“Bookshelf?”
Attorney Donnelly was all about proper etiquette. As long as I’d known her, she never referred to me as anything other than”Mr. Battler” without fail.
Somehow, the announcement of an impending air strike designed wipe out my entire home town didn’t cause the gravity of my situation to sink in the way hearing my lawyer, the dependable, unshakeable rock I’d grown accustomed to leaning on in times of crisis, call me by my first name did.
“I take it you saw the news?” I asked.
“Indeed.”
“You sent a copy of Jake’s manuscript to Morganstern?” I asked.
“I did,” Delilah said. “He didn’t budge.”
“Damn,” I said.
“Never fear, Bookshelf,” Delilah said. “I have full confidence that your brilliant mind will devise a way out of this conundrum.”
“You really think so?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Thanks Delilah,” I said. “I have to go save East Randomtown now Goodbye..”
“Godspeed sir.”
I kept listening as Delilah fumbled with the phone. Just before she hanged up on her end, I distinctly heard her say, “Mr. Hatcher, I do believe we’ll be in need of a new client soon.”
Thanks a lot, D.
The space phone rang.
“Battler, you moldy sack of tarantula crap.”
“Morganstern,” I replied.
“You really thought you could blackmail me with a threat to disperse the details of Operation Fuhrerpunschen to the world?”
“It crossed my mind,” I said. “I thought the man you answered to wanted to keep that info hush hush.”
“He does,” Morganstern said. “But he also realizes that even if that strumpet ambulance chaser of yours does release Hatcher’s manuscript, you’ll just be written off as some dopey, hair-brained conspiracy theorist. Hatcher. That alien. Uncle Hardass. No one believes any of the so-called ‘writers’ on your blog are real. Everyone just assumes you’re some dumb ass who pretends to be others just to drag traffic to a blog that will never, EVER attract more than 3.5 readers.”
“So why kill me at all?”
“Because if you keep going, you might attract a large enough audience that people might start listening,” Morganstern said. “And the man I answer to can’t have that.”
“He shouldn’t worry,” I said. “There are backroads in the Mojave Desert that get more traffic than my site ever will.”
“That’s what I told him but it’s too late,” Morganstern said. “You messed with the bull. Now it’s time to get the horns…up your ass.”
Click.
Late to the party as usual, Bernie and Blandie walked in. Bernie zipped up his fly while Blandie attempted to brush her hair straight with her hands.
“Aw sweet!” Bernie cried. “Seven layer dip!”
“Not now, Bern,” I said. “I’m stuck with a problem I can’t solve. Everyone’s going to die and I couldn’t feel worse about it.”
“Shit dawg,” Bernie said as he dipped a chip. “Whenever I feel bad I just kick a funky beat.”
I jumped up.
“That’s it!”
I ran to my bedroom, which was stuffed full of East Randomtown residents, and opened my closet. There in the back in a plastic dry cleaning bag was an obnoxiously bright yellow track suit I hadn’t worn since the early 2000’s.
It was my Funky Hear wear. Bernie didn’t need any. He never stopped dressing like a Funky Hunk.
VGRF walked in.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going to save our asses,” I said. “Bernie, think of the funkiest rhyme you can while I call a zombie author.”
“No,” VGRF said. “That’s ridiculous. Stop interviewing zombie authors. We’re all about to be blown sky high.”
“I made a promise to my 3.5 readers, woman!” I said. “I swore I’d interview one zombie author a day for 31 days and I’ll be damned if a corrupt general is going to stop me!”
“It’s too late!” VGRF said. “You’ve blown the 31 Zombie Authors Challenge! All the zombie authors are fast asleep! It’s 11:50 p.m.!”
“Maybe here,” I said. “But it’s already tomorrow in Australia.”
VGRF slapped me across the face for the third time this month.
“Damn it, you magnificent bastard! Stop being so brilliant!”
Bookshelf Battle 