Don Quixote vs. Don Knotts

Real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas, is passed out on his bed in a disheveled pile upon an even more disheveled mound of laundry. He appears, in very real danger of drowning, in a puddle of drool, of his own making.

(gurgle-snort, Splurt).

It’s difficult to discern where the disheveled writer ends and the disheveled laundry begins. More to the point...it hardly seemed worth the effort to find out.

These were the thoughts running through Creative Voices’ mind as he contemplates his treachery.

He feels nothing but disgust for the output he’s forced to churn out to appease fickle Google Gods. Mere pap. This coincidentally...rhymes with crap.

This was probably the way Dean Martin felt about Jerry Lewis towards the end...

He feels nothing but contempt for the task-master who lies, prone upon the bed, nearly drowning in a puddle of drool of his own making...the one that was holding him back...the one who lacked vision...

(gurgle-snort. Splurt).

Sensing the vibe of animosity, Thomas’ faithful animal companion, (a 120-pound Great Pyrenees), Truman, is roused from his slumber alongside the passed out wanna-be writer.

The low growl that emits from the dog’s throat sends Creative Voice scampering back to the keyboard...

The dog could prove a problem. He had neutralized any warning coming from Internal CD player by removing his batteries. He had not factored in the dog...

When real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas, passes out...the resultant coma is, typically, good for a thirty-six to forty-eight hour respite from banality in which truly creative literary art can be composed!!!

Creative Voice mentally stops himself from using too many exclamation points for fear of waking up the short-story hack...

He began typing quickly...developing a scene...a sense of place...introducing characters...presenting...HIS NOVEL!

This was not the first time “Novel Fever” had stricken Creative Voice. Over the years he would occasionally be gripped by the idea and notion of writing the Great American Novel.

These attempts typically faltered due to lack of vision, focus, plot, and ambition. ...These ’Lacks’ were, typically, placed at the doorstep of Thomas...

Short stories are easier. They are shorter...and easier...and better...went the typical refrain from Thomas, when contemplating...THE NOVEL... (It’s always capitalized in these discussions).

In addition to this nay saying...on two separate occasions, literary pursuits actually failed due to outright copyright infringements and legal injunctions to stop any and all literary musings on the matter...

Lawyer bullshit...

Creative Voice planned his attempt well this time...

Real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas, had been writing, more than sleeping, for the past six weeks...this crash should afford Creative Voice the time required to hammer out the needed details.

He was also calling in help...the acknowledged ‘father’ of the modern novel...Miguel de Cervantes was lending his quill to the project.

Theoretically...Cervantes’ role would be that of a ghostwriter...since he has been dead for 500 years or so. Cervantes was the perfect choice.

Not only did he have the ‘stones’ to write the first novel in history...he had also fought in one of the most decisive naval engagements since antiquity...The 1571 Battle of Lepanto!!

Straight up...the guy got shot twice in the chest and took a harquebus blast to the shoulder which totally crippled his left arm forever!!!

(gurgle-snort. Splurt).

(forever!!!... Creative Voice types quietly...)

Creative Voice had a vision for his ground breaking novel. It was to be a ‘serious treatment’ of World War Two espionage that was to be truly epic in scope.

From the dark corridors of power in Berlin to the back-woods encampment of American fascists plotting the destruction of Democracy...Operation Iron-Zipper was going to redefine the espionage genre!!!

(gurgle-snort, Splurt)

(...espionage genre!!!)

What it would NOT be is the slap-stick, Don Knotts-type humor, that he was forced to prostitute his artistic visions for...

At the mental mention of prostitute...Creative Voice momentarily mentally loses focus...

(Oh yeah...Cervantes...)

Cervantes’ military background, technical information, and political knowledge would prove beneficial in moving the World War Two-based espionage thriller along.

Creative Voice would need to remember to do a search/replace command for “Swiss Pikeman” to “Panzer Tank” and change “Pope Pius V” for “Adolph Hitler”...but that shouldn’t take long...

Also...Cervantes pioneered the use of popular vernacular, over the stilted, high-brow language of the Royal Court in literature. That was some awesome shit.

It was this type of literary experimentation that allowed authors...like 500 years later...to write things like, “That was some awesome shit.”

It should also help in moving the dialogue along...

Cervantes spent a number of years as a purchasing agent for the Spanish Armada...obviously...he had some organizational skills...

Creative Voice’s scheming is cut short by the appearance of the 16^th-century playwright, novelist, soldier, and diplomat.

“Hey Mike!” Called out Creative Voice.

Miguel de Cervantes appeared put-off by the familiarity. After all...he had participated in one of the most influential battles in European History and redefined modern literature!

He arranges his 16^th-century finery while stroking his goatee and considering Creative Voice with mild contempt.

Creative Voice can be abrasively familiar at times...

Their new writing project gets off to a rocky start...

Creative Voice explains his vision for the book. There are problems with translations. Creative Voice doesn’t speak Spanish and Cervantes doesn’t understand what World War Two is. Artistic approaches differ as well...

“I would like to have a key-word density of...um...whatever...is usual in these situations.” Says Creative Voice hesitantly. He didn’t understand key-word density any better than real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas.

