The Author

I made my way over to Ovarian Mountain in my coughing car with few miles left, headed to the author's house. The roads around the base were thick from the oil spill. I sped up to avoid some baby ducklings and pulled up to a stoplight only to see Shelly Vonavier's navy blue Hameroo in my rearview mirror. I slammed on the breaks and immediately got out of the car. I suppose at the time I wanted to start something with this bitch. Her stupid car, her sunglasses, her fucking book. Part of me wanted to photograph her for Bitch Century Magazine. The other part wanted to say, "So I'll meet you at your house then?"
By the time we got to the house it was dark. She served up microwaved curry meatloaf and pink wine. I toasted: to the inevitable gloom that is our nights. And so we heard the blizzard roaring outside and the smoke from my Hopscotches made a cozy nest beside my head as we feathered out the rest of the evening, saying one thing, meaning the other.
Finally, it was time to ask her: Did you ever sign an autograph for a man named Victor Vandido? And who can forget a name like that.
"I vaguely remember him. He had eyes like an abused coyote and his favorite number was six. He showed up with a large plastic man with shrunken elephant ears and a little pink round fellow about three weeks ago."