To Catch a Talkative Man

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A man owes the mob an undetermined amount of money. Given only a short time to gain said money, can he escape with his life, especially when he can't seem to stop talking?
This is a rather reflective tale that I wrote for Creative Writing with the main goal of testing my teacher's ability to gauge what is a good story, and what really isn't. It is up to you to decide, when the mob tries "To Catch a Talkative Man".

Submitted: October 06, 2007

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Submitted: October 06, 2007

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Call me Ishmael. In truth, my name is Mister Walter Eugene Tyler III, son of Walter Eugene Tyler II and Euphadora Beatrice Sampson-Tyler, but I felt that to begin with a more distinguished line would draw you, the reader, far more easily. But what is in a name? Would not a man named Opal Foxflower be just as likely to be successful as a man named Scott Fitzgerald? Okay, that is a bad example. My point is a rose by any other name… well, you know.
My troubles began on one of those days that could only be accurately described as gloriously ironic. The spring sun was shining, the birds were singing in the trees, and I was doomed. You see, I had recently fallen into sin with a group of rather boorish vagabonds. For some reason beyond me, this borderline anarchic group had decided that I, Walter Eugene Tyler III, owed them somewhere between seven donkeys and twenty-five thousand dollars. (To tell the truth, I wasn’t really listening) To make a long story short, they gave me forty-seven minutes to live. So, as I ran from my pinheaded pursuers, my rampant reflections roamed to the faces of my loved ones, from my parents, as beautiful as ever, to my sensual dearest ex-wife, Mrs. Barbara Elizadora Winifred Jane McDoogle-Tyler, who had left me for the muffin man. Somehow, her reason for divorce was that the muffin man had been eating some sort of muffin. This, sadly, left me alone in the world. Yet, I pulled myself out of my thoughts, for I felt I had more urgent and relevant concerns, such as the hooligans who were chasing me. In an effort to flee the pursuers, I ducked down a rather dingy alley, populated by four garbage cans, three rather obese rats, and a single homeless fellow. As the disgusting rats fled my approach, I neared the man, his face caked with dirt, his hair tangled in spectacular knots, and a revolting stench rising off of him, unlike anything I had ever smelled. It smelled like a strange mixture between onions, feces, urine, cheap alcohol, and strangely enough, lilacs.
“Greetings!” I said. The bum looked up at me, his runny nose pouring phlegm into a slight mustache.
“What do ya want?” The bum asked hoarsely. I suddenly realized that he was a she! I smiled kindly at her.
“Oh, nothing much. How do you do?” The bum rolled her eyes.
“Not well. My name’s Eugenia Stanislav-Mansfield and I was a pre-med student, but then….”
 “Look,” I said, interrupting, “I would really like to hear the rest of what is sure to be a fascinating tale, but a few rather shady individuals will quite soon be coming down this alley. I would be ever so grateful if you would not inform them that I am in that trash can.” She grunted, which I took to be an affirmation. I elegantly climbed into the trash can. As I pulled the lid down, I heard the clamor of an approaching mob. I giggled gleefully, glad that the gang was soon going to be gone. Then, death itself came, mocking my randomly voluptuous thoughts. (All I would have needed was a jar of honey!)
“If yer looking for that freak, ‘e’s in there.” The hoarse voice of the lady bum seemed to echo eternally. I burst out of the trash can like the proverbial jack-in-the-box.
“How dare you, you arrogant, atrocious, avaricious, anti-altruistic, absolutely awful…” I would have continued, but the man quickly gagged me, and then carried me off.
Hours later, I awoke, feeling as though I had been thoroughly eviscerated. Even before his deep voice echoed across the room, I knew the end of it all had come, and so, I sighed with relief.


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