Four.

IV.

“Blast it all, Monty, this whole, 'write-a-book-to-keep-oneself out-of-trouble,' thing is failing miserably.” exclaimed a hunched-over young man of about twenty odd years, “I can't imagine what Professor Kraut was thinking when he told me to write a novel. I mean, just because English just so happens to be one of my majors, does not mean that I am destined to be a novelist. You know, come to think of it, the only reason I'm a double-major is for the bragging rights, and the only reason one of them happens to be English is because it was the first class to catch my eye after I signed up for Astrophysics. As for all this keeping me from getting into trouble, I'm getting so frustrated by the whole thing that I will very likely become insane before the weekend and then do nothing but get myself into trouble.” At this point our hunched-over young man takes a break from staring pathetically at his laptop screen and downs a small glass of something that looks very much like apple juice, but tastes altogether differently. After which he throws his head back and reclines.

“You'd think writing a novel would be a piece of cake, Monty, but this is not the case.” Our young man says ruefully, “I mean, sure, anyone can tell a story, but I feel that with this whole 'Liam' thing I'm pretty much just retelling my story, albeit with a little facelift. My parent weren’t all that nice, and although a plane crash is pretty tragic, its not quite the same as having them stabbed to death right in front of you. I felt like I had to add those details for dramatic effect. It's reminding me more and more of myself as I complete every paragraph—I went to go live with my aunt, this Liam person is living with his uncle. I keep trying to veer from my story, but it always comes comes back to, or reminds me of, me—Hmm maybe I am as egotistical as you all say I am. Well, its not really ego if it's justified—Ah, and all this is purely for the sake of having an original plot. I think maybe that the most original thing to do would just be to write it without a plot. But then what would be the point? I tell you Monty, all I want to do is blow this rubbish up. That's really what it is, Monty, rubbish!”

With this our subject slammed one of his desk-drawers shut and the figure who I think we are to assume to be Monty, betrayed himself by waking up with a snort and tossing his phone against the wall from whence it ricocheted into the rubbish bin. His build was that of a slim-ish teddy bear. I know those two attributes are not thought to normally be synonymic, but I can't think of a better way to describe him. He had the laughable look of bewilderment that one commonly finds on those who have been wakened under abnormal circumstances on his round, lovable face.

“Ohhhh, Colin,” Monty yawned, “what is it now? That 'story' of yours again?” He added with a chuckle.

“Ok, first off, its not a story, its a novel and I know you said that just to annoy me. Second, I'd like you to know you make for the most amazing moral support. This is the third time you've fallen asleep on me this week.” Colin replied while turning slowly toward his flatmate in his office chair.

“And this is the third time this week ended my evening nap prematurely.” Monty shot back with a wink.

“You know, why I still put up with you, I don't know.”

“Like I haven't heard that one before from you. You 'put up' with me for three reasons. I'm rich, I'm therapeutic, and I know just about every girl in the county. You wouldn't survive without me.”

“I know Monty. In all honesty, you are my sanity. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Its all right my man, everyone knows you're a bit high-strung. Its forgotten.”

“No, this time I'm going to make it up to you. I've just hit upon the most brilliant idea.”

A, “Oh, no, not again.” may or may not have escaped from Monty's lips at this point.

“And this time I promise we won't spend the next morning in front of the magistrate.”

“That's what you said last time.”

“Yeah, but I wasn't counting on you botching the whole thing up. Besides, this time I've taken the possibility of your slipping up. There is no possible way it go wrong.”

“Thanks awfully for confidence, old boy. Now how about spilling this 'brilliant' idea of yours? What am I to do?”

“You?” said Colin as he leaned forward with a look of anticipative mystery on his face, “Practically nothing...which is yet another reason why it can't go wrong.”

“Thanks again.”

“You're welcome—you know Monty, I often wonder why you put up with me. I'm a perfect ass most of the time, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But really? Why ask me?” said Monty, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his pleasure, “You're supposed to be the brains of the establishment. You tell me.”

“Well, I guess its because if I didn't help with your studies you'd probably fail, which, in in of itself, wouldn't bother you, but your fire-breathing dad would almost certainly disinherit you and then none of the girls would go after you. Plus, you seem to revel in being verbally abused. There. Is that a fair assessment?” said Colin, with a half laughing, half guilty smile and another shot of whiskey. This time a self-congratulatory one.

Monty put on the most convincing critical face he could muster at the moment—which wasn't in the least convincing, by the bye—and rose from the throne of a recliner he had hitherto been occupying. He cleared his throat and said in an extremely judicious-sounding tone, "Upon weighing the evidence both for and against, I have solemnly rul--”

Unfortunately his ruling was cut sort because he and then Colin burst into laughter and by the time he had recovered, he seemed to have lost his train of thought for he sank back into his chair and started fumbling for his phone. “The rubbish basket, Monty, the rubbish basket again.”

“Again?” exclaimed Monty, “What are the odds.” After which he got up, retrieved his phone, sank back into hid throne, and said in a rather thoughtful tone, “You know, I don't understand at all why things just seem work out for certain people, you included. Nothing ever seems to go wrong for them, no matter how stupid the things they do are. Then there are people like me. The kind of people who always end up on the wrong end or with the short straw. It's just not fair.”

“Yes, perhaps you're right. Just remember two things to cheer you up: First, life is pain. Second, we 'lucky' people are generally extremely intelligent, or in other words, we make our luck, and there are many downsides that stem from being smart. For example, having to deal with stupid flatmates. I imagine its much more nice to be stupid.”

“You know, you really were right when you said that you are a perfect ass most of the time.”

“ Why, yes, of course. When am I wrong?”

At this point Colin turned back toward his literary undertaking, let out a bottomless sigh and began pecking away at his keyboard. There was a pause for about two minutes when at last Monty broke the chatter of the keys, “Alright, I'm giving in even though I know it's exactly what you want. What's the scoop.” The result was instant. Colin shut his laptop got up and put on his coat. “It has to do with time. Come on, I'll give the details in the cab.”

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There it is. And I'm leaving for a road trip like, right now, so TTFN. (sorry if its typo-ridden, I don't have time to proofread)