Tag Archives: stephen king

I Visit Stephen King Again

18 Feb

“Editor!” I yell, throwing my coat onto the secretary’s desk. “Editor, I need you!” I begin to spin around, my arms outstretched. “Editor!” I scream again. “I’m a hurricane of anger and I need you to come be my low pr–” Just at that moment, the door at the rear of the small office flies open. Editor races through it.

“He needs me to be his  low pressure system,” Editor says under his breath. He brings his arms in tightly across his chest and begins to spin in the opposite direction as me. “Here I come! I’m a low pressure system of calm. Here we go.” We start to collide, my fists pounding Editor at shoulder-level. Editor cringes slightly at the first, heavy blows, but as I slow down, we break into a warm, subdued embrace.

“I’m a cool autumnal breeze,” I whisper in Editor’s ear.

“I’m a leaf breaking from my mother tree and returning to the Earth,” he whispers back in mine.

“I’m completely erect,” I whisper back. Editor pushes off, grabs me by the arms, and briskly moves me back.

“What can I help you with, Kyle?”

“Editor, we need to talk business,” I say.

“By all means. Let’s go to my office.”

We go to Editor’s office, and I sit in the padded chair in front of his desk. “Editor,” I say, “I need to talk to Stephen King and I need to do it now.”

Editor seems none surprised. He simply opens his small, leather-bound datebook and points to a date close to the front cover. “Here. King is doing some press for his new book, Under the Dome. I could probably get you in later today if you’re ready.”

“Ready?! I was born!”

Editor sits quietly. The room is completely silent. “You were born what?”

“I was born! Let’s do the interview.”

“I don’t think you finished the expression, but I just don’t think you care anymore,” Editor sighs. He then closes the datebook and slides it next to a pile of papers on his desk. “I know you and Stephen have a fairly close relationship,” he says, “but I feel like you aren’t really as ready as you may think you are, and that maybe you and I should go over some questions for you to ask Stephen in your interview.”

“Ah, come on!” I yell, waving my hand at him. “Who needs questions when you’ve got born?!”

Editor furrows his brow and tilts his head slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?! Why do you ask?”

“You’re talking weird. And for the last three or four minutes you’ve been just pointing at different things in my office with no real rhyme or reason.”

“I’m feeling good. I just had a mix up this morning.”

“Mix up?”

“I tried to get loaded on a bottle of Dayquil thinking it was Nyquil, realized my mistake, then drank the Nyquil too. When’re we getting started?” I reach out and throw Editor’s pencil cup against the wall, scream my mother’s name, and leave the room.

By the time I reach Stephen’s home, I’m bubbling over with excitement. When I say bubbling over I mean I threw up a little bit and hid it under the cabbie’s seat.

“I love Stephen King!” I tell the cabbie.

“What smells like Ted Danson’s balls back there?” he asks me.

“Ted Danson’s balls,” I say, calmly pointing to Ted Danson’s exposed scrotum. Ted Danson and I were sharing a cab. He raises his hand to the cabbie sheepishly. He then tucks his balls back into his pants and quietly apologizes to both of us.

I give the fare to the cabbie and step out to King’s estate. It is exactly as I remember it from the last time I was here. I breathe in the crisp Maine air. “Honey, I’m home!” I yell, pushing the gate open. I skip all the way to the front door.

When I press the button on the right side of the door frame, I’m greeted by the refreshing, rustic sound of an old-time door bell. “How delightful.” I say. The door opens. In it stands Stephen King.

“Stephen!” I say opening my arms for a hug. He reaches out and slaps me flatly across the face. My head jerks back from the force of the blow. Lightly touching my cheek, I look up at Stephen with tears in my eyes.

“Hey there, boy!” Stephen exclaims, taking a step forward and hugging me tight. His mixture of violence and affection fills me with both anger, confusion, and deep, devoted love. He’s just eccentric, I think. He’s just an artist.

He leads me down the entry corridor and into his living room, where two chairs sit facing one another. One is large, pecan-colored, and leather. Its arms are heavily padded and it has a very nice worn-in look. The other is a fairly standard recliner with a cloth, paisley covering. Before I’m able to sit down in the cloth chair, Stephen reaches out and grabs my arm.

“No, no, no. Allow me.” He lights a match and sets the chair ablaze. “Please,” he says, gesturing toward the burning chair while settling into its leather counterpart, “Please sit. Sit in the hot seat!” He laughs wildly, the pitch ascending to a tittering shrillness.

