As the “Writer” shook his Pilot Pen in the face of the Waitz-like entity with his left hand, his right hand surreptitiously sought the lethal, brass-headed, Jack Daniels Worlds Fair Memorial Walking Stick that he kept in the umbrella bucket just behind him.
“Are you the real Tom Waitz or just a literary swamp gas manifestation in my blogosphere?” As he spoke the “Writer” punctuated his speech with carefully placed blows to the head and shoulders of the cringing pseudo-celebrity. Gojira’s mad yapping intensified the chaos.
The hallucinatory entertainer reacted appropriately to the “Writer’s” bludgeoning attack: yelling in pain, lifting his arms to defend himself, backing up, cursing.
“F**K, man. Cut it out! Dammit, quit! Jesus, stop! Listen. Ow! I’m not a freaking hallucination. I’m Tom Waitz. You know I live in Sonoma County. I used to come into your old toy and gag store in Occidental. With the kids, remember? Come on now, Pop. Put that thing down.”
The “Writer”, suddenly drained of energy, slumped limply into his wooden chair. “I’m sorry. This is just getting to be too much for me to get my head around.”
The Waitz being rubbed a swelling knot on the back of his head, bent over to pick up his jaunty hat, then reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw something small and shiny.
“I’m just here to give you this “C” harp. The big boys want you to add a little more music to the mix. They say you’ll know what that means and this will help.” rasped Waitz.
“And, just a friendly word of advice to a Western Sonoma County brother: You might want to tone down the Illuminati/ Bohemian Club conspiracy crap a bit. Man, they know where you live, and your little dog too. If you turn this “opportunity” into some kind of muck-raking manifesto, something unfortunate might go down. Can’t you just relax and master your tools and talents, before you start throwing down with the Powers That Be?”
As the “Writer” felt consciousness slip away, he could barely hear the tinkling toy piano solo at the end of “The Ice Cream Man”. He could briefly feel the cool, hard metal of the harp in his hand and he could hear the last words of the Waitz-thing as they fell down a long, dark tunnel to another level of The “Writer’s” own private Wonderland.
“Keep the Funk alive, brother!”