It was a mildly warm afternoon, and my socks were moist.
What the fuck kind of hooker is that?
I don’t know. I think it’s pretty quirky. Something Vonnegut would have liked.
Are you writing for Vonnegut?
Well, I don’t write for one person, but Vonnegut could have been a reader.
Are you writing for Vonnegut? A dead writer?
*sighs* No.
Then ditch it. And don’t start with the weather. Remember Elmore Leonard?
Okay, fine. Let’s see here . . .
Sweat grabbed my nuts, holding them to my thighs, so I discreetly adjusted them from outside my pants. I cursed the heat and—
What is this? Are you kidding me?
What? It grabs a reader’s attention.
You’re being vulgar for the sake of being vulgar.
You think you could do a better job?
Fuck yeah. All right . . .
The severed head flew at him at seventy-five miles per hour, and when it hit him square in the chest, his ribcage collapsed.
Whoa! Stop! That’s not even what the story is supposed to be about!
You’re not going to stop reading it, though, are you?
I guess not. But still.
All right. Let me try again.
The FBI agent removed his sunglasses, giving me a stern look. He seemed so ridiculous, so humorless, I couldn’t help it. I said, “Is that what you look like when you mechanically fuck your vanilla wife in the missionary position?”
Come on, man. You’re just trying to be shocking.
Maybe. But you don’t dare to stop reading.
Holy fuck. Neither of us knows what we’re doing.
Maybe you should start with dialogue.
Huh. Okay, uh . . .
“It’s so hot I think my balls are stuck to my knees,” I said.
What did I say about the weather?
Yeah, but—
He’s right. No one wants to talk about the weather.
Well fuck.
Let me try.
“Holy shit! Look out!”
I didn’t know who tried to warn me, but I turned my eyes just in time to see a severed head coming at me quicker than a hummingbird. It struck my chest and caved it in. I couldn’t even scream as I collapsed. That was how I died.
No.
No.
We can’t have the narrator die. How is he telling us his story?
It’s his story in the afterlife.
Oh? Shall we end it with it was all a dream, then?
Okay, okay. You made your point.
Maybe we’re just not sharing an understanding of the story we want to tell.
No shit.
Maybe we should think about it. Alan Moore said every story has to have a point. What’s our point?
I figured . . .
Well . . .
I mean, I’d just figure it out as I go.
Maybe that’s the problem.
You think?
Guys, stop it. It’s been, like, fifteen minutes since we checked Twitter.
No, we have to write.
Write on Twitter. You know, in posts.
That doesn’t count.
*sigh* Fuck it. I can do this tomorrow when I’m less stressed out.
All right! Hey, there’s also a new show on Netflix we should check out . . .
THE END
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