BOB

A Mask and Gloves

“I’ll write!” Bob babbled. “I promise!” He made for the treadmill desk.

Derrick’s lips thinned. He didn’t look convinced. And while the old Bob might have discounted him, today’s Bob had woken up to a bloody pillow and a dent on his head. All courtesy of a teenager.

Bob stepped on the treadmill and picked up a piece of paper, trying to calm his racing heart. Talk about a plot twist. Although Bob had created many teenage and even prepubescent characters who were capable of treachery and betrayal, he’d always considered it artistic license.

All the other times he’d interacted with Derrick, the kid had been obsequious. Fawning. He was clearly a far better actor than Bob would have guessed. It must be thanks to his years LARPing in the Mysts of Cascadia.

Because it had to be acting, right? Derrick wouldn’t really hurt Bob, would he? He just wanted him to write.

Better start writing Eyes of the Forest. Or else!

Bob set aside the threatening note.

His fan mail had given him the idea. Thanks to the TV show, these days the amount was overwhelming. After an incident with a suspicious white powder that turned out to be talcum, he’d been forced to hire a service to go through it all. Now someone wearing a mask and gloves opened every letter and package before dumping it all in a box and sending it on to Joanne, who then gave it to him.

The box he’d received a couple of months earlier had been typical. Three marriage proposals. A vial of a dark red liquid that appeared to be blood. (Although would the service have allowed it through if it really was?) Four appeals for money. A request he fly to Arkansas to be the surprise guest at a fan’s sixtieth birthday party. A dried rose. An urn filled with a dead fan’s ashes, accompanied by the request he either eat them or spread them on his grounds. Three baby announcements for children named after characters. A heart-shaped hand-carved wooden box that, to his relief, contained nothing. An ornately framed photo of a woman who harbored the delusion she looked exactly liked Jancy. A handmade white plush unicorn, complete with feathery wings. A mounted plexiglass circle proclaiming Bob had won an award he’d never heard of. A photo of a fresh tattoo of Margarit’s name. (Spelled Margrit.)

And among the praise and gifts and appeals had been a postcard with no return address. “Someone should chain you to a typewriter and force you to write Eyes of the Forest.” It was a routine disgruntled comment, the kind the service didn’t even bother to flag.

But it had sparked the idea. If someone forced him to write, then surely he would.