Contest of Quills

“Have you read him yet? Isn’t it just succulent? Pure honey to the literary world, and the talk of everyone. I heard that he has a spot on Oprah, and Kimmel! Just a tour de force!” Annabeth gushed, her sickly sweet words curdling Daniel’s blood. That didn’t mean that he hasn’t read Christof. He had.

This party was supposed to be for him. Daniel paid his dues, put in his blood, his sweat, his tears into his writing. He wrote short stories, ghost wrote, and took every low paying, demeaning job. He had a mountain of rejection letters. His car was more rust that metal, he shared his apartment with multiple six legged roommates, and hadn’t seen a woman naked in three years.

Annabeth slurped her white wine more loudly than normal, her long lashes covering her baby blues blinking rapidly. It had been over a week since she brought the acceptance letter from Vicount Publishing up to Daniel’s office and performed what could be described at best to be functional fellatio on Daniel as he read the letter and his invitation to the party. A party that he believed was just for him.

He hadn’t really considered Annabeth in a relationship way before that moment, and she didn’t give him a reason to consider her after that. He hired her as an agent and secretary, and their relationship had remained professional, other than that moment. He was about the point of letting her go when the invitation came through, but now he needed an agent. Even one obsessed with Christof.

Daniel spied Christof over by the bar, surrounded by the luminaries of the publishing world. His mussed brown hair, pencil mustache, and designer ruffled shirt all screamed prick, and he didn’t disappoint. He spoke with a nonspecific British accent, but Daniel heard he was from California. His book, All About Me, was called the new American novel of the 21st century, a groundbreaking seminal masterpiece, and there was talk that there would be courses at universities dedicated to studying it. And he was 26.

Daniel scratched the graying stubble on his chin. It was not fair. He earned this. It should be his admirers fawning over his work. The publisher hasn’t even introduced themselves to Daniel, their lips firmly jammed up Christof’s ass crack like a dwarf mining for gold. What could he do?

He had read the book. It was good. It didn’t blow his mind, nor rock his world. It read too much of creative writing classes, and not enough hard knowledge of the world. Daniel’s book, A Drive Amongst the Pines, felt comfortable, like well worn leather. It brought its lessons through time and patience, and the carefully worked arcs Daniel had spent nearly ten years perfecting.

A copy of the book sat on Annabeth’s desk. She, of course, had read it, and told Daniel that his protagonist of Jo was just like her sister, completely alive and filling each scene with such beauty. He felt fulfilled at the moment, but it was only two days later Christof’s book emerged from whatever hell domain it came from.

“You know Daniel, you should go up and introduce yourself. This is the intro party for Vicount’s new talent. Maybe you could even introduce me, perhaps you guys could work on a collaboration? How great would that be?” Annabeth looked giddy, her auburn hair bouncing with excitement as she springed on the balls of her feet.

Daniel finished his drink, and to his surprise he answered, “That’s a good idea. I’m going over there.”

He walked with purpose, the liquid courage coursing through his veins providing all the energy he needed. He reached the gaggle, and stepped into the circle, in the middle of a clucking laughter over some witticism Christof just stated. Daniel pushed his jaw apart to state something, when Christof noticed he was there.

“Oh, I have another Charred Pineapple Moijito. And don’t skimp on the Pineapple,” as he held out his empty glass to Daniel.

Daniel took the glass, set it on the bar, and glowered at Christof. “I’m not your fucking waiter.”

Christof appeared confused, “Well old boy, that doesn’t preclude you from getting the guest of honor a drink. It just means no tip for you.”

Daniel pushed air out his nostrils, “I ain’t your old boy either. Its my party as well, and my agent said I should introduce myself, so here I am.”

Christof’s level of perplexion went to waking up with his head stapled to the carpet level, “Now I thought this was my party. Can you explain this old chap?”

In his early fifties, Malcolm Vicount, owner of the publishing house, stammered and hem hawed for a few moments before spitting out the words, “Well, you see Christof, this party is actually for all of our newly signed talent. Daniel Bremer here, Gloria Wrech who is there over by the punch bowl, and Xavier Mellon, who isn’t here yet. Seems his flight in from Montana was delayed…”

Christof conjured another hipster drink out of thin air, and huffed. “Now, that can’t be true. A singular talent like me doesn’t share the spotlight with these others. Did you read what the Times wrote about me? A legend in the making. I’m not saying that they can’t be here, I’m sure they are fans as well, but you can’t tell people that its not my party.”

Malcolm furiously nodded, and a warm presence sidled up to Daniel. “Mr. Christof, my name is Annabeth. I’m an agent, and a huge fan. I would love to have a meeting with you to discuss representation…”

“Oh, I don’t have a pen. I’d be happy to sign anything you want later. My book, someone else’s book, your breasts, happy to do that. Now, usually I’m not this forward, but I’m in room 1008 over at the Astoria, I’ll let you in after midnight. I sign autographs with the more comely folk later.”

