The Plot Bunny Farm

The art dealer pushes up his obviously fake glasses. "I've been around longer and clearly have seniority. She'll get to you when she has a chance."

"You would say that." The man in the red flannel shirt shifts the shotgun that lies across his legs. "You're just jealous that she likes me better."

"Jim-Bob, only your dog likes you better," says the third member of the trio. "And *he's* dead."

Jim-Bob scowls and leans down to scratch his dog. The balding hound looks up at him and thumps its tail.

"The dog is unimportant." The art dealer crosses the room to open the Venetian blinds that mask the windows. Light striped with shadows, like something out of a Bogey film, flares across the dusty room, illuminating bizarre props piled haphazardly against the walls. "She promised me earlier this year that I'd get my chance. I've spent all summer dropping tidbits into her ear, waiting for her precious November."

"Shoulda been a little pushier there, Dom boy," Jim-Bob says. "Everyone knows that gals like a guy what takes charge."

"I hardly think you are in any position to give me advice about women. Your own wife left you, as I recall. Whereas my own prowess with women is natural. My father--"

Jim-Bob interrupts him. "Whatever. She ain't telling your daddy's story, and it doesn't seem like you got yourself a woman to talk about. Not anyone permanent like."

"Permanent is difficult." The art dealer purses his lips. "Most women do not want to be reminded that they are aging. Especially if I do not."

"All the more reason for you to wait. You've got time--we have to take what we want." The third speaker peers out through the blinds. Whatever he sees, it's not what he's looking for, and he glances back at the other two men. "She owes me. And if she wants her alter ego to flourish"--he nodded at a Carnival mask tacked above a corset on the back door--"she needs to pay up."

The room they're in shakes, and cobwebs drift down from the lights strung overhead. Jim-Bob resettles the shotgun on his lap. The art dealer wanders over to look at the mask, presumably curious about its provenance.

"We ain't gonna settle anything this way, that's for sure," Jim-Bob says.

The overhead lights flare on, and the men shy from the glare. The Author speaks. "It's not your choice, you realize."

"That depends on how insistent they are," comes a soft voice from a shadowed corner. "As you may remember from previous years." The voice's statement is punctuated by a kraken waving from the saltwater pool on the north side of the room.

The Author blanches. ""You stay out of this! And Crackle--if you're lucky, we can get your story out next year. I need time to plan, time to think, time to breathe. I. Do. NOT. Need. This. Kind. Of. Pressure!"

The voice laughs. "You haven't seen pressure yet. But you'd better prepare all of their outlines. Just in case."