The Old Fox was already at the podium at center stage when the curtain again rose, spotlight shining. He couldn't help but smile at himself over the noises of obvious unrest coming from the audience, which had shrunk in number by a half. "One and all, I warned you!" he shouted over the din. "Yet in your bizarre fascination, you insisted on enduring this monstrosity!" At this, the noise level increased dramatically. Somebody shouted in protest. "Where does he get off writing this crap?" the Old Fox repeated the question, raising his voice with the aid of the microphone. Without so much as a pause he said, "Dear boy, I've never claimed to understand the minds of the mentally deranged. Why on earth should I start trying now?" Someone shouted another question. "Where does he live?" the Old Fox smiled wryly, "Planning a little 'house warming party' are we? I wish I could help, but the only reference we've come up with is an IP address somewhere at the University of Idaho. We'll let you know as soon as we flush the bugger out." He turned his attention to someone midway back in the rows of seats. "Why all the unnecessary Pink Floyd?" The Old Fox waited until he'd seen visual confirmation that he'd understood the question was correctly. After a slight pause, "I think this pathetic-excuse-for-an-author knows he couldn't possibly create the proper mood on his own without filching work from someone with real talent. My hope is that the copyright sharks will find him to be a tasty meal." A satisfied murmur rose from the crowd as they formed the mental image of physical and emotional trauma being visited upon the ill-fated writer of short stories. The Old Fox raised his eyebrows, leaning forward with ears erect, straining to hear what someone on the second row was saying. "Is there actually going to be a meteor shower on November 17?" he said the words as if each carried its own distinct foul flavor in his mouth, "My poor fool, who even cares? As if we had the time to go romping around the woods, noses pointed skyward, contemplating the meaningless phenomena of nature! Dear sir, really!" Several shouts in agreement could be heard following that statement. The Old Fox was again straining his ears to hear the question from the same occupant of the second row. A look of shock crossed his muzzle, followed almost instantly by intense anger. Raising paws high above his head toward the mounting noise from the audience, the Old Fox called to the crowd. "People, people, please!" The noise lessened. "The cretin on the second row has asked a perfectly idiotic question, and if you'll please quiet down, I'll attempt to answer it!" He waited until it was quiet enough that he wouldn't have to shout before continuing. "He wants to know if there will be any sequels to 'the Stargazing Spot.'" The crowd roared in anger. The Old Fox was forced to shout, "Please! Please! Kindly be quiet! You and I know the answer to such a stupid question, but if it must be spelled out to those of much lesser intelligence, then so it must! Please be quiet and I'll answer this question!" Two minutes of angry shouting followed, but in the end, the crowd gave way to the Old Fox's calming presence. The latter turned his full attention to the misfit in the second row, firey eyes sending icy daggers at his opposite, worn teeth bared in obvious ire. "Little worm," he began, "if the author of that hideous work were to actually drive his precious green Jeep off the cliff of the highest mountain, then I say, Good Riddance!" The crowd cheered. The Old Fox ignored them and continued, raising his voice above that of the collective's, claws digging into the grainy oak of the podium. "As it is, however, I suspect that he's far too much the coward for such an act! No! He'll probably continue to live his pathetic little life, moping and weeping about the imagined problems he has to endure! Hah! And we shall be the ones forced to endure the stories that shall be created in his dysfunctional little mind! Will there be a sequel, you ask? Yes, by God! In no way have we heard the last of SR Foxley!" The noise was a deafening mix of angry shouts and wild cheers. For the next five minutes, the Old Fox let his stare continue to burn holes in the less-than-creature in the second row. When it seemed the din would continue indefinitely, the Old Fox broke his paralyzing gaze and lifted his calming paws to the rioting crowd. "People, people! Do not despair! Rest assured that we'll do everything possible to prevent such a terrible act! If that man does write another story, then it will be only under the most cruel resistance!" This seemed to calm them somewhat. "At least we can take joy in this partial vindication!" All attention seemed to suddenly shift to center-stage. Motioning toward the second row, he continued, "It appears we have among us one who has taken a certain liking to the horrible scenes just portrayed before our eyes." A collective gasp. "Do I dare say that he is even a fan?" Shouts of "Get him!" and "Kill him!" rose above the roar. "Yes!" screamed the Old Fox, "let's do exactly that! Take him and bind him! There's a suitable wall out back..." The Old Fox continued to bark orders, but the noise was far too loud to hear any intelligible word. By this time the ill-fated occupant of the second row was already being carried over the crowd to one of the exits at the back of the auditorium. Twenty minutes later, when everyone had left and excited shouts could be heard from the rioting mob behind the theater, the Old Fox silently limped his way off the stage to the right. Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
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