Hey there fellow authors, hope you’ve got your heads screwed on straight. Stoves here. So I haven’t been two hours out of the hoosegow when my agent calls me up & says I’m washed up if I don’t get my ass in gear and write something on the quick to justify printing my name on his lousy agency masthead. It transpires that everything I’ve ever published is now officially out of print, the last 20,000 unsellable crates of Rawest of the Groins having been committed to the pulper just last month. Here’s to that! I can’t say that it’s my favourite work, although my editor did mention she drank only marginally while working on it. I suppose it’s time to replenish the coffers and restore my legacy. No matter, there’s more where that came from.
So I stroll into my agent’s office and say this, with a great deal of flourish and pomp: memoir. Halton Stoves tells all. From the gutters to gilded greatness and back again. Volumes one through twelve, hardcover, gorgeous filigreed spine, gold leaf and the whole kit. He threw up all over his desk a couple times, but I happen to know he’s not a well man. I expect to hear from him with all due enthusiasm very soon. Also the cheque I sent him in recompense for my bail money bounced. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.
In the meantime I’ve had a good look at this fine roster of mostly nobodies and ex-bughouse patrons and I’ve got to say I’m keen to see what you’re going to bring to the table. I recognize a few names from the literary circuit and various university bars and notice with no small apprehension that my old rival for both the Nebula and Whitbread (not to mention the attentions of the reading public in general) that ersatz Swede Tasty Yumyum is aboard for this rickety downhill hellride. For brevity’s sake (I’ve got to call my parole officer soon) let’s just say sir that awards aren’t everything and I hope you spent the money well. Also I enjoyed your speech at the Andy Griffith roast—I can’t say your comments were warranted necessarily, but I was glad not to have been the only person to be forcibly ejected that night. Well gentle readers, That will have to be it for now as my stenographer seems to have either fallen asleep or expired.
Yours,
HS
Dearest Halton,
I am quite pleased to see that they didn’t rape ALL of the brilliance out of you during your most recent “vacation.” I am also beside myself with glee upon reading that there will be a 12-volume memoir leaking from your scabby slice, later than sooner, I imagine, but disgusting spew is inevitable in this screwed-up world, isn’t it? 12 volumes should be enough to stop the flow of sewage from seeping in under my doors and leave plenty as reserve toilet paper.
Enjoy your brief foray into freedom. Write quickly. I have pictures of your last trip to Mozambique and copies have been forwarded to all applicable law enforcement agencies. I have also notified your previous “landlord” and he has assured me that your room is as you left it, Rosie O’Donnell poster and all.
Yours, in bile,
TY
You two play nice, now. And Halton, maybe you’re used to editors who vomit their stress away and tolerate feuds among their writers, but you’re in Marcus Carab’s town now. If you stroll into my office to pitch a memoir you better have several hookers in tow (better ones than your usual entourage, thanks. Which reminds me: tell Cindy I am *not* interested in reading her pitch for “Pole Survivor: A Life on the Grind” and to please stop calling.)
Now look, I know your contract under the Second Chances Program stipulates that you must mention your recent stint in prison at least twice in every post, but that’s no excuse to go throwing around words like “hoosegow” all willy-nilly. You’ll put someone’s eye out.
And for the record, I believe you are confused about the fate of your last novel (which is to be expected from someone with tapeworms in their spine) so allow me to clarify: the last remaining copies of Rawest of the Groins were not in fact sent to *the* pulper, but purchased by one Lord Gordian Pulper. I believe he plans to use them as evidence for a “just cause” defense at the Hague, where he is accused of genocide for attempting to poison the world’s water supply.
Carab, you santimonious so & so! If your name wasn’t at the top of this blog & if my lawyer hadn’t advised so strongly against it i would love to open up my file on you in a big way. i don’t need to remind you that you’ve got more than a couple skeletons in your closet, regardless of how many ‘persons of power’ you happen to be in bed with… but we’ll do things your way for now, since you’ve got me by the balls [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:IBM_Selectric_Globe_Wiki.jpg].
I spoke with Cindy by the by and she is not at all pleased with your ultimate decision. In fact I had to leave through the back exit of the club for all the screaming she got up to! I wouldn’t worry too much about it though, her name is mud in this town.
Ha! As in Halton. As in Hack. As in Has-Been (or never was, really, but you see where I’m going).