The Great Writer

“So I hear you split with your chick. You guys were together for awhile, right?”

“Yeah. Shits been weird around here. I can’t keep up with the great writer. He goes hard. Last night he came home from god knows where, wearing just his underwear, drunk as fuck, bleeding from his nose. He had four stray dogs with him.”

“Damn dude.”

“Last week at like 3:00am, he barges in my room, I’m boning my chick, and all of a sudden he’s right there next to my face, yelling at me, ‘You fuck like a bitch! Let me show you how a MAN fucks!  Get off!  My turn!’…”

“What the fuck? Who is this guy?”

“John LaFrank.  He’s a genius. I told you that already. Get this, he rigged up a sparring dummy with some old clothes and ziplock baggies full of ketchup, taped ‘em underneath the clothes where all the major arteries are. He’s been teaching my kids how to stab people. My youngest pulled a knife on me last week because I ‘disrespected’ him.”

“So what about your chick?”

“She’s living in the garage with the great writer. The kids started sleeping in there too. Like I said, everything is weird around here lately.”

“Alright man, well take it easy.”

“You too.”

Click.

3 thoughts on “The Great Writer

  1. I’m reminded of the movie boilerplate:
    “The events, characters and firms depicted in the photoplay are ficticious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual firms, is purely coincidental.”

    Like

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