"Did
you ever suspect that when something really good is happening,
something just as bad will happen to even things out?" It
was his, word for word.
The mansion on the beach, the beautiful woman -- it was
familiar. He gagged. He was living his novel, and the hero --
him -- will be killed by falling space junk.
Again, something about an Apache shaman and some sort of danger
whispered in his mind, but the thought was too faint to linger.
The roar shook the house. At first he thought it was a string
of fighter jets, then he saw the blazing white trails in the sky
coming toward him.
The falling space junk.
Cliff waited for the inevitable.
The blazing dots into a thousand fragments, blinking into nothing.
Cliff laughed and shouted and punched the sky. Then he stopped
and took a deep breath.
He wasn't living his novel and certainly not his real life.
He decided to go to his first book-signing.
The blood red Lamborghini Gallardo, lean and vicious, was spotless,
and the interior smelled of new car and fine leather.
Cliff discovered he drove like he knew where he was going, which
he didn't. He turned a sign that was familiar but shouldn't be:
SEASIDE BOULEVARD.
Fire trucks, lights flashing red, were parked in front of a large
store, blocking traffic.
Bystanders were gathering in a loose crowd. Leaning against the
building was a scorched sign, "Literal Lovers."
A police officer was asking questions of an older man in suit
and tie, so Cliff selected a young woman -- very pretty despite
unkempt hair and over-sized glasses -- with an employee ID card
handing from around her neck.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Something came through the roof. Right through all the books."
Her eyes went wide. "Are you Cliff Brown?"
He considered whether he was or wasn't, then decided he was. "Yes."
She grabbed his hand. "It is so cool to meet you! I mean,
after Repetitive Stupidity Disorder you write Flying Monkeys and
then you come right out with Law of Equivalence, and its funny
but serious --"
"It's good to meet you." Cliff spoke the words not from
practice, but out of sincerity. "I guess there's no book
signing today?"
She dropped his hand and glanced at the space-junk-pierced sign.
"We could have been killed." She crossed her arms and
shivered. "Anyway, we can't go in. The city wants to inspect
the building."
"Sure. No Problem."
Cliff resisted the impulse to cruise the streets, and test what
he knew against what he remembered. Something kept calling him
back to his house, the sensation of leaving something unfinished.
He opened the front door, and paused to listen.
From rooms away, he heard the distinctive sounds of love-making;
a squeaking bed, a man's sensual growl, and a woman's voice --
Jeannie's voice -- moaning with pleasure.
Cliff instinctively knew where the gun was. His office. In the
file cabinet, under 'G'.
He crept toward the bedroom, the carpeting swallowing his footsteps.
Cliff hesitated outside the door.
This wasn't happening. He was really asleep on his air mattress
in the bare basement apartment. He didn't have a gun in his hand,
and didn't mean to use it.
Jeannie was astride Carter, grinding her hips, eyes closed and
moaning softly. Cliff waited and watched until Carter turned his
head. He bolted upright, throwing Jeannie onto the bed.
"Cliff, this isn't what-"
"It's not?" Cliff smiled and shrugged. "OK."
He turned to leave.
Spinning, he pointed the gun and pulled the trigger. He winced
at the sharp bang.
Carter fell back on the bed, the hole in his chest spewing blood.
Jeannie turned. God, she was so beautiful. Even when --
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