"Please please please explain how this caravaning system all works" Yishick begged me.
I needed to write the worst short story of the year, if I'm to maintain writing a short story once a week, every week, for 52 weeks straight, well logically one of the stories had to be the worst one. I needed to break the good story streak. But my assistant Yishick continued to ask me questions I didn't have the answers so.
"I don't know how caravaning works, people rent one and then go off for a few months" I replied
"What do they do?"
"I DON'T KNOW!" I yelled. I saw Yishick recoil in horror and I quickly aplogized. "I'm sorry, I'm on a deadline you see"
"What story are you trying to write?" Yishick asked
"A bad one" I replied
"Well if you want a bad story, you should write about writing, those are the worst stories" Yishick said. I mulled this over when suddenly Yishick produced a huge [WATER PIPE] and then proceeded to smoke the entire [REDACTED] in a single breath, collapsing into my bean bag chair where he would remain for another few hours.
"Writing about writing" I said "what a bad idea". I got out my personal recorder and began to dictate something off the top of my head
"Worstchire Genald was the greatest writer of his generation and had many fabulous books, each one greater than the last. His secret was he sold his soul to the devil so that everything he wrote would be a wild success. He set off the write The Worst Book of all time, which he had determined was about a writing professor, in the area of America known as New England, working at an unnamed elite school, who has an affair while suffering from a long case of writer's block. Worstchire sat down at his magic keyboard, which was made of the bones of a hundred extinct birds, and sat down, his fingers creating a menacing clacking noise as he giggled to himself, imagining the name of this insufferable professor and what kind of car he drove, the hours ticked by in a haze, he looked over the long scroll of the manuscript, which read...
"Cathy it's the worst case of writer's block yet" Drew said into his car phone, brushing aside his auburn hair in the vanity mirror of his Mercedes Benz .
"Babe where are you?" Cathy asked in a tinny voice
"I'm in my car Babe, it's a car phone" Drew replied. "It comes standard with every Mercedes Benz, hold on I'm getting another call"
Drew felt important that he was getting a second call, it was enough to balance the indignity of the entire bag of Combos he had just eaten in the 7-11 parking lot. The call was from his Adjunct.
"Mister McIntire" The voice said "When are you going to come in for a class, the students are actually wanting you to come in and teach"
"Really?" Drew said
"No it's mainly the parents, who keep bragging that their kid is being taught by Fameous Author Drew McIntire, but word got out that you haven't released the 7th part of your bestselling series Golddust in the Stardust.
"I've been busy having an affair" Drew said matter of factly.
"Well, if you don't submit a manuscript soon, everyone on the squash court and lacross feild will start to gossip, maybe if you showed up to the gala this afternoon with something it'll throw the scent off" the Adjunct said
"That's a great idea" drew said "I'll do that right now"
Drew fished the final crumbs from his bag of Combos and sat down to type on his very expensive typewriter in the 7-11 parking lot.
"Swords are no match for The Rat King!" The rat king snarled before taking the mace to the face of Stardust
"You can't do this to me, I'm stardust" stardust said, before dying instantly
"Oh shit I just killed the main character" Drew said "and I'm out of correction tape, the fans are gonna kill me"
"Worstchire Genald!!!" a booming voice came from the bones keyboard "You've written the worst novel in a thousand years, the deal is off"
"No! I sold my soul to you, we had a deal!" Worstchire said, pleading, slowling realizing his mistake.
"Worstchire this is the worst shit I'm not even joking" the devil said "
Thats when my tape recorder reached the end of my tape. I was going to get more, when I discovered Yishick had unspooled all of my remaining blanks and knitted himself a hat. At least the streak of good writing was over.