A Visit From The Boys

It was a cold winter evening. The next morning’s arrangements were well in hand so I poured a glass of bourbon, stoked the woodstove, and retired to a comfy chair. Despite general opposition to TV, I was in a mood to take it easy. A brief respite from the worries of the world and then I’d turn in early. After all, I had to be up before dawn tomorrow and pre-dawn is never my happy place. I waved the remote at my Roku and…

Bang!

The front door burst open and a surly, lanky, booted, young man entered. With galactic arrogance he stomped through the living room. Ignoring me, he idly pet my dog; which normally would eviscerate any being entering the house in such a manner. My dog beamed.

A light dawned in my head. “Billy?”

“Good guess, genius.” He oozed a combination of competence, disdain, and reckless vitality.

A younger, bookish, fellow entered the room. He seemed uncomfortable with Billy’s theatrical entrance but acted like home invasion was otherwise unremarkable. His eyes hinted at tremendous intelligence.

Billy slumped in a chair and sniffed my bourbon. “Drinking alone? Not a good sign Curmudgeon.”

“Not to mention three way conversations with fictional characters.” His compatriot added.

“Doogie?” I sputtered.

“Honestly, you couldn’t come up with a better name? Was Eggbert taken?” He smiled. Then he arched an eyebrow at Billy. “If anyone in the room is a genius, it’s me.”

“Granted.” Billy acknowledged.

The lights flickered, then went out. Billy sat contentedly; petting my dog in the gloom of the woodstove. He was completely at home in the dark. Doogie leered happily.

Gradually, I deduced the source of the power interruption. “You brought the squirrels? You assholes! They probably got in the power main. I’ll have to clean electrocuted squirrel guts out of the breakers.”

“Correction, fictional electrocuted squirrels.” Doogie added unhelpfully. “However,” He continued, “they’re pretty good at such things. I’m sure they’ve got it well in hand.”

The lights came back on.

“I see your generator is in good repair.” Billy nodded in approval.

“My generator is not electric start.” I glowered.

“No worries,” Doogie continued, lecturing the two of us, “they killed grid power just long enough to reset the WiFi router.”

“What?”

“You’re their bitch now.” Billy laughed. “Squirrels, clever little bastards.” He elaborated. “Takes all I can do to keep ’em out of the Subaru’s engine compartment.”

“So, to the nature of our contact here…” Doogie prompted.

“Oh yes,” Billy eyed me like a hungry man addressing a steak. “We’ve had some… complaints. A few folks from Patreon, readers who’ve donated, more who haven’t…” He was all business now. “You really screwed the pooch dude.”

“I what?”

“You left the story in mid-conflict.” Doogie interpreted.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Roku was rebooting. The location was now set on Uzbekistan and the “watch list” had been replaced by a combination of My Little Pony and roller derby.

“Squirrels, they’ll get under your skin. Just remember, you started it.” Billy was enjoying my distress. “They’re in it as much as we are. So, we agreed to come here as a team; to eliminate distractions.”

“So you can get back to work.” Doogie explained.

On the table at my side, my trusty Kindle was rebooting. A vast library of e-books, my planned reading for the winter, was probably gone. “They’re fast.” I admitted.

“Wait till you see what they’re doing to your checking account.” Doogie added.

“You won’t have a pot to piss in, or a window to throw it out of!” Billy beamed. “Nothing to do but eat from your pantry stores and write. It’s all about focus.”

Jesus! They were playing for keeps.

“Look fellas,” I held my hands up in supplication. “I’ve been busy. Work, family, real life… You know how it is.”

“Meh,” Billy was unmoved, “your plot involved me getting pummeled by a transvestite MMA fighter. Cry me a river.”

“You postulated I was unable to shake off mind control. I beg to differ!” Doogie complained.

Yikes! I should be more careful about the tortures I inflict on my creations.

“But I have plans.” I begged. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“Stuff it, Curmudgeon. We’re staying here until the story’s done.”

