Prompt Problems

"So, what's the catch?" I heard as my apartment door suddenly flung open and my neighbor across the way bounded in. Tucked under his armpit looked to be a large roll of newspaper. 

"Ron, we've talked about this," I said as my heart rate slowed to normalcy. "You need to knock!"

"Why Pete? You don't knock when you come over."

"But I don't come over…"

"Well that's not my problem, now is it?"

I dropped my head onto the table barely missing my coffee. I really, really hoped for a better day. I completely and totally made a mockery of last night's festivities; and just wanted to spend the day writing to this week's prompts and not thinking about anything else. Especially last night. But it was not to be.

I looked back up as Ron plopped the newspaper on the table in front of me, making my coffee slosh out and spill over the table onto my Avenger's lounge pants. "Oops, sorry Pete," he said while wiping the excess with his sleeve. Then he gestured toward the paper roll. "Here, open it."

I saw where moisture soaked much of the newspaper and a smell unlike any newspaper I've ever smelled emanated from it. "No."

He placed his hands on my table and said. "You have to open it."

I eyed it, the way the moisture continued to soak through, the miasma of odors – none good – and repeated, "No."

He threw his arms up in frustration and stepped back. "But you HAVE to, Pete! It's for your prompt. That's why I said 'So, what's the catch' when you let me in."

"But I didn't let you in. You barged in like you always do."

He waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Your door is always unlocked. How can you say you don't let me in if all I have to do is walk in? Do you knock before entering a store?"

Might have me there.

"And I'm trying to help you. You're the one struggling with the prompts. Open it!"

Carefully I pinched a dry edge and lifted upward. Whatever lay hidden inside flipped numerous times, each with a dull thud, with the paper's unrolling. The smell increased exponentially with each newly exposed millimeter until, suddenly…

"It's a fish," I said looking at the large, dead carp contaminating my dining room table. The milkiness of the eyes along with the smell attested to both a lack of preservation and the length of its demise.

"Ohhhh, it's much more than a fish. It's inspiration Pete!" Ron looked triumphant. "So, what's the catch? It's a fish! I drove to Miller's pond yesterday morning and caught him. Ohhhh, he has some big ones in that pond."

"But that isn't what it me–"

"It'll jump start your muse, Pete! Get those creative juices flowing! It's a sure winner! Hell, think about what we could do with an extra two-hundred and fifty buckaroos!

The way he strutted through my apartment, flailing his gangly arms like a crazed muppet on meth made me thankful I kept no knick knacks. "We?"

"Well I caught the fish Pete. I gave the means of blowing through your writer's block."

"What you gave me is a table I'm afraid to eat from, and a stench that might not dissipate," I said pointing at the dead carp. "You couldn't at least put it on ice?"

"I had errands to run. There wasn't time to find ice."

"It's almost ninety degrees out there! You left it in a hot car wrapped in newspaper all day and then overnight."

"Hey, I brought it up first thing this-"

My intercom buzzed. Walking over I punched the button. "Yes."

"It's me, Jane."

I buzzed her in and turned back to Ron. "I want that fish out of here, Ron. Please. Now."

"You're making a mistake Pete. I'm telling you it'll put us over the top." He somehow managed to look dejected over a dead fish.

Then my door opened and Jane walked in, immediately scrunching her face and reaching up in a feeble attempt to ward off the odor with her sleeve. "Oh my God! What is that smell?"

I pointed to the table where Ron attempted to rewrap the fish in disintegrating, wet newspaper. "Ron's idea of inspiration for my writing prompt."

"Pete doesn't know a good thing when he sees it," Ron said, still wrestling with the fish.

"Now my whole apartment is going to reek all day. Who wants an apartment smelling of dead carp?" I said, throwing my arms up in exasperation. "All I wanted was quiet to work on my story and not think about last night."

"Don't you have air freshener!" Jane asked.

"No, I don't," I said. "Besides, it would only smell like a corpse wrapped in Lavender, or Fresh Linen or, God forbid, something fruity."

Then Ron barreled past with the mostly wrapped fish tucked back under his arm. Jane scrambled to put as much distance between them as possible. "I'm leaving, Pete, but as a friend I'm telling you I won't help with another of your prompts!" He looked over toward Jane. "Sorry Jane, I-"

"Just go!" she said with a shushing motion. "Take that smell with you." And as if it just occurred to her, "Leave the door open."

Then my intercom buzzed again. I pushed the button. "Yes?"

"It's me"

Now John shows up. I really just want to be left alone, but I buzz him in.

"Wait until he smells this," Jane said with a wry smile as she perched on the arm of my couch.

Which didn't take long. 

"Hey Pete, what is that smell all the way up… My God, is it your apartment? What is that? Who died?"

Slumping into my couch beside Jane, I explained, "Dead fish. Ron brought it to me as, as he referred to it, 'inspiration for my prompt.' I'm having trouble with them."

"Oh, well, it certainly has an impact." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Did it, uh, help?"

"No," Jane and I said in unison.

"Anyway, the reason I came is to find out what happened at the club last night?"

Oh shit! "Whatever do you mean, John?"

Jane looked quizzically at me. "Something happened at the club last night?"

"Nnooooo." Did I drag that out too long? Dammit!

John stared hard at me, then his face lit up. "Oh. My. God. It was you! I can tell from that look. I knew it!" He laughed and extended both arms toward me. "I can't believe this! The local news feeds are referring to you as the 'Idiot Illiterate Alliterate.'

Oh man. Not the news feeds. It's worse than I thought.

Then Jane chimed in. "What did you do, Pete?"

"It was an accident, ok! Bill was supposed to introduce the guest speaker. Then Bill got sick, so the owner grabbed me to make introductions. He shoved a handwritten sheet of paper to read from. I'd never heard of her!"

"Who?" Jane asked.

John laughed harder, but managed to say, "Francine Buck. Goes by 'Fannie.' She's an inspirational speaker."

"So what?" Jane said.

I stood up and started pacing. "I'd been drinking and didn't have my glasses on, ok! They'd handwritten the note. I thought the 'B' was an 'F.'"

It took a second to sink in, then Jane said, "Oh my God! Pete! You didn't!"

Sighing, I said, "And I referred to her name as Fannie. I heard it repeated all evening. So, sadly, did she."

Then John said, "She took it pretty well, all in all." And he laughed even louder. "When they interviewed her after, she stated that 'It was, by far, the worst intro I've ever had. Still, moron or not, he is correct. - my fanny has had that done to it. Many times."

Jane chuckled. "Things haven't worked in your favor, have they? Moron."

I really didn't know what to say.