Dear Mr. Stein,
A curious thing happened to me. I’m a novelist who you’ve probably heard of, as I assume you are literate. I was recently involved in high profile divorce from an actress I’m also sure you’ve heard of.
I began to get up, but I was too drunk and slippery from the lotion and fell, spraining my wrist. As I cursed, attempting to stand, a shadow fell over me.
I looked up, and there was an elderly man in a dive suit.
He gurgled something at me. “I can’t hear you, sir,” I called to him.
He removed his mask and snorkel. I immediately recognized him as none other than the magnificent author Stephen King. I felt the warmth of a tender lover’s breast wash over me. A dream come true. I began to feel it my loins.
“You stole my story,” Steve said.
“Excuse me?” I replied. The warmth returned to its eternal father in the clouds above.
“You stole my story,” he said. “The Skirmish at Warlock Ridge. You stole that story. You did. I saw it.” For some reason, he spoke in an Italian-American accent I couldn’t quite place.
I explained to him my story “The Skirmish at Weasel Ridge” was an original tale, gifted to me by a talking scorpion while under the influence of ayahuasca during Joshua Tree ceremony I attended with John Travolta and his spiritual shaman, Tracy, but I digress.
Mr. King wanted nothing of my explanation. “You infiltrated my house, you greasy boy. You came in. And you stole that story from my computer. You ransacked me. You left grease all over my keyboard. And what’s right is right and fair is fair. And I’d like you to fix it.”
“How would you like me to do that, Mr. King?” I asked, sweat dripping from my lathered body, my young Shibe slurping the salty sweetness from my toes. Good, Allison, you are a good girl, I thought.
“I’d like you rewrite your ending,” Mr. Mort, Steve King said. I could sense his hammertoes curling beneath his glistening flippers. “My ending. The one you wrecked. I can't decide what's worse: stealing my story or ruining the ending. Mine was perfect.”
“And how was that?” I asked, laughing on the inside, because, in fact, my ending was what they call, “perfect” in my own humble opinion.
“I want you to rewrite it, so the Warlocks give birth, mhm yes,” he grumbled, checking a Tweet on his phone. “I want your Warlocks to give birth to a young witch called The Slim Salamander. And that witch will spur a series of young adult novels and a trilogy of films in which I will receive backend points on the sales. And if you don’t do this by tomorrow evening, there will be consequences.”
I looked down to my slimy doge, covered in my fluids, then back up to Mr. King, slightly smiling, returning his goggles to his eyes.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Mort,” he said. He sucked a large, breathy draw on his snorkel and then fell backward into the water. His eyes stayed locked up on my slick body until they disappeared below the dark waters of Lake Ozark.
Within hours, a hellish assault befell me. Allison had been fed to a carp, then the carp was placed in my bathtub. My attorney, speeding to my houseboat on a small raft, was scuttled on a tiny island then stalked by an elderly diver (yes, Stephen King). I found human bones tangled in my rudder. And little notes continue to show up written in lipstick (Ruby Rose, Stephen’s little-known favorite color) on my windows.
The night is approaching and soon, I fear, I will be killed.
Mr. Stein, I have questions. I assume you have answers.
I want to get ahead of this, so I’m thinking some lawsuits are in order.
- Can I sue Mr. King for trespassing upon my houseboat, the “Sea Gypsy,” without my permission?
- I tripped and sprained my dainty writer’s wrist as a result of this trespass and have not been able to pleasure myself since yesterday. What is that worth to you?
- Allison grew very sick from the amount of lotion she was able to slurp during my convo with Mr. King. I would have otherwise noticed and curbed her intake of my oily fluids. Another disturbing experience before she was killed. Have you considered the toll it takes on a man to watch his dog writhe?
- Mr. King’s snorkel scared me. It was like the tusk of an ogre. I dreamt about it last night. Again, what is the cost of a nightmare?
- My bathtub smells like dead carp. Is that a tort?
- Can all those who have published Stephen King before be sued? Based on the content of his stories, one could reasonably assume he must have real-world experience. I.e. these publishers are encouraging him to commit violence for the sake of a wonderful book.
Please get in touch with me soon, Mr. Stein, or I fear I will become the plot of Stephen King’s next novel.
With warmest regards,
Mort Rainee