Prologue and Chapter 1--
The sun shone down, absorbed by the terracotta tiles covering the rooftops of each house in the village. The small town, for reasons known only to its founders, had been placed on a huge chunk of granite, which jutted out like a violin from a small green hill. And what a strange town it was, for the senior villagers lay about under the only tree on that chunk of granite. Few of the elders strayed farther than the tree's shadow. There they lay, ignorant of the cold, hard granite beneath them.
A few villagers pulled themselves from their beds to join them, and, once the entire village had congregated beneath the huge conifer, they began to complain. The elders would groan and moan. The men and women would spout expletives, the children would whine and alienate themselves. The smallest would cry, without any other way of intelligable expressions for sorrow. The seniors would lead with their ranting, crying and bantering, scolding their aching limbs and war wounds still decaying. Their lives began before the first world war, and now they cursed it. And, one by one, they calmly and slowly wandered off, all pain and mad passion lost, seemingly, for a long while. They marveled at the routine of it all, the one thing never to change.
They were wrong, and the rusty gears were set in motion,
And it all began with a bouquet of roses and a barrel of free lotion.
Oh yes, and the ring of a doorbell.
"Agatha, be quiet! Your grandaddy en't as old as mine! He was alive, watchin' them mammoths get eaten! Agatha, I don't want to hear another word! Oh, hell!"
McCasey Sprinkles sighed. He stared down morosely at the lifeless body of Maggy, her corpse stiff and motionless on the hard wooden floor. He ran his fingers over her body. Rigor Mortis was swift to come, never to leave. Beside her lay her death carriage, a single wire, still connected to its socket. She had brought down his job with her, with her very last breath. A now useless internet router sat, a few feet away. Without the internet McCasey had no contact with his work, besides the telephone. His boss had sent him an email, the one email that may have changed McCasey's life for the better. It all boiled down to a simple yes or no answer, and if McCasey did not answer in three hours, his novel would never be published. "It still might be a no" McCasey reminded himself. He stroked Maggy's fur, and prepared to pick her dead body up. Shakespeare padded into the room, mewing softly. He stiffened as he saw Maggy lying on the ground, motionless, and pranced from the room, tail standing straight up in the air as Maggy's had done.
The doorbell rang. McCasey swore and stumbled over through his apartment to reach it before the second ring. It was a stranger, someone McCasey had never met before. He was wearing a three-piece suit and tie, looking very fit. The man opened his mouth.
"Yes?" McCasey ventured. From the man's sleeve popped a bouquet of roses. "Uh, sir, I--"
"Hello, I am from Margarita's Bouquet Shoppe, here is a gift from... the New Yorkian Publishing Company."
The man's lips or tongue did not move, but his jaw did, making mechanical sounds, like the whirring of a toy battery.
"Oh! Why thank you!" McCasey gushed, smiling widely and taking the flowers.
"You're very... very welcome," said the stranger sincerely.
In that instant McCasey realized two things: one, a huge wall of red syrup was flying towards him faster than he could possibly blink, and two, he had left the dry cleaning at Florham Park (he had gone for an ice cream and left his ironed clothes on a bench). The wall of syrup slammed into his midsection, air bursting through his closed mouth, McCasey stumbled back into the house, dropping the untouched bouquet of roses and the card attached to one of the stems. He let out a moan.
The shower he took cost him a little over an hour and at least $100. By then Mrs. Briggs had arrived to take little Shakespeare to the vet for his checkup.
"Now, honey, you just don't worry about a thing--l'il Shakespeare'll be all right wid me. Atchoo! I'm going to be swift, howeva, honey, cause I'm going to the shrift tonight."
In her younger years, Mrs. Briggs had tought Shakespeare and English Literature at Oxford University. She often used its jargon in her everyday life. Only her husband, Manfred, truly understood her. McCasey had only met Manfred twice, both on formal occasions, and both times in a dim-lit room in Manfred's house. (Manfred was always highly allergic to something carried on the air outside, something McCasey did not understand).
"Okay, Mrs. Briggs, tell me if he still needs those rabies shots on Thursday."
"Thou art to brisk, McCasey! Of course, deeah, I shall tell you!"
She left with Shakespeare in the cat carrier. McCasey went to his study, gently picked up Maggy's corpse, and buried it in Mrs. Briggs' garden. He could imagine her voice of dibelief even now.
"Fertilizer! Fertilizer? McCasey, hon, have you lost your marbles?"
In the end, she would be able to understand. Mrs. Briggs was the most motherly character McCasey could ever meet, also the most devoted. When McCasey's girlfriend was in the hospice with terminal cancer, Mrs. Briggs drove 4 hours to pick McCasey up at the airport and 4 hours back to the hospice, excluding traffic.
McCasey walked over to the wilting bouquet of roses, and the card.
Dear McCasey Sprinkles, this is a letter to inform you that your novel, Bridge to Tibble, has been approved of by the New Yorkian Publisher Company. Please arrive on Febuary the 14, we will be expecting you around 8:00 p.m. Please arrive on time. If you do not, your novel may very well not be published (we will be busy with another author).
Of this long letter, one word resounded in McCasey's head. Author. He scrambled for his Sumo Wrestling Calendar. There were two occupations on that day. His blind date at 5:00 and his appointment with Shakespeare's veterinarian about his rabies shots and discussion of his neutering at 6:00. He slapped his head in frustration. Both previous occupations had been put off for too long. He had to find a way to get to the blind date on time, make sure Shakespeare got his rabies shots, and be at a life-changing moment at 7:00. Life, was indeed, overly complicated.
--here ends chapter 1 of the Cookie Chronicles. In the prologue, the argument over Agatha's grandfather's age is merely a setup for the ending rhyme doorbell and hell. Just so you know!
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