“A Very Merry Christmas!” Pierce Hart said with a smile.
She scowled at Hart as he handed over his ticket.
I’ll win her over. Hart let his inner light show through a radiant smile. She rolled her eyes. Orson had ducked into the Starbuck’s while the rest checked their bags for the flight to the convention in Frisco. Pierce had made breakthroughs with chant, rhythmic breathing and meditation. “‘Grey Dawn’ begins with the duality of the universe and works the reader back to one unified whole, pre big-bang. It dissolves the Yin and the Yang into one Grey Harmonic Ocean of peace and love within its circle, which symbolizes the universe,” Pierce pitched it to Orson as they walked through Concourse B.
“Won’t work. People want black and white, not grey. That stuff’s cold now. Dark and angry sells. Got any sexy Werewolves? Child Warlocks and angsty Vampires are hot, too,” he had said.
"But I've evolved. I am beyond duality; pain and pleasure. I do unity and unconditional love now. Maybe it's time I got a new agent," Pierce had blurted.
"Okay," Orson had said.
That hurt, Pierce thought. “Huh? Oh.” Pierce said, a little startled. “It’s a hat. That’s what goes in a hat box, a hat.” Pierce answered the clerk’s question.
Peace and love. He doesn’t get it. Pierce thought as he leaned. He wants darkness, and I don’t do darkness and anger. It’s just not in me. I am light.
“What? Yes I would like to check it along with my other bags, thank you.”
Darkness, anger… “Huh? Yes, I’m aware it has an octagonal shape, and yes I’m sure I’d like to check it, jeez.”
Peace and love… Darkness and anger… Pierce made out the distinct Orson gait approaching. Coffee in hand, looking so cheery. What's he so happy about? Pierce wondered. He has no right to…
“WHAT?! EIGHTY dollars extra, just for a hatbox?!” Pierce turned back to the agent. “You’ve got to be friggin kidding me?!”
“Yes sir, ‘extra-bag’ fee, twenty dollars. 'Irregular shape box' fee, sixty dollars. TSA mandated,” she said, smiling.
“Just gimme the box, goddamit,” he said.
A nearby security guard moved in their direction.
“Well!” she huffed.
“The box,” he said, his hand jutting.
“What seems to be the problem?” the security guard asked.
“That man is angry and out of control, officer.”
“I’m not out of control, I just…”
“Sir, please step over here with me,” the guard ordered.
“NO! I have a plane to catch.” Other customers squirmed. “What’s your name and your badge number? I’m going to report you.”
“Sir, please put your hands on top of your head.”
Pierce wasn’t cooperative and now the officer radioed for backup and reached for his baton. He moved toward Pierce.
“Thank you,” the baggage agent said to the officer with a smile. “Next,” she called.
“Die in hell you evil witch!” Pierce yelled as the officer slipped the club around his neck while he flailed.
“Peace and love, Hart. What happened?” Orson said as he walked up.
Hart scowled at the clerk, his eyes bugging out of his head as he choked. “AAARRGGHHH.” He gnashed in her direction.
“A Very Merry Christmas, sir” she said with smile.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Literary Agent Orson: Jabberwocky Jorge
“'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe; All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe,” Warren began quietly. Orson’s writers' dreamy faces were rapt in firelight and backed by the twinkling stars of a chilly, dry Arizona night. Their spines tingled. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son!...”
Orson leaned back. Hmm, Jabberwocky. How very Halloween. We should do this more often. Orson has tame, peaceful writers, he thought as he looked from face to face round the fire. That’s the only kind Orson likes. Trouble is “tame” and “good writer” are almost never used in the same sentence. That’s okay though. I must have control. These peace loving New Age authors are the best. They don’t sell much anymore, but God they're easy to manage. Looking beyond, Orson made out the silhouette of a lone Joshua tree in the moonlight. Perfect setting for a nightmarish tale, he mused. I’m glad I thought of this…
“I cain’t understand a word he’s sayin’. Can ya’ll?” Jorge, a western writer (every agent must have one), pierced the mood with his unwelcome nasal bray, the type heard up around Crawford, Texas way. He looked around.
What was I thinking? Orson wondered why he’d signed this unruly writer. Then he remembered: He actually has something to say and will sell books, Dammit. Well, at least he’d left his security detail back at the ranch. Those sunglasses make me nervous, Orson thought.
“Shhh.” Phoebe hissed.
“The jaws that bite…”
“I thought he said campfire stories,” Jorge hooted, pointed at Orson.
“Lower your voice,” someone said. Sasha leaned and gave the noisemaker a stiff elbow.
“…the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!" Warren intoned.
“Awe, this is stupid,” Jorge hollered, “needs more cowboys and less jubjubs.”
“Would you please SHUT UP!” Mara was outdone. The mood was fading fast.
“…And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame.”
“Ahh come on!” Jorge leapt up, “I cain’t take another second. Let’s talk cowboys. Remember the Alamo?! Mission accomplished!”
Orson was knocked off his log and barely escaped the violent attack on the interloper. Dust clouded the hideous grunts and sounds of struggle. Orson cringed. He listened, helpless, as blood-curdling yells pierced the chilly Arizona night. Finally, the din began to subside.
Pierce stepped forward, covered with dust and blood: “Master, I put his head in your trunk. Shall we leave the other pieces out for the coyotes?”
