The Tree Frog and the Publisher

The writer we know as delapruch ran into one of the supernaturally minded idiots whom he has been know to criticize on them internets, and was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Backed into the darkest of backest alleys, he stumbled backward and into a pile of garbage. It was then that the supernaturally minded numb-skull did cast out their magicianry upon that fantastic manufacturer of witty words. Delapruch cringed at the mad effulgent lightening beams radiating from the hands of the non-fan. They bugged out into his hair follicles, dug down distressingly ‘neath his skin and prickled like a prickly pear itself descending the sleek isthmus of his longus collum---cascading the slippery sloppy slope of his back. His face seemed to morph at nearly the same rate as did the rest of his body, and as it did, the idiot who had done performed such as curse shouted at him. “Thoust did not follow meest ways!!! You didn’t do what I wanted you to do!!! Rather than burn in meest hell, you will burn now eternally in the shape of my choosing!!!”

Delapruch awoke in the same place of garbage and refuse, but this time, his whole being had become much smaller than before, and he noticed this new smallness being quite annoying. His skin green, his eyes bulging, and a smell that he could not shake---something downright disgusting, he made his way out of the alley. The sun had risen, and it took him longer to walk anywhere, as it was---his legs were much shorter now.

Walking past the stores on the way to the publisher, Distinct & Acutely Precise House, he noticed his reflection in the windows. He no longer stood five seven as before. Now he was merely a few inches tall, and clearly something of a tree frog, or quite possibly some kind of toad or something---he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t exactly happy about it.

Stomping his way to the publisher, he cursed out loud the supernaturally minded idiot who seemed to have done this to him.

Needless to say, it took him at least three times as long as it would have had he still been human, to get to the building where his publisher’s office was held. When he did finally arrive, he was still a few minutes early, as he had planned ahead of time---ahead of the attack in the alley---so that nothing would stop him from making it to this ever so important meeting.

Coming out of the elevator, he hopped down the carpeted hallway to the glass door which bore the name of the publisher in question. Under the circumstances, he felt that stopping at the front desk to tell the receptionist that he was here, only to sit and wait (amidst the humans who would no doubt wonder what was going on and attempt to screw with him).

He surveyed the situation, waiting on the other side of the hallway for someone to push the door to the publishing agent’s office so that he could hop in. Keeping his cool, and basically liking it all to some kind of Kafka-esque nightmare, he did not lose his composure (such as it was). Instead he whistled the tune of his favorite song and waited.

Soon thereafter, a tall man that seemed to be somewhere in his mid-thirties, entered the room, pushing the door open just as anyone else would. Delapruch, now in tree frog form, hopped inside right behind him. Almost as if the two had practiced this little ditty of playful choreography before, the man took his seat behind his great big desk, and Delapruch sat down in the seat opposite him, not even able to see the man over the desk.

Delapruch cleared his throat and then spoke.

“Mr. Ravington, is that you?”

“Um, who is speaking? Is there someone in this room?”

While Mr. Ravington was asking, he was checking under his desk and opening the drawers inside the desk, as the voice he had heard seemed to come from that level in the room.

“Mr. Ravington, it’s Andrew Delapruch. I was supposed to meet with you today discussing my book. Since we last met there has been a bit of a change in my life, I should say. However, I’m not sure that it will affect the work.”

With that, Mr. Ravingon realized that there was, firstly, a frog sitting atop the chair opposite him. Secondly, he realized that it was speaking with the human voice of Andrew Delapruch, one of his newly published authors. After adjusting his tie rather nervously, he continued with Delapruch.

“Not to point out the obvious, Andrew, but a book tour might be out of the question at this point. How exactly did you become a frog? How do you expect to work on a follow up to the book?”

“Well, it’s funny that you should mention that, you know, I think that I may be able to still type. I’m just missing one finger, no biggee. As far as a tour, um, maybe you are looking at this thing with the wrong light, you know? I mean, I bet we could double, maybe even triple the interest in the book, if it was written by a frog.”

“Hmmm. You may have something there,” remarked Mr. Ravington. “People barely read anymore as it is, it might be better for us in the long haul with this thing if it was penned by a frog. You’re right, there could definitely be some profitable possibilities here.”

“Yeah,” Delapruch continued, “I mean, the kids with their eyes glued to the screens, they may even come out. Stoners would take their mouth off the pipe for a second and maybe come down---who knows?”

“Well, I hadn’t really thought of the book being the kind of thing that we would market to kids,” stated Mr. Ravington.

“Well, maybe you should. They are becoming adults younger and younger these days, what with 9 year olds chasing down their vodka with weed and following up the whole ordeal with a bareback ride,” mentioned Delapruch.

“You know, you may be right---even if you are a frog. Are you always going to be a frog? Is this something like the ruby slippers---you just gonna click those heals and return back, or are you all Kafka-d out and fucked for the rest of your life?” said Ravington.

“Not sure. Not sure, sir. But maybe we should start the tour somewhere west of the Great Plains just in case?” joked Delapruch.

Admiring the frog’s positive outlook, candor and strength, given the plethora of new challenges that Ravington new that he would be facing, Ravington laughed with him saying, “Sounds like a plan. Sounds like a plan.”