An Author's Nightmare

If I were to stalk Stephen King… I would sit quietly in a small red booth, at his favorite diner.

I would order nothing, just drink ice water and watch him pick the peas from his mashed potatoes, and cut his steak into tiny cubes. He would occasionally glance over, but suspect nothing. I would then follow him to the laundry matt. I would pretend to be having an argument with an old girlfriend, through the receiver of a pay phone.

He would be going through his laundry, sorting the whites from the darks, before discovering the old mighty whities, he swore so many times to throw out. The elastic was broken and there was a mysterious yellow stain on the front. "Why don’t I ever throw these out?" He would ask himself. But then he would remember... "If I throw these out, surely someone would retrieve them, sell them on E-Bay or worse..."

The image of a Facebook profile entered his mind. It was one of a deranged fan, standing in front of his bathroom mirror with his camera phone, wearing the official mighty whities over his clothes.

The feeble thought sickened him. He cringed, swearing he could feel his toenails curl under. "A deranged man, he would be," he noted, "A deranged man who would look… much like the one at the pay phone." With suspicion in his eyes, he would slowly turn his head. I would look away, but too late. "That pay phone has been out of service for years…" he would recall. Then, he would shove all his mighty whities and unmatable socks, back into the basket and walk out the door.

Finally, I would have him right where I wanted him. He would cut through a dark alley, and I would follow. He would nervously whistle a tune to himself, but it wouldn’t drown out the clanking of my heels against the wet bricks, that paved the dark streets. Now, there would be no uncertainty, that I was following him. "What could this man possibly want with me?" He would ponder. But when he looked over his shoulder, he would see me pull a stack of rolled up papers, from my jacket. Only then, would the motives of my stalking be revealed to him… like a locomotive, barreling down at him, in a long dark tunnel. "My God!," He would mutter to himself, "He wants me to read his manuscript!"

A horrible vision would consume his thoughts. Cornered against the wall, clutching his laundry basket, he would scream in anguish, "Please stop! No more!" But I would show no mercy, as I fumbled through the pages, reciting my work… struggling to pronounce my own misspelled words. Terrified by his own unbridled imagination, his pace would quicken and his heart would race. I would chase him to the end of the alley and watch from the shadows, as he stormed up the steps to his house, slammed the door, and dropped the blinds. I would giggle at his eyes peering out, between the slats… searching for his stalker, thinking, "It's just not safe to do my laundry… anymore."

I would walk back down the alley, casually tossing the blank papers into an empty trash can. Feeling quite pleased with myself, I would whistle the same tune, he did… rejoicing in the euphoric gratification, that I was the man who gave Stephen King the creeps…