Joe Kay, thirty, Barney Fife thin with an uneven receding hairline, and a part time bank messenger, was sitting   alone on a once red sofa in his one bedroom studio apartment. More than a little stoned, he had been munching on stale Tostitos, pickles and chunky peanut butter for the last ninety minutes. His snack debris: Tostito shards, smears of peanut butter and pickle juice stains, covered the once red couch cushions to his right and  left as well as the floor beneath his feet.

If Joe had a hobby it was day dreaming. He was very good at it. Tonight, as he had done on many nights previously, he was conjuring visions of his coming glorious success as a writer – an author of renown – with huge, record breaking advances; frighteningly beautiful women, naked in his bed,  weeping as they read his heart wrenching prose. His first Pulitzer – then maybe even a Nobel! For Joseph Kay the most comforting thing about his cannabinol fueled fantasy was his certainty it would all happen soon. He knew he was so close.

He was mentally practicing humility in the face of fame by giving a witty, self deprecating acceptance speech before an imaginary crowd at an equally imaginary National Book Award ceremony. Suddenly his marvelous speech was rudely drowned out by loud, really-bad-news knocking – pounding, actually – on the outside of his apartment door. Joe froze, suddenly afraid as paranoia slithered along his spine like a hungry python.

Jesus! It was nearly midnight. Who the fuck could it be?

Oh God! Was it the cops?



Read all of VISIONS

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