Still...he was (as he can be) adamant...

“We need to include the word ‘oyster’ as often as possible,” He reasons, “Perhaps like...sixteen percent, maybe?” He looks to Cervantes for guidance...

Cervantes ignores him...

Cervantes was busy trying to shoe-horn elements of Don Quixote into Creative Voice’s vision...Operation Iron-Zipper!!

“For a good novel,” pontificates Cervantes, “You need to have people tilting at windmills and other people attacking flocks of sheep. The aged author stops to consider his next point...

“Oh...you should also do something in a barbershop...perhaps while awaiting a vigil in the courtyard of an Inn...”

Creative Voice takes notes doubtfully, “You mean like kill Hitler in a barber shop?”

“Who is this Hitler?” Queries Cervantes

“Pope Pius V.” Explains Creative Voice.

“HERESEY!” Shouts Cervantes. “YOU WOULD DARE KILL THE MOST HOLY SEE?!?”

(Gurgle-snort, Splurt)

“Shhh!! ...ShHHH!” Creative Voice quickly recognized his mistake,

“Shhh...No, no...I meant Sulliman...Hitler is Sulliman...”

Shaking his head, Cervantes pulls out his quill and attempts to make changes to the text on the monitor...

“Hey!” Protests Creative Voice. “Sit down...you’re going to scratch the screen with that!”

The raucous debate spills into the dreams of the two sentient beings sleeping on the other side of the room...real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas and his loyal animal companion...Truman...

(gurgle-snort, Splurt).

In a swirling array of images...dream sequences take over the sub-consciousness’ of Thomas and Truman...

Tilting at Windmills...

...chasing a squirrel...hot sun...tongue lolling......rolling in the grass...suddenly...Thomas stops dreaming of squirrels, sun, and grass...his dream shifts...his roommate, Erika, on the phone with a T-mobile representative...fighting (another) bullshit added charge...company fights back...she’s tilting at windmills....

Attacking a Flock of Sheep...

...standing on a high ridge in the Pyrenees Mountains...Truman is transported into his dream...His instinctual desire to fulfill the role of the mighty Great Pyrenees as a ‘Livestock Protection Animal’ is strong...someone was talking about attacking a flock of sheep...in Spanish...Truman knows he must stop it...

Vigil in Courtyard of Inn...

...Thomas is waiting in the parking lot of a local motel. His mind is on his literary love interest...Betty. (It’s going to be one on ‘those’ dreams). In the dream he eagerly awaits her arrival...there’s a bag of oysters on the seat next to him....

Barber and Shaving Basin...

...Truman at the groomers...he is unhappy...too much water...does he look like a Newfoundlander?? ...he jumps about...pees for no reason...overturns the wash basin...dog groomer’s nametag says ‘Nikki’... she looks like Hitler...or is it...Pope Pius V...real bad Nikki...

With an annoyed start, Truman wakes up. He was on edge over the impending sheep attack and the dream about the bath had put him in a sour mood. He looks around. Thomas is still sleeping...an odd smile on his face...

Truman licks himself for awhile before he begins to listen in on the conversation between Creative Voice and Cervantes.

In addition to penning the very first novel in the western tradition...Cervantes also delivered the first ‘talking dog’ story in western literature...A Dialogue of Dogs....

Truman takes advantage of this fact by eavesdropping. He doesn’t like what he is hearing...

The big white furry dog gets up with a slow languid stretch followed by a vigorous shake of his head that begins at his nose and ends at his tail. He stops for a moment to scratch his ear. This reminds him to lick his crotch for awhile. Eventually...he jumps off the bed and goes into the backyard...

This movement occasions Thomas to roll over, “Oh Betty...”

(gurgle-snort, Splurt).

Upon hitting the fresh air and open spaces...Truman loses focus...he sniffs, chases butterflies, pees, sniffs...some other purely dog-related stuff...

He was in ‘the position’ ...shoulders hunched ...ears pinned back...staring off into space when he remembers...oh yeah...the bird...

He finishes his business and goes looking for his contact...

Truman finds him on a low-hanging branch.

Truman explains his concerns to the large black bird and they discuss it for a bit. They plan... After about ten minutes of this, the large bird takes flight...

Truman pees on the tree...sniffs the pee...acts surprised that there is pee on the tree...pees again...just to be sure...before returning to the house to monitor the situation...

As he goes into the house...three cats, who had been watching the interplay between dog and bird, began to plot. As Cervantes never penned, A Dialogue of Cats, it’s impossible to understand what they are saying.

Even had ‘cat literacy’ not been an issue...it would have been difficult to ascertain their intentions...cats tend to keep their own council...

Real-life, short-story writer, Edgar Allen Poe, is passed out on his bed in a disheveled pile upon an even more disheveled mound of laundry. He appears, in very real danger of drowning, in a puddle of drool, of his own making.

(gurgle-snort, Splurt).

It’s difficult to discern where the disheveled writer ends and the disheveled laundry begins. More to the point...it hardly seemed worth the effort to find out.

These were the thoughts running through the Raven’s mind as he takes in the pathetic spectacle before him....

