Drag

He stared at the blank screen. Wondering if there was anything left in him. He earned his fame by writing sullen morose prose in short form. Now he couldn’t. He met HER. Oh the glorious HER. She spoke those simple words, words made famous by the star of stage and screen the Diva herself, Cher. She spoke such simple words and made it seem so real.

They met at the Spigville Comic Con Con-ers Comic Con, or ComConCon ComCon.

The, “Why Comic Con Con-ers should read more prose” Panel was underway and he was getting the usual “a picture was worth a thousand words” bullshit when he started to lose it.

He couldn’t even remember which fat, greasy or both, glassy eyed, self-righteous prick it was that stood up and spouted some ungodly reference to some buffy, star trek cross-over that happened in fan fic or some other only-two-people-ever saw-it platform, and which BTW,  his “Glamourpus in the Barren Field” was just a poorly disguised copy, stated clearly that the Comic Book, oh sorry, Graphic Novel was the purest form of storytelling ever created, but whichever one it was, he or ugly-she was the last straw.

He snapped

       “I don’t care how the world is put together, if you want to read a fucking book with pictures then fucking do it. I DON’T CARE. If you want to read my shit then read it, if not then don’t. Whatever you do stop being so God Damned fucking self centered. Just because you read it first doesn’t mean it came first. Hell most of today’s stories are fucking mimics of the god damned Illiad. Your steroidal over built ridiculous heroes and heroines, who’s god damned breasts ‘bee tee dub’ are blown up to ridiculous and just plain stupid proportions —I mean really, Powergirl? Come on — are just modern day gods who you worship like the idiot buffoon you think the person next you actually is. So for fuck’s sake do what ever you want. I’m here because I have to make a mortgage payment. I don’t give a shit about whether or not giving Logan’s power to Cable would stop the virus or not. God damn.”

And then SMACK, and “Snap out of it”

SHE was six feet tall in six-inch platform heels. HER legs really did go all the way up. Decorated and formed into the most amazing of Amazonian women ever. SHE was what every greasy, overweight, asthmatic wannabe dreamed Wonder Woman should be.

SHE looked him in the eye and whispered that deep throaty whisper, Her adams apple quivering, “It’s only a game.” She checked to see if he heard and walked off.

It was a game. All of it. Everybody lost in the end. It didn’t matter, none of it. This changed him. Friends started to appear. He laughed every day. He started dating again.

He couldn’t write. The screen remained blank, the well was empty. Or was it?

He closed the laptop and took out a scetch book, drew a picture of his Amazonian goddess, making sure to over develop, and in giant box letters he drew the title

DRAG!