Daniel could feel a rising tide of rage boiling inside of him. It had been a long time since he punched someone. His fists remembered how, balling up on their own. There was a little voice in his head that squeaked, “Don’t punch him in front of the publisher!” And then he decided to do something worse.

“Listen shit for brains, I’ve had just about enough of you. But instead of messing up your marginal looks, I’m challenging you to a duel.”

For the first moment that evening, Christof looked directly at him. “A duel? With blades or pistols?”

“With Pens. I challenge you to a writing contest.”

The gasp throughout the room rolled like a wave at a football stadium. You could hear a pin drop, and did hear two people violently fornicating in the women’s bathroom, which in hindsight was the appropriate backdrop for this showdown.

“You, challenge me, to a writing contest?”

“Of course. Your writing is subpar, derivative, and shows no depth or spirit. Your characters are cardboard cutouts, your plot moves like a constipated turd, and your big reveal is obvious by the third chapter. I could whup your ass in any genre, any length, and prompt. You are simply a bad writer.”

Liquor caused Daniel to push it there, but he was still confident. Christof looked like a hurt puppy, utterly shocked at someone who shoved his nose in the wet spot. Malcolm nearly choked on his spittle, and he could hear Annabeth sucking down the rest of her wine glass. “I don’t think that the Times would write such a piece about a bad writer, ole chap.”

“Fuck the Times.”

If the prior gasp quieted the room, this one stopped heartbeats. Even the bathroom sex stopped. Daniel knew he was way out in front of his skis, sawing the tree branch behind him, but he had crossed the Rubicon.

“I think its a wonderful idea. Just think of how much interest this would generate for the publishing house!” Annabeth broke the silence.

Malcolm’s face returned to its natural color, “Oh, oh yes, we must simply do it! A contest of quills! In front of an audience! And judged by, judged by, Hammerstien!”

Hammerstien was a curmudgeon, dirt-bag book reviewer that for some reason people read. He once shit all over a short story anthology Daniel contributed to. Hammerstien hasn’t reviewed Christof’s book either. “That's acceptable for me, how about you, legendary talent?”

A slight smile crept along Christof’s face.

***

Malcolm rented Carsen Hall, with a thousand seats for the contest. Two tables sat on the stage, complete with quills and ink pots. Real fucking quills. There were rows of mostly empty seats, two camera crews and a gaggle of Christof groupies lounging around in the back with the refreshments. Annabeth did assure him that he could use his laptop if he wanted.

The publisher scurried up to him, scrunching his rat nose as he stammered, “So glad you are here. Christof is about to arrive, and I think we should get started right away. Hammerstien is in his dressing room, and he didn’t want to dawdle. Quills are a nice touch, right?”

Daniel squinted at Malcolm. “Yeah, sure. I’m going to sit down. Get ready. Is this everyone that supposed to be here?”

“All the big critics in the city are here, plus the editors of six literally journals. A lot of people are gonna be watching on the streaming. Some from all the way on the other side of the world, Japan!”

Daniel walked away as Malcolm was still speaking, and pulled out his chair to sit down. He felt her behind him before she spoke. “How are you feeling, Daniel?”

“I’m good Annabeth. Real good. Gonna wipe the floor with this asshole.”

She rotated around Daniel, and looked him in his eyes. “Daniel, I have no illusions that you did this for me. You aren’t that kind of guy. This is your entire world, and I barely fit in it. But nevertheless, I appreciate it, and you. In my mind, you already won.”

She planted a kiss right on his lips, cradling his head as she pressed against him. She separated, and stood up. Her breasts heaved, and she waved her hand in front of her face. “I’ll be over there. In your cheer section.”

He sat dumbfounded, for what seemed at least ten minutes until Christof sat down at the other table. “You know old boy, you can quit now. Say your stomach isn’t in it. Ate a bad burrito. Anything. Writer’s block. Avoid the embarrassment.”

“Why would I do that? I’m not the one that's gonna get spanked on local TV here.”

“Local? How provincial you are. How quaint. My world wide fan clubs are all tuning in. I have billionaires in Hong Kong offering to fly me to the Maldives for a victory party when we are finished. What do you have? Your mom watching at home knitting, and a mid red head that threw herself at me when we met and I turned her down. Do you really think you have a chance?”

Daniel turned his head and looked at Annabeth. She was talking on her phone. She looked up and smiled at him. “So its an even match then. Malcolm, lets get Hammerstien out here. I got a tee time at 2.”

