That night Joe went home and played with his new Nogwai, Joemo. The creature was extremely clever, and adorable.
He had stopped by a store and purchased some squeaky toys and, on an ironic whim, some fried chicken, then, on an indulgent whim, a nice bottle of scotch. Joe had big plans for after midnight. Maybe he’d even run a bath…
He sat on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed tossing a ball to Joemo between bites of chicken. Joemo started chasing the ball on all fours, plucking it up with one hand and scampering back on three limbs and pouncing onto Joe’s lap.
He’d laugh raucously with each fetch and reward him with a piece of chicken or a sip of scotch off the tip of his finger. Joemo appeared to like the scotch the best, having a blinking fit with each suckle at the tip of his finger.
Eventually Joemo started running to the ball on his hind legs. The first time he chased the ball in this fashion Joe had a hysterical fit and nearly choked to death on a drum stick.
The Nogwai wobbled around like an Ewok and Joe briefly mulled over the possibility of fashioning a makeshift loincloth and spear. But just as quickly disregarded this when he realized he was far too drunk to wield a knife or scissors.
Joemo stood before him tossing the ball from hand to hand eagerly. Joe chuckled and tore off a bit of chicken and flung it near his floor to ceiling windows. Joemo scampered after this delicacy on all fours apparently able to maneuver better in this fashion.
Upon Joemo’s return he tossed some chicken over his head and it bounced over the back of the bed, Joemo clawed over him, his tiny nails stinging and clambered over the bed and down the gap between the mattress and the wall.
Joe sat there and waiting for Joemo to reemerge with his prize. He took a long drink of scotch from the bottle and tried to focus his blurred vision.
A shape appeared in the doorway and for some reason Joe was not startled by this. He just sat there and drunkenly tried to bring the figure into focus. Eventually the multiple blurred and splayed visions of the shaped coalesced and a burly man was standing in his doorway holding a hatched.
“Hello.” Joe slurred, saluting him with his bottle of scotch. The man looked confused and furious simultaneously.
“Who’s with you?” The man asked.
“Oh, it’s just me and my Nogwai.”
“Mogwai?” He man asked, perplexed.
“What that? This Nogwai.” He jutted a thumb under the bed.
The man growled and approached Joe threateningly.
“Listen here you skinny bastard. I don’t know how the hell you know that lying bitch but you’re a dead man.”
“uh, uh, look.” Joe motioned to his body, “I’m doing good.”
He growled and swung back the hatched to bury it in Joe’s head but restrained himself.
“I loved that stupid slut. I murdered my children for her!” He stifled some tears, his face contorting, “How did you get to her? When?”
“Man…” Joe took a bit out of a chicken breast, gristle and grease smearing on his cheeks. “…I don’t even know what’s happening.”
A steel grip wrapped around Joe’s throat and he felt the sharp edge of the hatchet against his temple, the man whispered, “Gretchen, she told you everything. How we murdered my family and buried them under that house. You sold millions of copies of my crimes! I had to leave everything behind because of you! Had to chop up that lying bitch in the ocean because of you!”
“What?” Joe mumbled, petrified with fear, staring into the maddened glassy eyes of this man, this man who he had only seen in dreams.
“Gary? Gary Stevens? You’re just a character.” Joe mumbled helplessly.
His eyes darkened. “This character is gonna chop your stupid face up!”
Gary swung back, his face sheer rage, when a thin blade emerged through the center of his chest with a sickening wet rip. A spray of blood misted Joe’s face.
“Uggh,” Gary moaned, looking down at the three inches of bloody steel sticking through his heart.
A drop of blood fell off the tip into Joes lap and he looked up and to the right to see a cloaked man struggling to rip a six foot scythe out of Gary’s back.
“Who?” Joe asked bemusedly, on the verge of fainting.
Casey Jones roared as he ripped his blade free and Gary crumbled in a heap beside Joe, knocking over the scotch.
Joe groaned and scrambled to save the battle, “That’s five-hundred bucks you jerk!”
Casey leered at Joe as he drunkenly chugged down scotch. He hissed and swung the scythe back but halted as the bed began to rattle and shake.
The cloak furled as the bed flew across the room and through the floor to ceiling window and into the pool thirty feet below. He hissed down at the tiny Nogwai sitting in the middle of the bedframe.
“Joemo,” he chirped and leapt at Casey Jones.
His tiny mottled body clung to the mass murderers face as he screamed and shrieked, stumbling back and clawing at Joemo.
Joemo roared impossibly loud, causing Joes ears to ring as he closed his mouth around the mouth of the bottle and casually drank.
Then Joemo opened his mouth wide, wider, absurdly wide and hung there, his tongue shaking like a rattlesnake’s tail, insurmountable levels of spittle splattering off his victims screaming face. Then chomped down, taking most of the head off, just leaving the lower jaw to gurgle and eject blood at the ceiling in sporadic bursts. Joemo chewed furiously, crunching the bone and tissue to bits before pouncing off the still standing semi-headless body into Joe’s lap.
Joemo curled up into a ball and chewed as Casey’s body fell to its knees, the blood spurts less and less significant as toppling over.
Joe shrugged and drank some more scotch. Joemo swallowed and burped.
That night Joe had another dream with Joemo curled up at his feet, but he didn’t write this one down.
YOU ARE READING
The Writer's Block
HumorWhen boring Joe Smith decides he wants to be a writer his fate is dramatically altered and all sorts of crazy stuff happens. There's an asian old lady in it. She's magic. And... and... it's funny?