“Stephen, I’m interviewing you. Shouldn’t you be in the hot seat?” I ask, smiling nervously, gripping my pad with white-knuckle desperation.

“I suppose you’re right,” Stephen says, epiphany dawning in his eyes. He leaps onto the chair and is almost immediately on fire.

“Oh God.” I say. Quickly, I run to a pitcher full of water. Stephen is fidgeting and flailing about like a man in the midst of a seizure.

“YOU SEE?!” he yells. “YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DARE AMERICA’S MASTER OF HORROR TO DO THE IMPOSSIBLE?!

“Oh yea,” I say, leaning slightly to the left to get a different vantage point. “Oh…Hey, do you want me to put you out?”

“NO! NO! THAT’S WHAT MY BATS ARE FOR. BATS!” Stephen calls out. From the chimney, several hundred bats flood the room. They douse Stephen King in guano. When the bats leave, America’s most prolific lord of ghouls and bumps-in-the-night sits, one leg crossed over the other, hands clasped and resting on one knee, his head tilted slightly. His face is held in a position of aloof coolness and his entire body–head to toe–is covered in bat shit. “So what’s your first question?” he asks.

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“Miserable” Ch. II

22 Jan

When we last left our hero he’d been kidnapped by a crazed fan after his car crashed near her rural property. Her name is Sandra Cullen. His name is “Iron” Kyle Irion. She has expressed a mad desire for Iron Kyle to write another blog entry including author Stephen King, whom she believes to be be a fictional character of Kyle’s creation.

I sit slumped on the bed. Eyes open, but not a glimmer of life left in them. I appear as I always have, but with a certain spark removed. I resemble a statue of my former self. Bloodrayne has just ran through its final round of credits.

The deep, rhythmic sound of footsteps approaches the bedroom door. Sandra appears.

“Are you rethinking my proposition?” She asks, lifting the remote and toggling to the “Play Movie” option on the home screen.

“YES!” My body jerks forward against the leather straps holding me to the bed. “YES, I’ll do whatever you want–just don’t make me watch that movie again!”

“Good.” She picks up the laptop, sets it on the TV tray and brings it to me. She then straps my hands to the tray’s sides. My WordPress account is still up. I go to my Twitter. (@localpolice I’ve been kidnapped. Sucks. Send help?)

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll get started right away, but Sandra, can I ask you a personal favor? I mean I’d only ask this of someone who really understands my needs as a writer.”

“Oh!” she exults “I’d love to help! What can I do?”

“I could really use some…well, some writing juice.”

She looks at me, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, I don’t…”

“Whiskey. Bring me some whiskey.”

“Well, all right–if you think that’ll help.”

“That’s right. It would really get this blog churning–get this blog burning–get this blog…something else. Let’s get me drunk!” I start to do the cabbage patch, but once Sandra starts to mirror me, I gag and have to stop.

“I’ll go get it right away!” She leaves, locks the door, and in a moment, I see the car pulling out down the snowy driveway and into the street.

“Here’s my chance!” I yell. I try my hardest to do a mild victory dance, but dancing while being strapped down is difficult. That’s why that paraplegic guy got kicked out of *N Sync so fast. I look around for a way to take advantage of my privacy, but quickly find none. “Well now what do I do?” I ask.

“If only you could go get a knife from the other room. There’s one in the kitchen. You could hide it under your bed so when Sandra comes to check on you you can stab her or something,” Aquaman says. [Editor’s Note: Wait, where the hell did Aquaman come from? You can’t just insert characters like that.] [Kyle’s Note: Oh yea?] [Editor’s Note: God. Please don’t make this a thing.]

Out of nowhere, Stephen King appears. [Editor’s Note: Are you serious?] He’s wearing a big red cape that has says “$tephen King.” He’s totally awesome. [Editor’s Note: You really just don’t care anymore, do you?]

“Hello, Kyle.” Stephen says.

“Hey, Stevie. You wanna help me out? Could you pop these straps off?”

Stephen looks at me, smiles, then does something creepy that I can’t quite remember. I then climb on his back and he carries me away to my home.

As Stephen flies away, I wave goodbye from the ground, a single tear running down my cheek.