“CAW-CAW!” The bird loudly announced his presence...

The body on the bed stirs...

“CAW-CAW!”

“Oh...Mary Todd Lincoln?” The confused author mumbles as he emerges into consciousness...

“Cervantes is stirring up shit and making waves in Reno, Nevada.” Quoth the Raven...

“Argh...not again? When will it end? Alas...Nevermore...” Complains the acknowledged ‘father’ of the American short-story...

Knowing that Cervantes was way out of his league, as a pugilist, Poe gives detailed directions for the Raven to follow.

After the bird takes off...Poe splashes water on his face. His eyes are blood-shot, hair in disarray...absolutely no saliva in his mouth...

He's jittery...although rumors that he was a drug addict are unfounded...for this story...he has the monkey on his back.

He prepares an injection of morphine...as a way of flattening out the rough edges of what, was shaping up as, an even rougher day...

He gets ready for the trip to Reno, Nevada...

Creative Voice and Cervantes were well into the editing process when Edgar Allan Poe makes his appearance in the Ranch-style home just south of Reno.

“YOU!” Yells Cervantes at the appearance.

The 16^th-century soldier jumps up and reaches for his sword. He’s not wearing one. Instead...he goes after Edgar Allan Poe with (his one) good fist and boots...he’s kicking Edgar’s ass...

Creative Voice cheers him on...quietly...

Poe is lying on the carpet with his arms covering his head. Occasionally, he would lash out with his feet...kicking at Cervantes’ ankles.

The fight was one-sided...

Cervantes had written a novel...he could go the distance. In typical short-story fashion...Poe was looking for a convenient out...

Cervantes lifts his foot for the killing blow...just prior to landing...Poe grabs the downward rushing ankle...pulls out a syringe...and injects 20cc of morphine into the vein running behind Cervantes’ knee...

Miguel de Cervantes gets a warm glow across his face as the drug enters his system...

He’s feeling mellow and un-confrontational as he drops his right arm and the diamond necklace slips over his head and tightens around his throat...

Standing behind Cervantes...pulling on The Necklace, as it slowly garrotes the Spaniard, is Guy de Maupassant...the acknowledged, European, ‘father’ of the short-story genre...

In a time before paternity tests, both men, Edgar Allan Poe and Guy de Maupassant, share credit for fathering the bastard short-story genre...as such...they both pay child support, although, the wealthier Frenchman is not behind on his payments like the impoverished American...

Maupassant finishes ‘choking-out’ Cervantes and lets the unconscious Spaniard fall to the ground before helping Edgar to his feet.

Seeing the collapse of his plans...and Cervantes...Creative Voice gives a shrill shriek and runs out of the room.

He heads to the Texas Theater and takes in a double feature...the 1963 releases of “Cry of Battle” and “War is Hell.”

He plans on sitting in the dark theater until the recent unpleasantness blows over...

Back in the room, Poe and Maupassant consider what to do with the unconscious Cervantes.

“What should we do with the unconscious Cervantes?” Asks Maupassant.

”I have a short-story idea about chaining a near-do-well to a wall,” muses Poe, “before bricking him in one by one until there is no evidence of his death.”

Maupassant considers this. “Hmm...intriguing. What do you plan on calling it?”

“The title would be,” Poe says. “Bricking Cervantes behind a brick wall. But...that’s just a working title...”

Poe grabs Cervantes legs while Maupassant lifts him from under his armpits...they leave to find a suitable basement in Reno, Nevada for bricking Cervantes into...

In the back yard...The Raven is smoking a cigarette. After flying to Baltimore...he continued his journey to Paris to pick up Maupassant before bringing him back to Reno.

He was tired...but more to the point...he wanted a cigarette...recent F.A.A. rules prohibit the practice in flight...

He was enjoying his smoke when the three cats attacked...tearing him apart. As his lifeblood seeps into the northern Nevada dirt he cast a sideways glance at what had become of him...

“That sucks.” Quoth the Raven...

The room was a shambles. The fight between the three authors had overturned furniture...broken lamps...and, quite frankly, caused quite a bit of damage. When Cervantes passed out...he evacuated his bowels. It smelled.

Truman was sniffing around in the debris field. He had gotten to the spot where Cervantes had his ‘accident’ when the serious sniffing began.

He lifts his leg to give his opinion on the smell...

“BAD DOG!” Yells the newly awake and (always) confused, real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas. “What are you doing?!? Why did you do this?!?”

Truman runs into the back yard...

After cleaning up the mess, righting furniture, and opening some windows, Thomas puts on his first pot of Poshcoffeeco of the day before settling in front of the computer.

He was surprised to see the machine already on with an open document...

He begins reading...

Not bad.

It’s kind of long for a short-story and the title was lame as hell. Operation Iron-Zipper?

Real-life, wanna-be, hack, short-story writer, Thomas deletes about eight-five percent of the rambling monologue before turning to the title...

“Hmm...?” He quickly begins backspacing the lame title and then stops, thinks...what would be a good name...?

Don Quixote vs. Don Knotts.

He hits the ‘publish now’ button......