Don't Kill the Messenger, Kill the Game

This was two days before his New York Times Best Seller List celebration was to take place. Brent was deciding how to cleverly propose to Tara, while freely roaming his immaculate apartment.  His heart jumped when he heard the footsteps approaching his door.  Was it Tara? How could he contain his gleeful secret proposal?  Should he have written it as a dedication for the new novel, and left it out in the open for her to read?  Thoughts raced too fast, and he felt dizzy as he swung the door open.

"Sign here" mumbled the disheveled, acne ridden messenger. He held out a small clipboard in one hand, a manila envelope in the other, while balancing a bicycle over his shoulder, that he wisely carried up the three flights of stairs.  Brent was taken aback, and his giddiness momentarily sidetracked, until he realized that this must be his recently submitted manuscript.  Was it so wonderful that his publisher would not mull it over for weeks, as he did the first time?  After all, he was the hottest commodity on the literary scene. 

"It's good to be king." Brent stated calmly to the puzzled messenger, as he scrawled on the clipboard.  Retrieving his pen, the messenger glanced at the clipboard before turning back toward the stairs, and said, "Have a good one Mr. Nootsack."  Brent smiled deviously as he closed the door.

Brent faced off with the manuscript, he, on his lucky writing stool, and the envelope, balanced in front of his desk lamp. It was to be a Mexican standoff until Tara was home.

The End

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