“I’ll miss you Stephen!” I yell from the ground.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be back on Christmas d–” Just at that moment, Stephen runs into a low-flying bird. He says a bad word and departs forever.

I’ll never forget my friend Stephen King–and how badly I butchered his classic story of Misery.

“Miserable.” Chapter I

20 Jan

December 24, 2009

I drive my car to my friend, Wesley’s, house. I’m going a bit slower because of the ice. As I make a turn, though, I hit a particularly treacherous patch of ice and veer off the road. My car flips sideways up the road, then onto its back, then up a tree, then back down a tree, then into a river, then out of a river, then to a giant car shaped towel, then into a rock wall. I’m knocked unconscious.

I wake up being drug by a large, matronly-looking human, wrapped from head to toe in layers of winter clothing. It’s like that time my laundry got so dirty that it gained sentience and drug me to the laundromat to put it out of its misery. Concussed and nearing delirium, I close my eyes and fall to nothing once again.

I am taken to an old farm house in the middle of a snow-covered forest. I lay, bound, in what looks to have the falsely lived-in look of a guest bedroom. The inside of the house smells of antique furniture and the stiff, musky smell of an aged home.

“What smells like this much poop and this much doily?” I ask, moving my hands from a position far apart, then to one closer together.

“Oh! You’re awake!” A voice calls from down the corridor. A series of approaching footsteps soon follow. Momentarily, a large, moon-faced woman with a build like a refrigerator and the hair of a sixties house wife stands at the door. “Iron Kyle! I’m so glad you’re here!”

I attempt to rise up to make sex to this woman (as is my customary greeting when someone calls me by my internet name), but I’m strapped to the bed by a series of leather straps.

“What is this?!” I yell, struggling against my restraints.

“That’s just to keep you still while you’re healing. You got some pretty nasty injuries, Iron Kyle.” The woman has not moved from the doorway, as if she’s afraid of getting to close. She has a strange look on her face–a smile laced with a kind of bashful fear–she’s star struck.

I once again try to get out of the bed to pour my sex all over this mysterious maiden (as is my customary response when I star-strike someone), but the restraints halt my advance. “…I just need to find a w…I need to free my wiener…” I mumble to myself, surveying the straps.

“Iron Kyle,” the woman says, stepping into the room for the first time, “My name is Sandra Cullen.”

“Are you Edward’s mom?” I turn and wink at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Wait, is this a blog or a screenplay? What camera? Please specify.]

Sandra looks confused. “No, I’m afraid I’ve never been married. Never really been with a man, either.”

I give this woman a strange look. I struggle to get my hands close enough together to do a penetrating motion with my right finger and my left fist, then ask “‘Been with’ like this?”

She blushes. “Iron Kyle, you embarrass me!”

“I embarrass a lot of people,” I say, winking smugly at the camera. [Editor’s Note: Stop it.] A bit of dribble runs down my chin.

She’s walks to a small desk by the room’s only window, her back to me. She begins fiddling with something, then says “Iron Kyle, I have a confession to make. I am your biggest fan. I’ve read all of your blogs four or five times at least, I’ve read all your short stories, I went to see your play performed, and I have on my iPod all the music you ever wrote. Remember all those mornings when you came out to find your car mysteriously washed clean? That was me!”

“That was you?”

“Yea–,” she says, turning bright red and swaying girlishly.

“You know it’s breaking and entering when you smash the window of my garage to do that, right?”

She stands silent.

“I’m actually going to need some contact information for you. Those windows are really expensive and I–”

“SHUT UP!” She yells. “You shut your mouth!” Her demeanor is a mix of anger and severe disappointment. “I’ve heard that you artist/writer types can be egotistical little divas, but I never expected you to be like this!”

“Really? I kind of feel like that’s my most prominent personality trait.”

“I said shut up!” She steps forward and reveals what she’d been fiddling with at the desk: a syringe. She drives the needle into my neck and after a biting moment of pain, I fall asleep.

When I wake up, she’s craned my bed up so I’m in a sitting position. Sandra has also put a tray across my lap, which my hands are strapped to. There is a laptop on the tray, positioned just so my hands can reach the keyboard. My WordPress account is on the homepage.

“I brought you a computer so you could write! You can write more of your blogs!” Sandra says from the foot of my bad. She’s clasping her hands tightly together. She looks like a gigantic child on fair day.

I’m still struggling into the waking world, my words still garbled.

