Don't Stop, Splotchy Time!

I have two posts already scheduled for Wednesday and those were to be the only posts for this week, barring any imminent publication news. Yet, when you get hit with a Spotchy story virus, you have no choice but to write or succumb.

Splotchy started it off (in green ink)...

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me.

Then Chris chimed in with (in blue ink)...

I hunched down to see what it was, but as I did, the bus violently veered to left. I was thrown up against a heavyset Asian woman with blond hair. I pardoned myself, but she faced forward with no reply. Just then, a man wearing a jumpsuit of silver and gold stood up at the front of the bus. He was holding a megaphone and a box of graham crackers. He held the megaphone up to his face and began to speak...

And Then me...

"Don't look at me, keep your eyes on Mei Pak!" I looked over my shoulder and saw that the blonde Asian woman was deftly lifting my wallet and she almost had it out of my pants...which was really amazing considering I was sitting down. It was at this point that I had realized that while the bus driver was driving, he didn't look like any bus driver I had seen before. He was dressed like a pilgrim. After I had changed seats and some people got off, that had left me as the only person in normal attire. Mei Pak said to me...

Then Veronica emailed me this...

"Dude. Your eyes are really dilated. They look like fucking hockey pucks. What the hell are you on?"

I tried to answer, I tried to explain that I was not on anything. But as I opened my mouth to speak projectile vomit spew without warning. It was brown and sickly sweet smelling. I remembered the brownie I snatched from my brother's lunchbox just before I had left the house.

The bus halted. I was on the floor trying to focus when I felt the bus driver's hand on the back of my shirt. He dragged me forward, passing the box I had kicked and the discarded megaphone which I then realized were a woman's grocery bags and a Dunkin Donuts coffee cup respectively.
As the bus pulled away I sat on the curb. OK, I'm frying. I can accept that. And this is New York; it is actually possible there was a pilgram and a guy wearing a silver and gold jumpsuit on the bus. 'Happens every day.

I patted my ass and hips, and I confirmed that my wallet really was gone. And so was my Blackberry. I looked around trying to get a grip on where exactly I was.

That's when I saw the newstand. And the newspapers. And the headlines, which all read -

Then Paulie Decibels emailed me this beaut...

‘Di and Dodi Didn't Die!’ My jaw dropped so much that you could have scraped litter from my bottom lip. I held my breath and started to count to ten but the heaving kicked in around six as I tried to focus on the rest of the story and how the press, police and secret services were trying to track down the paparazzi scum who had tried to sell evidence of the Royal Resurrection to Buckingham Palace.

It wasn’t so much the scoop that had freaked me out but the hacks mug shot that was glaring out at me. He was a cross between Grizzly Adams and Ben Turpin, eyes at five to four. Not exactly what you’d call a handsome man but definitely, distinctive. I stroked my beard , put my sun specs back on and looked around for a barbers.



Now, the trick with trick with is that Splotchy tagged Gifted Typist and she was going to be one of my go-tos. I'll have to change the tag up and hit Veronica, Paulie Decibels and last, but certainly not least, Katie.