Beef Up

The author backed away from the table. He rose and shook hands with the Wilmington, Delaware publisher. He had just signed a nine-figure deal to produce eleven books over a span of fifteen years.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” the author said.

“About that thing…are you sure you don’t want security? Because our translators around the world are a bit wary of an attack on their lives.”

“I don’t need security.”

the publisher’s jaw lowered. “It’s been over thirty years and you haven’t had any protective personnel?”

“Nope.”

The publisher paced the room. “I don’t get it. Why not?”

The author shrugged.

“Huh. Anyway, we’re going to beef up security the globe over. Are you sure you don’t want someone watching your back? Things could turn bad very fast,” the publisher warned.

“I’ll be okay.”

The author shook hands again with the publisher and left.

Just outside the door to the office building, a man leaned his back against the wall with one foot behind him.

“Mohammad.”

“Hey, there. Author! Author!” The prophet exclaimed.

“Haven’t you got some prison time to do for violating young women and livestock?”

“Ha ha. That’s why you’re the author…that biting wit.”

The author scoffed. Mohammad dug deeper. “You know I’m writing a book: The Angelic Voices. It’s a satire.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s got monsters, demons, and of course fairies and angels.”

“Good for you.”

“You damn right good for me. Scored a cool two hundred thousand dollar advance for the book proposal.”

The author kept walking down the street. He found his sleek blue coupe. “Listen Mo,’ I’ve got to get going.”

“Wait. Just a moment. We can be like buddies and write books together.”

“I work alone,” the author declared.

“I have a lot of ideas. I come up with them in my sleep and write them on a legal notepad on my dresser.”

“Great, I’ve got to attend a dinner with a young lady.”

“Of age?” Mohammad asked.

“She’s twenty-two.”

“Much too old for my taste. Jesus, she could be your granddaughter. But, but, but, that shouldn’t stop me from riding shotgun. What restaurant is it?”

“It’s at the Mercier Hotel.”

“That’s right around the corner. This is wonderful,” Mohammad rejoiced, his voice sounding oily and scummy.

“Do you mind?”

“Hop in,” replied the author.

Once they arrived at the restaurant in the hotel, they saw the young lady. She was stunning. She wore a little black dress with a pearl necklace and satin gloves.

The author went up to her and kissed her cheek.

“Have you ordered already? Pardon me for being tardy to the party,” the author requested.

“It’s okay. I just got here a few minutes ago. And no, I haven’t ordered yet.”

“Allow me to introduce—”

“I know. How are you Mohammad?”

“Couldn’t be better to be brutally honest,” he answered.

“I did have a chance to look at the menu and ordered a bottle of wine,” the beautiful young woman said. “I’m going to get the Poulet á la Moutard et al Miel,” she said and turned to the author. “Would you like the Truite Sauté Sauce Amere?”

“Sounds nice.”

She then glanced at Mohammad. “You should try the Pore a là Dijionaise,” the woman said with a knowing grin.

Once the orders had reached the table, Mohammad proposed a toast.

“I’m so thankful for this wonderful evening. To the best two human beings in the world, and me of course! Salud!”

They clinked and dined on their meals.

Mohammad, however, looked a little green in the face. His forehead looked red. A member of the waitstaff passed the table. The young woman watched the entire scene intently.

“Excuse me, garçon, what exactly is in the Pore a là Dijionaise?”

The boy couldn’t have been more than twenty, pimply faced and his voice squeaked when he talked. At the same time, he addressed the prophet with confidence.

“Sauteed pork medallions with an orange compare sauce.”

Mohammad suddenly grabbed his throat. Some patrons noticed this action. A man rushed to aid Mohammad. The boy tried to assist as well.

“No, no,” the young woman said. “He’s fine. He’s just acting out a film role,” the man and boy backed away as vomit gurgled in Mohammad’s gullet, choking him. His face turned from green to blue. He was dead.

Scattered applause for Mohammad’s “performance” arose throughout the restaurant.

The author grinned at this latest event. He kissed the young woman.

“Who knew the other white meat could change the prophet’s color so much?” he wondered.