Night of Dennis

“I’m leaving you Richard. Don’t try and stop me.”

The clock blinked 12:18 in giant red letters; quite useless. Richard’s eyes focused on an oddly familiar silhouette partially lit. He was a man with black hair, blue eyes and sharp, cut stoic lines consisting of scars wrinkles and blisters. His name was Dennis Hatcher. Underneath Richard’s bed there was a manuscript titled The Days of Dennis. It was anthology of short stories involving the many lives of Dennis Hatcher: beekeeper, solider, playboy, spy. It was a work of fiction, until very recently.

Richard tugged the cord and the lights turned on revealing a powder blue suit and a gargantuan revolver fit snuggly in leather under the pit of Richard’s creation.

“It’s quite impressive in real life isn’t it.” Dennis unsheathed the revolver. “The Taurus Raging Bull is a .454 Casull with five shots of pure hell. According to your calculations that makes it .14 better than Dirty Harry’s gun. Right?” Dennis looked directly into Richard’s eyes. “The gun is shit Rich. I am two hundred  of the most well toned muscle you can imagine and my shoulders ache when I fire it. I don’t want it, you want it?”

“No, I don’t need a gun.”

“Well suit yourself.” Dennis left the firearm on the nightstand. Rich was still not quite sure if this was a dream state or not but he put on his glasses figuring he’d need them in either case.

“What brought this sudden bout of existence on?”

“I was dancing with Sylvia Longhorn at the Ukrainian Embassy in DC about ten pages back and I suddenly felt deja vu. Of course, you know good and well that wasn’t deja vu. You had just salvaged that bit from The Night of The Long Nines. You’ve been doing that a lot lately. I start feeling wrong sometimes, like I’m teething, going through puberty and dying of Alzheimer’s Disease all at once. It’s all a bit disconcerting.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been re-purposing the old stories. Trying to make them profitable.”

“Yet here you stay in the worst apartment $400 can buy. It’s working brilliantly for you isn’t it.”

“I know it’s been a bit meager lately but I think I’m working through my block.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just making dumb action porn. I haven’t had real character development in months. Worse still, you made me smoke cloves. I’ve been using SNUS since I was 22. I hate cloves.”

“I thought cloves are cool.”

“That’s the thing though, you don’t. You hated the smell and thought people who smoked them were assholes. You thought other people thought cloves were cool.”

“Is there anything I can do to convince you to stay?”

“Nope. Been a cowboy, an astronaut and a CPA; It’s time I tried being a real person.” He stop momentarily, awkwardly. “Mind if I keep the wristwatch with the laser? It’s pretty cool.”

“Sure just don’t zap anyone. I doubt it has a stun setting anymore.”

“Spoilsport.” Dennis walked to the doorway.

Dennis sighed. “Try writing a romance, probably the only way you’ll ever get a woman.”

Dennis left.

Two days later, Rich was writing again. His new hero had long muscular legs and a set of D cups. Her name was Sarah. She had a soft spot for losers. Rich in turn had a soft spot in his skull to match. He was not writing action porn anymore.

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