I ran into the back yard and screamed at my muse,"Quick! I have to write a ten minute play and it's due in two days." Then I stopped and stared. My muse sat in the same lawn chair she'd been glued to for the past two months gulping down red wine and smoking so many cigarettes the butts were piled around her like sand dunes. She looked up at me and blinked, her eyes shining dully out of her blackened, sunburned face.
"Oh my God." I whispered.
"What?" she croaked. Her lips cracked and she glared at me.
"Um, nothing. Just... how long have you been out here?"
"How long have you been wasting time surfing the internet and watching 'Rosanne' re-runs?"
She lit another cigarette and the flame from it's tip glowed so hot I was afraid she would combust. Her entire body was blackened and creased, as if she'd dipped herself into hot mud. She really did look like a burnt marshmallow. There is no better way to describe her.
"Yeah, right." I walked toward her, forcing bravery. "Anyway. I have to write a play and I need your help."
"What kind of play?"
"I don't know yet. That's why I need you."
She stretched slowly and I cringed as tiny particles of her skin sluffed off. "So now you need me."
I glanced at the hose. Maybe spraying her with water would help keep her from bursting into flame?
She put out her cigarette against the lawn chair. "When's it due?"
She suddenly jumped up and a large piece of skin from her thigh peeled off like tissue paper. "That's two days away!"
"I know. That's what I said. So I was wondering..."
"Why'd you wait so long?"
"I lost track of time."
"That's ridiculous! You never would have allowed this to happen before! I can't believe you've waited until the last minute!" She quickly peeled off more skin as she talked. "Is your lap top ready?"
"Yeah. The battery's charged and I started the program."
"Excellent. You know how I hate to wait for the technology." Rubbing her skin hard with her hands, she said, "Stand back."
I almost jumped back onto the deck as she began to rub and shake furiously, letting pieces of dried, black skin fly all around her until the flakes were as high as her ankles. She leaned over and rubbed her hair until it too fell on the lawn. When she stood, I was even more amazed than when I first came outside. Standing in front of me, glowing pink and nude, was Viggo Mortenson.
"Wow," I whispered. "What happened?"
My muse shrugged. "I haven't been a man in a while. I figured it was time."
"You like him don't you?" He smiled slowly and I blushed.
"Yeah. Sure. He's cool."
My muse walked toward me, his eyes penetrating mine. "And he's mulit-talented. He can act, sing, write and paint. He's politically active and doesn't take crap from anyone. So he's perfect for me. Don't you think?"
I felt frightened by the sheer power of my naked, Viggo Mortenson muse. This was going to be hard to emulate. "You look great."
He smiled. "Yeah. I do. I like being a boy." He scratched his balls.
I held up a hand. "That's enough. Get some clothes on. There's only so much boy I can take."
"Lead the way." As we walked back into the house, he said, "What's this play about."
"I have no idea."
"Let me get some pants on and we'll see what I come up with. It's a good thing you have me. Do we have anymore wine?"