He didn’t have one. He hated golf. But Malcolm brought forth the curmudgeon, head swirled in fragrant smoke. “Now, both of you pricks are gonna hear the rules, and I’m not repeating. Don’t put your name on it. Use the fucking quills. I don’t want to know who wrote what when I decide. If you want to bribe me, I drink Blue Label. You have three hours, and this prick here,” pointing to a weakly smiling Malcolm, “will keep you honest. I’ll be in my dressing room, enjoying myself.” With that, he turned and left.

“Well, I guess lets start, your engines!” Malcolm raised both fists in victory, and it began.

Christof spent the next twenty minutes being interviewed and preened over by his gaggle. Daniel could hear them as he ground his teeth using this stupid quill. He hadn’t written with a physical implement for nearly fifteen years, but the callus on his middle finger was still there. He scratched at the paper, and unlike his previous stories, he let his hand write for him.

Words poured out through the ink, staining the clean sheets like semen on a blue dress. Daniel’s character’s anguish, deprivation and humanity sung from the page, the years of work bending his fingers to the craft taking their old lessons and creating at a pace that would have astounded even him. Daniel felt as he were looking over his own shoulder, watching himself spin a story from the raw materials set before him. And then it was time.

He looked over at Christof, who apparently finished sometime ago, and was chatting with the camera. His stack of papers was not even a third of Daniel’s. Malcolm was busy scooping them up, and then reached out for Daniel’s submission. He handed his work over, and sat back in his chair.

***

Shortly after Malcolm announced that Hammerstien would now be reviewing the work and making his selection, Annabeth was once again providing a perfectly functional hummer in the men’s room to Daniel. He heard the buzzer go off signaling Hammerstien was finished before Daniel himself was finished, and extricated Annabeth without soft tissue damage to either party so he could get back the the auditorium.

A strange thought popped in his head, did this mean they were in a relationship? He would need to ask her after, but more important things awaited. Christof was already on stage, waving to the crowd. Daniel hurried his pace, but Malcolm’s words from the podium froze him solid. “So lets all congratulate our winner, Christof. Such a rare talent, such a singular artist, such a visionary. And now, he is going to bless us by reading his submission. Yes, a live reading from Christof! We are so fortunate!”

The monumental prick grabbed the mike, and the papers from Malcolm. “As if there was any doubt. My “opponent” has obviously fled from shame, but it was a good contest. Don’t be too harsh on him literary world. Compared to me, anyone is a lesser star, whose shine is weak. And now, I shall begin!”

Annabeth hugged Daniel from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist. Christof swallowed the rest of his drink, and spoke four words before erupting in a choking fit. He cleared his throat, several times, and resumed, his voice diminished just slightly. A smile started to curl at the corner of Daniel’s mouth as Christof read, and a pungent stench filed his nostrils.

“I remember you.”

Daniel turned to face Hammerstien, a cloud of smoke swirling around his head. “You do?”

“Yeah. Your writing was shit. You improved.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Hammerstien shuffled his feet, and blew out smoke out his nostrils.

Daniel broke the uncomfortable silence. “So, the fix is in?”

“Not really. He couldn’t read that drivel he wrote. It would destroy him. And that, Malcolm couldn’t let happen. So, it terms of this contest, he was always gonna win.”

“How is that not the fix?”

“Well, there was another pre-written story ready to go. But yours was magnificent. Even better than your book. You have come a long way since that anthology. Malcolm is going to offer you to ghost write for Christof. You don’t have that personality, and you have a dumpy girlfriend to boot, but you can write. He takes the credit, and you take the paychecks. I don’t suppose that's going to be a problem for you?”

Daniel considered, and scratched his chin. “So, I’m the guy behind this prick? I don’t see how me remaining unknown helps me. I’m the one who worked for this.”

Annabeth slapped his shoulder. “Geez, are you dense? Christof is going to make millions, and you get to have your cut of it. Without all the bullshit you hate doing. Book tours, fan meet and greets, marketing. You just get to write. And plus, you are going to publish novels under your name too. Do you really care if some blowhard gets the spotlight?”

Annabeth cut through the bullshit. “I guess. But there is one thing I don’t understand. If he is such a shitty writer, how did so many people get taken by his book?”

Hammerstien blew out a cloud of smoke. “Monkeys and typewriters. Monkeys and typewriters. I better get out of here before someone else wants to talk to me. Hold on to that one, Daniel, you need a good woman to keep you from turning into that asshole on stage.”

Daniel nodded, and turned back to Christof reading Daniel’s story. There was a poetic justice there. “What do you say Annabeth? Breakfast for lunch?”

She grinned impishly, “Of course, but first theirs unfinished business in the men’s room!”

Daniel let her lead him back to the restroom, as applause and accolades were heaped on his words being read in front of a world wide crowd. Was this what winning truly felt like?