That was as much monologuing as Billy could stand. He chuckled and raised the stakes. He dug a walkie talkie from his pocket. “Terry and Mary, after you lock up Curmudgeon’s money, start vaporizing data.” He was enjoying himself! “Then, if he hasn’t set the word processor on fire with brilliance by noon tomorrow, dox his ass on social media.” He paused and then had an afterthought. “Bart, beer me!”

There was a crashing sound in the kitchen. The fading but still visceral scent of skunksplosion drifted through the room. I gagged.

“You get used to it.” Doogie shrugged.

There was another crash in the kitchen. “Bears suck at opening refrigerators. You’ll probably have to buy a new one.” Billy explained.

“But, I’m going hunting…” I almost sobbed. For a redneck, big game season is both a religious pilgrimage and a moral obligation. Only monsters would deny me my hunt!

“Hm.” Doogie wandered around the room. “Box of ammo, clothes carefully hung where they won’t pick up household scents, boots at the ready…” He picked through my daypack. It was stuffed with mittens, a compass, a knife, a water bottle, and trail mix. “That’s certainly suggestive.” He kept searching. “This is conclusive.” He declared, when he found my alarm clock. He handed Billy my battery operated travel alarm clock. It was set to 4:30 am.

“It checks out.” Billy agreed. Billy knew enough of his creator to understand the only reasons I’ll see 4:30 AM involve the tail end of a night’s drinking or a pre-dawn trek to desirable hunting grounds.

“I’m conflicted.” Billy pondered aloud. “Hunting is a legitimate manly endeavor…”

“But is it sufficient to offset the shame of watching television?” Doogie finished his sentence.

“While we’re stuck in limbo?” Billy weighed options.

“Look guys, when I get back I’ll start again.”

“Fine.” Billy relented.

“No! I demand recompense!” Doogie surprised us both with his vehemence.

I sighed. Even my supposedly milquetoast characters were treacherous.

“In act three some stuff happens that you’ll enjoy.” I offered.

“Details?” Doogie’s eyes widened like a kid anticipating Christmas.

“Hippie tears! You don’t get to hunt unless I get hippie tears in the plotline.” Billy had smelled a negotiation and was going to get in on the action!

Meanwhile the unseen squirrels had cued up Dancing with the Stars and it was playing on mute. The little jerks! I’d probably have to burn the TV. I glanced around but couldn’t find them.

There was another crash from my kitchen. Bert had probably found the steaks I was defrosting.

Enough! Time to strike a deal.

“No advanced information for Doogie!” I insisted. “It’s merely an opportunity. Blow it and you’re no better off than before. So pay attention.”

“But…” Doogie sputtered.

“No! Foreknowledge will ruin your chances. Do not insert the Grandfather Paradox of foreknowledge into what I have planned.” I was adamant and Doogie was mollified.

“As for you, Billy,” I reasoned, “obviously you’re going to get your way. I can’t imagine any story arc or fictional universe that doesn’t have a heaping dose of good old fashioned hippie tears. Who could?”

The two men looked at each other. I had them! Billy’s desire for hippie tears was unquenchable and Doogie could no more ignore the intellectual challenge of an unknowable future than a bird could stop flying.

They nodded.

“Well played.” Doogie menaced.

“Nice dog.” Billy shrugged. Then he keyed the walkie talkie again. “Abort operation ‘mess with the author’. Repeat, abort.” He spied my bottle of bourbon and grabbed it. “I’m taking this.”

With a final pat to my dog’s head (some guard dog!), he strode out like a conqueror. Doogie followed, equally pleased if less obvious about it.

I’d bargained enough time for a big game hunt but it came at a price. I’d lost my second to last bottle of good bourbon, my kitchen was trashed, and the OS of every device in the house was corrupted. I’ve no doubt Doogie and Billy are monitoring my blog. They’ve got me over a barrel.

The snow is starting to gather and winter draws nigh. ‘Tis the season of fiction. I’ll start writing Attack of the Lesbian Activist Squirrels again in the next few weeks.