“No, no, Iron Kyle. It’s all forgiven,” she interrupts. “I’m not mad at you anymore. I want you to do me a favor, though.”

“What is it?” I ask. Sandra then steps forward and places a clammy, chubby hand on my arm.

“Well,” she’s now smiling with a nervous and expectant grin. “I’d like you to write a blog for me. I want you to do one with your friend Stephen King in it. I just love his character.”

“Character?” I ask. “Stephen King isn’t a character, Sandra. He’s a real human being.

She looks at me, confused, then stomps out of the room. I hear a childish, fitting scream from the hallway. A few seconds of silence follow, and when she enters again, red rings of moisture around her eyes.

“Put Stephen King in another blog.” She seems stolid and cold for a moment, then melts and returns to her false, bubbly self. “I miss him so much! He’s my favorite character!”

“HE ISN’T A CHARACTER!” I yell back. Sandra’s smile disappears and from her apron, she removes a copy of Bloodrayne.

“What uh…what are you going to do with that?” I ask. A pit of nerves opens in my stomach and a flash, somehow both hot and cold, runs over my body.

“We’re going to watch a movie. We’re going to watch a movie until you appreciate all I’ve done for you!” Sandra unplugs the laptop and moves it to a table across the room.

The TV is located at the foot of the bed on small chest of drawers. The DVD player sits atop the set like some foreboding king or seer.

“Don’t put that DVD in there, Sandra,” I say. “Don’t you do it!”

“OHHHHH yea!” She says.

“Why don’t you–” I start, but then she does a few pelvic thrusts, then something with her hands, and my protests are completely derailed. I stutter a few times then just stop talking.

Bloodrayne begins.

To be continued.

(Source Material)

Sick Days.

9 Oct

So here’s the thing. For years, I’ve operated under the assumption that I had some kind of “Mutant Healing Ability” that kept me from ever getting sick or seriously injured. So, when Derek dared me to eat a handful of ACL mud in exchange for a sip from his water bottle, I didn’t hesitate for a second.

Today, I am sick. I have what the medical world refers to as “Strep throat.” At least that’s what I believe. My throat hurts like hell and looks like what I’d imagine Zombie Kyle’s throat would. I promptly made an appointment to see my doctor.

kylesick

Pain. Biological torment.

“Hello, Dr. Trammel’s office, how may I help you?” A youthful receptionist asks.

I sigh deeply. “I got the strep.” There’s a few seconds of silence.

“All right, would you like to make an appointment?”

I sigh deeply again. “Yea,” exhale, “Yea, we should go ahead and do that, I think.” I’m so depressed. I hate being sick–it really breaks my spirits. I just try to remember that even the greatest among us fall to illness from time to time. I think of that episode of Happy Days when Fonzie gets sick right before he does a jump or has sex with a girl or punches something–I can’t remember exactly.

“OK, well, we have a 2:45 time slot,” she says. “Will that work?”

“Turn that engine off,” I say. I’m hallucinating.

“What?”

“Get back to the cattle, son,” I say, then hang up. I sit back in my living room chair, look to the ceiling, exhausted. After a moment I force myself up out of the chair and into my bedroom. I disrobe and lay down in my bed to get a few hours of sleep before my appointment.

My cat lays next to me the whole time–most likely waiting for me to die so she can begin the slow process of eating my remains and stealing my identity. Cats are like the vultures of the home.

Four hours later, at around noon, I wake up and watch a film called Candy starring Heath Ledger and Abbie Cornish. Candy is about a pair of star-crossed lovers who, after years of drug abuse, begin to grow further and further away from each other and, in a way, further and further from themselves. Abbie Cornish’s character, Heath Ledger’s wife, gets in deep with the mob, and one night they take a knife to her and cut her face up. She feels ugly, so Heath cuts his mouth on either side, to show her that looks don’t matter. She rejects him and he goes crazy, starts wearing face paint and blowing things up.

I’m sorry, that’s not what really happens. To be honest, I don’t know what happened at the end because halfway through I took Candy out and put in The Dark Knight. God, I love that movie.

I get dressed and go to the doctor’s office in DeSoto. My grandmother lives in DeSoto. How fun.

I walk into the office and go to sign in. In the box marked “What are you here for?” I write “The doctor.”

