Never trust anything that's striped and spotted

I was floating through a psychadelic sea of color and light when I heard a distant pounding. I could see the ripples of sound pullsating through the ether. It graduallly grew louder as I began to feel my weight, and the colors began to fade and become on whole more sane. I could once again feel my face; specifically I could feel my keyboard on my face. I could still hear the pounding. It was a knock at the door

Yawning, I stood up and made my way to the door. My hand turned the knob, and I reproached it for doing so, but it was too late. The door swung open

There he was, a five-legged, three armed, half-eyed, roundish, blue and orange striped, yellow spotted, smooth-skinned creature with sharp fangs and padded fingers. He had two tiny wings whose function is a mystery to me, and a head shaped like no other object, let alone body part, I had ever seen before.

And he was four fucking hours late.

You put up with a lot of shit when you're hard up for cash, and given the arrangement, I suppose this was worth it. Try and tell me that when I've just been woken up at 5 in the morning, having collapsed on my keyboard at 4 after getting up at 6 the previous day, though.

This was Kizzitoran. I am his gag writer. Its a fairly well paying gig, but the downside is that Kizzit (as I call him) doesn't understand the meaning of the word "appointment."

You see, for a being as fucked-up-looking as Kizzit, getting a proper scare out of someone can be difficult, because 3 times out of 10 they either merely get weirded out, or get the idea that someone put fucking lsd in their cereal or something. The other 7 times the victim simply refuses to believe that such a creature exists, and therefore cannot believe that he is scary.

My job was to overcome that weakness with good material. So far I had done some good work down in the way of Kizzit-friendly variations of old standard scares, as well as a few originals. Kizzit had come to pick up my latest work. Usually, I go over it with him, but I was too fucking tired. I explained to him why this was his fault and how he could therefore get bent. He hung his head and trudged out of my apartment.

I put my latest paycheck in my drawer, and at long last went to sleep.

Why couldn't I have gotten a job as a waiter like a normal person?

1 comment:

  1. My job just sounds downright dull compared to what yours was. :)