Writer-Man and his Sidekick, the Captain
It’s time for an office.
Writer-man had an enormous amount of work to get done. Enormous even for a superhero.
He was writing in his home in the southern part of the county of Davidson. He had been tasked to complete a two-act play regarding a peaceful resort town invaded by non-homeowners and street vendors. It was due Tuesday.
“Captain, I can’t even concentrate on this.”
The racket continued to grow out in the lane near the front of Writer-Man’s house.
It seems a television cable company had begun to string its own entertainment cables into the neighborhood. Since the provider was new to the area, the people who worked for them were new too.
“Ouch!” one of the guys up a ladder against a pole shouted.
“These cables look just like the power lines!”
A considerable crackling noise reminded him of which was which just then and was followed by a line of profanities.
Mistakes such as this one had knocked a fellow worker down to the ground earlier in the morning, so the crew was already short-handed.
“It’s just terrible,” said Captain Morgan, Writer-Man’s faithful assistant.
The Captain was a jolly soul, tanned, but rudderless in this pressure-filled world of remote working, where dining room tables across the land had become workdesks.
He had no apparent source of income, yet never seemed to lack anything he needed, especially as it pertained to creature comforts. Some old business cards of his said “private detective” on them, but Writer-Man has really never seen him interested in a case, much less solve one.
He did have a minor disagreement once with the local constables concerning his hobby of peeping into parked cars late at night while exercising his lifelong hobby of studying bench versus bucket seats.