Orson leaned back. Hmm, Jabberwocky. How very Halloween. We should do this more often. Orson has tame, peaceful writers, he thought as he looked from face to face round the fire. That’s the only kind Orson likes. Trouble is “tame” and “good writer” are almost never used in the same sentence. That’s okay though. I must have control. These peace loving New Age authors are the best. They don’t sell much anymore, but God they're easy to manage. Looking beyond, Orson made out the silhouette of a lone Joshua tree in the moonlight. Perfect setting for a nightmarish tale, he mused. I’m glad I thought of this…
“I cain’t understand a word he’s sayin’. Can ya’ll?” Jorge, a western writer (every agent must have one), pierced the mood with his unwelcome nasal bray, the type heard up around Crawford, Texas way. He looked around.
What was I thinking? Orson wondered why he’d signed this unruly writer. Then he remembered: He actually has something to say and will sell books, Dammit. Well, at least he’d left his security detail back at the ranch. Those sunglasses make me nervous, Orson thought.
“Shhh.” Phoebe hissed.
“The jaws that bite…”
“I thought he said campfire stories,” Jorge hooted, pointed at Orson.
“Lower your voice,” someone said. Sasha leaned and gave the noisemaker a stiff elbow.
“…the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!" Warren intoned.
“Awe, this is stupid,” Jorge hollered, “needs more cowboys and less jubjubs.”
“Would you please SHUT UP!” Mara was outdone. The mood was fading fast.
“…And as in uffish thought he stood, the Jabberwock, with eyes of flame.”
“Ahh come on!” Jorge leapt up, “I cain’t take another second. Let’s talk cowboys. Remember the Alamo?! Mission accomplished!”
Orson was knocked off his log and barely escaped the violent attack on the interloper. Dust clouded the hideous grunts and sounds of struggle. Orson cringed. He listened, helpless, as blood-curdling yells pierced the chilly Arizona night. Finally, the din began to subside.
Pierce stepped forward, covered with dust and blood: “Master, I put his head in your trunk. Shall we leave the other pieces out for the coyotes?”
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Literary Agent Orson: The Bad Shepherd
“ba a a a.”
“…and do you, Orson, take Dolly to be your lawful wedded lamb, to have and to hold, as long as you both shall live?”
Orson stared into the innocent eyes; the beautiful black, non-judging eyes. Finally, we will be one, he thought, “I do.”
By the power vested in me by the state of New Jersey, I now pronounce you man and lamb. You may now kiss the wildlife. Orson reached for his lamb. His heart was bursting at this pinnacle of fulfillment long delayed. It was the happiest moment of his life, and then the phone woke him up.
He looked at the clock. “Yes Mother?”
“Orson, honey is that you? Are you sleeping in the middle of the day again? How did you know it was me?”
“Mother, it’s five o’clock in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep. Were you having that weird animal dream again? You know, my real baby was switched at birth. You didn’t come from this womb. Your head is far too big.”
“My analyst says Dolly represents the childhood I never had, Mother. What do you want?”
“Blame the parent. That’s the new thing, isn’t it honey?”
“Mother.”
“Please, honey, look at my new manuscript.”
“No, Mother.”
“Please, please, please honey… snookums.”
“Mother, stop it.”
“Snooky wooky.”
“No. I have a tight schedule. I board a plane for a conference in Vegas this morning. I don’t have the time.”
“No time--For your own mother?” she said with a dejected tone.
“For my own Mother? But you just said--"
“Oh that was silly nonsense, honey. Please. It’s brilliant. It’ll spare so many women the agony I suffered, and for only $29.95 it will be a bargain.”
“Okay, what’s the title?”
“That’s more like it,” Mother gloated, “My working title is ‘Boarding school: What to do when your baby was switched at birth with a demon-alien spawn with a very fat head.’ I know it’s long, but I can’t cut a single word without losing the full meaning. …Orson… honey… Hello, Orson…Orson, are you there?”
“…and do you, Orson, take Dolly to be your lawful wedded lamb, to have and to hold, as long as you both shall live?”
Orson stared into the innocent eyes; the beautiful black, non-judging eyes. Finally, we will be one, he thought, “I do.”
By the power vested in me by the state of New Jersey, I now pronounce you man and lamb. You may now kiss the wildlife. Orson reached for his lamb. His heart was bursting at this pinnacle of fulfillment long delayed. It was the happiest moment of his life, and then the phone woke him up.
He looked at the clock. “Yes Mother?”
“Orson, honey is that you? Are you sleeping in the middle of the day again? How did you know it was me?”
“Mother, it’s five o’clock in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep. Were you having that weird animal dream again? You know, my real baby was switched at birth. You didn’t come from this womb. Your head is far too big.”
“My analyst says Dolly represents the childhood I never had, Mother. What do you want?”
“Blame the parent. That’s the new thing, isn’t it honey?”
“Mother.”
“Please, honey, look at my new manuscript.”
“No, Mother.”
“Please, please, please honey… snookums.”
“Mother, stop it.”
“Snooky wooky.”
“No. I have a tight schedule. I board a plane for a conference in Vegas this morning. I don’t have the time.”
“No time--For your own mother?” she said with a dejected tone.
“For my own Mother? But you just said--"
“Oh that was silly nonsense, honey. Please. It’s brilliant. It’ll spare so many women the agony I suffered, and for only $29.95 it will be a bargain.”
“Okay, what’s the title?”
“That’s more like it,” Mother gloated, “My working title is ‘Boarding school: What to do when your baby was switched at birth with a demon-alien spawn with a very fat head.’ I know it’s long, but I can’t cut a single word without losing the full meaning. …Orson… honey… Hello, Orson…Orson, are you there?”
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