Plot Search by Joe Dees

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I am in my dream world, searching for a feasible (translation: lucrative) science fiction story plot. Entrance to my world is obtained by eating six Sominexes and a hit of acid, lying comfortably on my bed, and repeating, "Plot...plot...plot..." until I lapse into the creative field of a dosed subconsciousness. Ideas circle and shift about me. Let's try that one...

"Life History of a Space Monster: A Biography." Nope. It'll never sell (the practical side of me is still in control). What about him...?

"Astral time traveler gets spirit lost in different era. Body found and committed to catatonic ward." I don't think so. It would require research, and I'm basically a lazy person.

"God's vicarious enjoyment of our sex lives." Uh-uh. No Way Hosea. My Christian friends and relatives would ostracize me. Besides, no publisher in the business would dare to print it. Anything else? No? Well, time to wake up, straighten out, and get breakfast on, try again in a couple of days, maybe I'll have better luck later on, I certainly hope so, etc., etc.

I gape, stretch, and shake my clouded brain into awareness. Things begin to come into focus. A large, bloated and generally fierce-looking seventeen-toothed ogre is wrinkling its pectoral skin at me. I somehow know this to be a sadistic smile. There is a silver mist undulating violently in the far corner of my room. Slowly I realize what has happened.

I rejected their life stories, so they have followed me back into reality for their revenge. The slighted Space Monster will mangle my body as the agitated Astral Astronaut rips my soul into tiny shards of disconnected thought. My mind cries out, "God please help me," and He answers by growling, "No dice. If I'm not fit to write about, you're not fit to save. Furthermore", He adds, "I'll consign what's left of your soul into a Hell so horrible even Dante couldn't describe it."

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, clench my teeth, and lie awaiting my imminent destruction, while what I surmise will be my last thought flashes madly though my brain: "Whatta helluva science fiction story plot..."

A long moment passes. Nothing happens. I open first one eye, then the other. The Space Monster's smile has changed; it now beams benevolently down upon me. The undulating of the mist has ceased. It floats quiescently now, a placid pool of opaqueness. I unclench my teeth. Then a Still, Small Voice from Above Intones, "Write about what has happened here. At least it mentions us, which is a lot better than annihilating you, and having nothing to show for it." "But Father," I logically, rationally and quite stupidly protest, "Such an outlandish and irreverent story would never see print." "It'll see print," He assures me. And He has kept His word.

I have but one small problem. The word got around. To date, twelve more stories are being written by me, under duress, about twelve other beings who, as the saying goes, 'made me an offer that I couldn't refuse.' Wait a minute; something's entered my room. (No, definitely not. You'll WHAT!? Okay, already!) Make that thirteen. They've got me where they want me. Oh, well, I'll just have to look on the bright side; at least they'll all be published.

Afterword: If you like this story, lemme know; if you don't, then complain to God (if you dare).