Just something that came out when I was thinking about this year's NaNo.
The call of phantom trumpets heralded the arrival of my guest, who appeared amidst a puff of sulfurous, purple smoke. The tiny, potbellied pig opened his mouth to speak, but was quickly overcome by his smoggy surroundings and launched into a fit of coughing, which managed to unseat his top-hat. I calmly watched as it rolled to a stop on my kitchen table, then waited for him to regain some composure.
“Must you be so dramatic?” I asked, eyes beginning to water from the fumes.
“You know,” he began, and was briefly interrupted as the smoke detector chirped a greeting. “You may have a point there.” Then he let out a squeak-like sneeze, which sent his rose-colored glasses sliding half-way down his black snout.
“Gesundheit,” I offered, while he fussed with the glasses. “So, Mortimus, what brings you to my kitchen on a Sunday night?”
Mortimus settled the top-hat back upon his porcine noggin, taking care to make sure it rested at its usual, jaunty angle. Then, satisfied that his accouterments were back in order, he beamed a pearly-white smile in my direction. “Oh, I just stopped by to offer moral support for the NaNo kickoff tomorrow.”
“Just to offer moral support?” I inquired, having noticed his surreptitious glance at my late-night snack.
“Um . . . well . . . that and the Funyuns. You're not going to finish them, are you?”
A sigh slipped from between my lips. “You can have the rest, but I'm not going to fry any bacon for you again. It just creeps me out to no end.”
Tiny feet clicked against the tabletop as Mortimus made his way to the paper plate and the remaining Funyuns. “You are such a wuss,” he muttered, before happily crunching away on the onion-flavored treats.
I rolled my eyes and thought back to two weeks ago, when I had asked a clear, night sky for help in getting me through this year's NaNo. In truth, an otherworldly, cannibalistic pig with a flair for the dramatic, and a Funyun obsession, wasn't what I had been hoping for at the time, but it's certainly what I ended up with.
Mortimus derailed my train of thought with a hearty burp. “You got any soda?” he asked.
“You mean, pop, right?”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes. “You're so Midwestern, you know that?”
I got up to head for the fridge. And as I went, an old adage played through my mind. “Be careful what you wish for.” Smiling, I removed a pop from the fridge for my helper.
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