The evening Weird Jonathan comes pounding on my open door, I know it means trouble.
It's the last thing I'm expecting as I sit upon the roof, leisurely minding my own business. Then comes the big bang, just as I'm about to turn in.
The binoculars tumble from my hands and fall crashing to the ground. I scramble to survey the damage. It's worse than I thought.
Not only has Mister Lump Skull wrecked my day, he's just smacked my ceiling, leaving behind a big grease spot. Animal! I whip his lazy back with a limp dish rag. "Clean that up!"
His armpits reek of fear. Growling, I grab the antiseptic and begin spraying. He answers with a rash of sneezes. I stick my pitchfork in a tissue and shove it in his face. "What are you trying to do - give me pneumonia?"
"Ow!" cries the baby. "You stabbed my nose!"
Oh, so what?
I shove a mop and pail toward him. "Wipe those microbes off my pristine floor!"
Instead he trips on the bucket, slips on the mop, and lands prostrate on my bed. I gasp. Is that blood on my pillow?
"Get out!" I scream. "Get out!"
I see him shiver. Sure sign of a fever. Better not be contagious.
"Please, Dave!" he moans. "Please don't hurt me!"
Hah! Me hurt you, you unclean piece of freeze dried meat? "What are you doing here?"
"Well, uh, you know that Mister Bum Luck from the Filling Stones Film Company?"
I roll my eyes. "Sure I've met the creep. What of him?"
"Well, um, as you may know, he's making a horror flick about a teenage werewolf. And he needs actors - bad. Heard you're out of work. You interested?"
"Hmmm. That's a different story. Granted, I haven't acted much, and I'm no spring chicken. But I'd make a great mild-mannered teen. Who's playing the wolf?"
His wandering eyes are a sure sign of guilt. "Uh, actually, they were wondering if you could take that role."
He must be joking. "They expect me, who never harmed a fly, to act the part of a monster?"
"Tell the truth!"
"If you insist. Fact is, you can be a little obsessive compulsive at times."
"But... I'm just the messenger."
"I don't care who you are! No one accuses ME of insanity!" Fuming I lunge at him, nails flaring, mouth seething with white foam.
A black eye should humble him. Make that two. Add a slap to the right cheek, a scratch to the left, a little teeth gnashing for good measure. That'll teach him to stab me in the back.
Half an hour later the self-made martyr crawls out the door, naked and well whooped, to aim his final zinger, "Father, forgive Dave. He knows not what he does."
Forgive? What's to forgive? He's the one who trashed my bat cave. I lick the skin off my fingers and rest my hairy arms on the bed. Time for vespers.
"Father, I thank thee I am not proud like Jonathan, a murderer like Cain, or an adulterer like - like that psalmist What's-his-name. I sell sweet perfume for the poor's sake, and fast twice a week - more, actually. If anyone deserves heaven, surely it is I."
"Cut!" cries the director. "You've done enough damage. Made a horror film to break the charts. Even the camera crew ran off the set screaming. Now get, you mad man, get! Before you kill us all!"
Sounds like he just fired me. I wonder why?
I take a quick look around the set. What a disaster! Broken chairs, a shattered lamp, a door flung off its hinges, two bent tripods. Papers all over the place. The studio is in shambles.
And the strange thing is, they seem to think I did it - me, the CEO after God's own heart. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous in your entire life?
This has to be a dream. Please God, let it be a dream, nothing more.
It's my snooze alarm. Seven thirty already. I can't believe I overslept. I see my new bride has left for work, and Nathan's waiting by the car.
Thank God the werewolf thing was just a dream! I smile at the shining sun and look forward to a gloriously peaceful, not to mention perfectly normal, day.
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