Okay. So maybe the computer didn’t blow up, but the screen went completely blank. But, after such a terrible morning, who wouldn’t forgive me for exaggerating?

The screen was blank, yes, but I had this irritating feeling I was being watched. I know. Seems like I’m just paranoid, right? Whatever you say. But really. Someone had to be watching me. I could just feel it!

I decided to call my therapist, Fredrich van Larsson Mamoeymammoochay Papovich. He likes to be called “Mamo” for short. So I phoned him.

“Hello?” I’m pretty sure it was Dr. Mamo’s secretary who answered the phone. I think her name is Sheila. Dunno. She’s a really nice redhead with brown eyes. She doesn’t have freckles either, like most redheads do. Of course, most redheads don’t have brown eyes either.

“Sheila?” I asked.

“Nope, this is Charlene.”

“Oh. Is Mamo there?”

“Mamo? Oh yeah, sure. Who is this?”

“John,” I replied, looking down at my pajamas again, just to be sure.

“’Kay. Hang on a sec.” I heard the receiver click as she put it on the table or something. I watched the clock above my desk slowly tick away five minutes. Not that I minded. My clock has these little flowers around the edge that curve and twist along a few vines. It’s entertaining to try to trace the vines as they flow around the timepiece.

“Mamo speakin’. Make it fast.”

“Uh. This is John. A little animal just talked to me, and then my machine blew up.” I realized the mistake as soon as I said it. I really should have told him the truth -- my computer really just turned itself off.

“’Kay. Message received.” This time, the clicking was of someone hanging up.

I stayed on the line for a while, just in case. After about three minutes, I sighed and hung up.

Mamo really didn’t sound like himself today. Neither did his secretary, but I suppose she wasn’t Sheila, either. A pity her name was Charlene. She really did sound like a Sheila.

At any rate, my conversation with Mamo wasn’t truly helpful, except to make me see how silly I was being. I should have called my mother. But, there really wasn’t much use in doing that. Her Ladies’ Bridge Club was meeting early for an exciting day at the quilting exhibit in the museum downtown, followed by a competitive game or two of Bingo.

I padded my way to the living room, the little orange tongues of my slippers scraping along the mauve carpet. A little television would be a fabulous way to spend the next hour or so.

I flopped onto the royal-blue couch, turning on the television and flipping to my favorite channel. My favorite show was on. But alas, it was not “Barnaby, the Friendly Lilac Dinosaur” which greeted me, but a breaking news story.

I watched with horror the angry expressions of townspeople as they gathered around Machiavelli’s, raising their hooerks and shporks in protestation of the purple people eaters. Most of us in Geedunk just call them PPE’s.

Anyways, these angry people shouted and poked their weapons in the general direction of the poor lavender creatures before going silent and turning as if in awe towards a tall person with short black hair.

“Mamo,” they whispered reverently.

But no, it wasn’t my friendly psychiatrist who greeted their whispers, but the Mamo who ran the little investment bank just down the corner from Machiavelli’s. He’s the man to see about anything that goes on in Geedunk. After all, as the only mob boss in the town, he pretty much runs the place.

“C’mon boys,” he called to the PPE’s. “I have a job for you to do.”

The camera was able to catch him turning around just before a big plum fist hit the lens…