The waiting room is crowded. I find a seat as far away from the other diseased humans and start to read the book I brought. A kind elderly woman leans towards me and saallw;jlshsaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiio Sorry. I blacked out for a second.

After a few minutes, a nurse calls out my name. Years of public schooling have taught me that she’s taking attendance.

“Here,” I say. She stands at the doorway, looking at me. “I’m here.”

“No, Mr. Irion, it’s your turn.”

“Oh, yipee!” I flip all those waiting the double-bird and walk through the door to the treatment area.

I’m taken to an examination room, where the nurse asks me a few questions, takes my temperature and then my blood pressure. The nurse leaves and later the real doctor comes in.

“Hello,” she looks at my chart, “Robert.” Robert is my first name. It’s what “the man” knows me as.

“Hello.”

“What seems to be the problem today?”

“Strep, I think,” I make a sad face and point to my throat.

“Hm,” she looks down my throat.

“I’ve been strep-ed of all my dignity,” I say.

“Oh, now, that’s not true.” She’s not getting it.

“I hope this examination doesn’t require a strep search,” I say, winking. She stops what she’s doing and looks at me.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” She turns and continues writing in my file.

“Oh, OK. I’m just trying to be honest, you know, strep-resent,” I raise my fist feebly.

She gives me a brief checkup and writes me a prescription for some antibiotics–something called a “Z-pack.” This sounds like poison, but I really don’t care. Death would be a welcome relief from my current state of health.

“Could this kill me?” I ask.

“N…no, that’s just about impossible.”

“Damn,” I say softly, looking down at the prescription. “Well, OK, thanks for everything.”

“Hope you get to feeling better, Robert.”

“Me too,” I say, looking back at her. A single tear rolls down my cheek. “Me too.” I get up off the observation table, walk past the doctor  and into the hallway, shutting the door quietly behind me. As I walk toward the reception desk to pay, I see the door start to open and I walk back and shut it again. “Don’t come out until I leave,” I say to the doctor on the other side. “You’re going to ruin the moment.” I walk back to reception. “She’s trying to ruin the moment,” I say. “How much will this be?”

The drive home is easy. I go to HEB to pick up my prescription. I go home. I prepare a glass of water. I take my pill. My pill is taken. I walk into the living room. I sit down. I begin to read a Stephen King novel. I fall asleep. When I wake up, Stephen King is in my living room.

“Stephen, I didn’t expect you, where–”

“Shut up, maggot. You shut your damn mouth. What’s going on here?”

“What? I’m sick, I–”

“HOW COULD YOU FALL ASLEEP WHILE READING ONE OF MY NOVELS?! You think I don’t know when that happens? I’m Stephen King! I’m more than a man. You know that book It? Totally autobiographical.”

“Wait, are you the clown or the kids, or–”

“I’m the STEPHEN KING!”

“Wait, what? This is getting stupid. That book is not autobiographical. I also don’t think you’re the real Stephen King, I think you’re just a hallucination.”

“Maybe I am…or maybe you are…” Stephen lifts his left hand and points at me. Then he slowly walks forward making “OoOo” ghost sounds.

“St..Stephen, stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” Stephen lowers his hand, jumps on Mr. T’s back (who had come in during me and Stephen’s initial interaction), and flies away. This is what happens when you mix horror-suspense novels, antibiotics, and a lot of artificial sweeteners.

“Who was that?” the Easter Bunny asks, entering with a bowl of soup and a glass of orange juice.

“Wait, what was what?” I turn to look at the giant, pink, festive rabbit.

“Stephen King just rode away on Mr. T’s back.”

“That was…real?”

“Oh hell no. I’m just messing with you,” the Easter Bunny says, “None of this is real, in fact. Hallucinations and all. You drank a whole bottle of cough syrup.”

I wake up hours later in my room feeling slightly better but totally strung out. I hate being sick.

The End.

My Day With Stephen King

5 Aug

Have you ever seen The Shining? Have you ever seen Carrie? Have you ever seen It? These are all movies based on stories by Stephen King–America’s number one horror factory. I recently learned that one of my favorite films, The Shawshank Redemption, is also based on a book of his.

As a writer myself, I can’t help but admire King’s ability to craft fine narrative and create believable characters. I had my editor get in touch with Stephen King’s people, and he agreed to let me shadow him for a day.

