need to be let out,” said my wife groggily from her side of the bed.

“Shhhhh…Sorry, honey. Go back to sleep. I was having a bad dream and talking to myself.”

“So, noisy,” said wifey, throwing her warm arm over my chest before conking out again.

*

I slept like shit and was in a foul mood by the time I shuffled into the kitchen. My Snoopy boxers flapped obscenely as I made my way to the coffee pot.

I collapsed into a chair and scowled at my laptop wondering what depressing visitation I was in store for next.

Imagine my surprise when I saw the Old Man waving “hello” on my screen when I turned it on.

“Greetings from Heaven’s Golf Course in the sky. Are you still scribbling away, Charlie?”

“I don’t know, Dad. No one reads my stuff and nobody seems to like my work.”

“I like your writing, alright.  Too much swearing in it though,” said the Old Man lining up a shot on the putting green. “Right now, your characters are in a pissy mood because you haven’t finished most of your stories about them. After all, how would you like to be stuck in mid-plot limbo?”

“Yeah, I see your point.”

“Just do what makes you happy. Forget about the result,” he said, making a putt.

“So, I should keep on writing?” 

“Hell no! Waste of time if you ask me,” said the Old Man tossing his putter back into his golf bag. ” But hey, that pottery class at the Senior Center sounds intriguing. Who knows…you might make a nice coffee mug to use at home?”

“Uh, thanks, Dad, I guess,” I said.

“One last thing, son.

“What’s that, Pop?

“Put some goddamn clothes on.” .