84. Hijacked House

Back at the hotel, I tried to call my publisher, but she was out, so I left a message. Lenore, too, tried to get a hold of someone at the publishing office, but she also got voicemail. This is very peculiar considering the park man’s warning about aliens holding it hostage.

83. Park Party

This was the strangest event yet, and for three reasons.

1. Some students from the local acting league turned my second book into a stage play and performed it live in front of everyone under the shade of the gazebo. It was amazing to see my work performed by such enthusiasts.

2. A short man in a tuxedo approached us as we were wrapping up. He said that my publishing house is being held hostage by aliens, and they will set it free only when they can talk to a Mr. Milo H. Tomb. I’ll have to assemble a communicator to do so, and will be contacted in Monte Carlo by another messenger to help do this. But I have to be careful because enemies of the alien race are disguised as human redheads and will do anything to stop the communicator from being built. I thought the guy was either barking mad or trying to give me an idea for another book. Burbank knew he was genuine because he knows crazy when he sees it.

3. What idiots decided to put balloons up at this festival? Don’t they know that popped balloons get washed into the sewers when it rains? The water goes all the way through, but the rubber gets trapped at the end of the pond where all the turtles are. The turtles eat the balloons. They fill up on rubber until they don’t think they’re hungry and die of starvation. Burbank spent the rest of the night picking up balloon fragments in the park. I went back to the hotel with Lenore because I am an animal hater and care more about romancing my agent than the lives of hundreds of little souls.

82. Lovely Lyon

I pretend like Burbank’s poetry makes me want to vomit, but it’s a front because I’d hate for his florid Latin-based words to overshadow my purely plot-driven Germanic-based text.

And anyway, we’ve arrived here in Lyon, so I’d better start talking to Burbank again as we have to set up for the event. It’s an outdoors event at a park. Sort of a carnivalesque festival with games and plays and whatnot. I’m one of three special guests. The other two are a musician and a kid’s TV show presenter. Even if nobody comes to get their book signed, I’m sure we’ll still have a great time. Provided I’m not planning on ruining the day by continuing this immature blank I’m giving Burbank.

81. Publicizing Poetry

I may be jealous of Burbank’s mad publicity skills, but I don’t think it affects him much. Everyone who’s anyone was once underappreciated, and someday Burbank’s talents will fall into the spotlight. In fact, he’s planning on shedding his mystery cloak and reading one of his brilliant poems at my gig in Monaco.

80. Birdsong: Cheap! Cheap!

I find it strange sometimes that I complain so often about not having enough stuff despite the large advances I get on my work. The percentage I get per book isn’t half bad either. Some people can’t afford to buy their own honey, so why do I resort to nicking them from dodgy caffs? Maybe I ought to contact a psychiatrist about my kleptomania.

79. Hardened Heart

My heart is nine sizes too small, but the childlike innocence of my beloved friend Burbank is beginning to warm that shriveled cowpie of a love organ in my chest. In fact, I think I can even hear it beating. I’ve already broken my vow of not speaking to Burbank for the whole trip, and it’s only been two hours. There might be hope for me yet.

78. Fighting Friends

Burbank and I aren’t speaking. I still haven’t forgiven him for last night in the pub. When will I learn to forgive and forget? We’re spending most of the morning on a coach bus, riding to Lyon. I’m sitting in the front of the bus, and Burbank’s in the back with the cool kids.