I reached his beautiful Maine estate at noon. I got out of the taxi and looked at the gate in front of King’s home. The gate has been constructed to resemble a spider web. Atop each column sits an iron bat statue. I take a few steps forward and reach my quivering hand out to open the black metal latch. A car honk from behind makes me nearly leap out of my skin.

“EY! You gonna pay me ah what?” The driver of my taxi yelled from behind me. He sounds like a mean Will Hunting.

“I’m going to–” I pause, still set off-kilter by the home’s appearance. “Where I’m going, driver–” I look to the house. “There is no ‘fare.’ There is only blood and terror. There is also shit tons of money–most of which, I’m guessing, is kept in an underground vault that Stephen goes swimming in.” I dream of Scrooge McDuck.

“You gonna get any uh dat money to pay me with?”

“Hey man, how about you get out of here and stop ruining this moment for me? Seriously.” I issue him a dismissive hand wave and walk towards the gate. An empty Miller Lite can hits me in the back of the head and the driver pulls away.

I open the gate and it offers little resistance. I take a moment to remark at how well lubricated the hinges are. After a few seconds, however, I come to my senses and jump away. The hinges are probably lubricated with blood.

I reach the door of King’s beautiful Victorian-style home and knock tentatively. The door opens and there stands Stephen King. He looks so nice. He looks like a Muppet maybe.

Handsome.

So disarming.

“Hello.” He says. “Iron Kyle, I presume?”

“Yes sir. Stephen King, I presume?” We share a brief laugh, then the room goes cold.

“Of course it’s fucking Stephen King.” He says, suddenly very angry. “This is my house. Come in, but don’t talk to me for a while.”

We go inside and enter Stephen’s office. He sits at his computer and starts to work. There’s really nowhere for me to sit except a chair with a big knife taped to it. He turns, seeing my confusion, and gestures towards the seat. He’s obviously annoyed, and glares sharply at me before turning back to his work. Stephen King is so eccentric. He’s such an artist. That’s why he treated me the way he did. He’s just brilliant. [Editor’s Note: Kyle’s only saying that because he’s afraid Stephen will read this and send something through the computer at him.]

Stephen King writes 2,000 words a day, usually taking between four and six hours. Today it took eight because Stephen kept stopping to turn around and flick paper clips at me. When I asked him to stop, he’d tell me “I’ll stop…as soon as you also have the Medal of Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. Do you have that?” to which I’d usually respond with a deep, deep sigh.

After Stephen finished his 2,000 words, he took me on a walk of his estate. By this time, night had fallen, the stars and moon in full view. It’s truly beautiful, and not at all that haunted. It is a little haunted, though.

We walked along the beautiful Cedars. The grass was full and deep green. Birds could be heard calling to each other amongst the warm coastal air.

“Stephen, what inspires you to write the way you do?” Stephen begins to answer when he suddenly halts his step and looks around almost frantically.

“Hey, Kyle. Did you hear that?” Stephen asks.

“Hear what, Stephen?”

“I think it’s…I think it’s a ghost!”

Oh god! Where do you hear it?” I’m getting scared.

“Oh wait…here it comes again.” Stephen looks around and farts. The smell is almost unbearable. I hate Stephen King. He laughs hysterically, punches me on the arm a little too hard and walks back to his house.

He shows me my guest room and I go to sleep. The next morning over breakfast Stephen allows me to ask him a few questions about his success as an author.

“Stephen, you’ve had so many great books. Several of those have been adapted into film. Which film do you feel most accurately defines the tone and message of the book it was derived from?” Stephen thought on this for some time.

“Star Wars.”

“What?”

“Star Wars.”

“That’s not one of your books. You can’t–” At this point, Stephen looks up and points his knife at me.

“Star Wars.” He says.

“OK, next question.” Stephen King reaches over and wipes his mouth with a twenty dollar bill. I look down and notice his coasters are all DVD’s of The Mist.

I heard you’re going to work with J.J. Abrams on and adaptation of your Dark Tower series. Is this true?”

“Hold on. Tweeting.” He then holds his phone up, facing me. I hear a click. I log on later that day to see what he said.

“@JJAbrams Writer kid asking about Drk Twr movies. Looks like a gayer Shia LeBeouf. Pic: http://bit.ly/uf0jX”

We finished our interview without serious interruption and after awhile I packed my things and left. Stephen King made a few rude jokes about my mom and told me my blog sucked before I left.

What a fantastic weekend!

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