Tony

 

The usual clatter and comotion of the newsroom had long since disappeared. Only Charlie remained, sitting silently at his corner desk tapping out words into his computer between thoughts. Tabitha, the night cleaning lady, poked her head into the room and called to him.

 

"Sliding in under another deadline, Mr. Pheonix?" she asked.

"Always Tabby, always." Charlie replied between taps.

"You know I hate it when you call me that."

Charlie didn't look up from his screen. "Then stop smiling and prove it." He glanced up to catch Tabby's grin before she could hide it behind her hand. The small smirk that showed on his lips made it even harder for her to conceal the evidence. Charlie Pheonix had a knowing--almost arrogant--air about him; a quality that left other men with bruised faces, but seemed to compliment Charlie's charm quite nicely.

 

Tabby regained her composure. "I'm brewing a pot in the lounge. Would you care for some?"

"A cup of company slag? Be delightful."

"Be good and I'll spit in it for flavor."

Charlie laughed. "Thanks, Tabby." The cleaning lady began to say something, but then just giggled to herself and left the room as Charlie turned back to his work.

"What the--" Charlie said as a blank screen took place where his article had been. He moaned. "Damn power surges..." But suddenly a simple sentence popped up on the blank page:

 

Hello, Charlie.

 

Charlie raised a questioning brow. He was no stranger to receiving strange messages while typing as a struggling writer years ago; it was just that he had usually gone through a case of  Sam Adams first. The messages were also from Satan... this one was already too friendly. Charlie stared as another message materialized below the first:

 

Listen Charlie, it's Tony. We gotta talk.

 

Charlie checked to see if he was connected to the Internet or something. When he saw that he wasn't, he became slightly nervous. "Um--I don't know a 'Tony,' and how are you talking to me!?" Another message came into view:

 

Of course you don't remember. Why would you, Superstar? I'm Tony from your cheap old

stories, and I'm communicating live viayour mind!

 

A short pause, then:

 

Did you know the space bar in your head sticks sometimes?

 

Charlie gawked at the screen in disbelief. "Tony?! But there's no way... no one ever read those manuscripts!"

 

Yeah, that's because they were drivel. *I* was excellent of course, but those

situations you put me in. I mean pirates, Charlie? Pirates?!

 

"Hey, I thought it was a good idea."

 

Not if  the story takes place in Milwaukee! No wonder we never sold.

 

"Okay, okay! There's no need to talk about the past. I was poor, I was an alcoholic. That's all changed, see? I'm a famous columnist now! What's the problem?!"

 

"Um... maybe you would prefer some decaf instead, Mr. Pheonix?" Tabby had entered without Charlie seeing and had been listening to him shout at his computer. Charlie's face turned red and he cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Tabby. I--er... I'm just having a small case of writer's block. I find yelling at myself gives me motivation." Tabby looked awkwardly at him for a moment, then retreated back to the ease of mind only a quiet mop can provide. Charlie's screen came back to life:

 

There! That's the problem! You never would have come up with a quip

like that while you were a loser scribbler. You copied my style to become famous!

YOU STOLE MY LIFE, IF I HAD BEEN CAPABLE OF ONE!

 

Charlie sat, stunned. It was true. He had taken up the job of a petty reporter after he had given up penning novels. They had given him all the barrel-scraping stories; VFW activities, Boy Scout of the month, until one day he became fed up and typed a full-page article titled "7 Year-old's Plans to Save the World." It somehow made it in the next day's edition, and the readers went wild for it. He was promoted to columnist right there, and now his weekly section appeared in papers across the nation. But the entire style of his pieces--the light-hearted touch, the frivolity,  the cockiness (especially the cockiness)...

 

It was all Tony.

 

You molded yourself after me, your own creation! And what happens to me?

I'm left for dead in your brain with a dump of useless information and that

annoying talking rabbit you created for a children's book. It's not fair!

 

"Petey's still around?" Charlie asked.

 

Oh, the number of times I've wanted to toss that furry demon

into your nightmares...

 

"I can't believe I never saw it before, Tony... I have become you." Charlie leaned back in his chair. "But don't you see? You have always been a part of me. Even before I created you there were bits and pieces of an inspiration flying around in my mind. It was only when I put them together and named it Tony that I was able to use you to your full potential. But stories were never the place for you. You belonged here in the papers all this time."

 

Another pause.

 

Very touching, Charlie. Save it for when Old Yeller gets shot.

Where's my debut? Where's my spotlight?!

 

Charlie gave a frustrated sigh. Was it possible to kill your own inspiration?

"Okay, Tony. You deserve it. When people read their paper's tomorrow they'll learn the story of my inspiration and how he went from crappy pirate stories to a national phenomenon. Will that make you happy?"

 

Sounds perfect! And while you're at it inspire up a nice lady

for me too,  would 'ya? Redhead if you have the imagination

for it.

 

The words on the screen faded out as Charlie placed his fingers on the keyboard. "This is what I get for brainstorming under the infuence." he muttered to himself as he started typing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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