I take care of things when the Master is away. He told me to write a post for him even though technically he’s here and not “away.” He’s trolling Craigslist for “hot deals and cheap women,” as he likes to mumble when he thinks nobody’s around.

At other times the Master also isn’t away but is just editing his novel, and at that point I take care of things.

“Marty, water the petunias.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Marty, feed the hell-hounds.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Marty, find me a self-published author and beat him senseless. Wait! Reverse that––find a senseless author and beat him into self-publishing.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Marty, stop touching my fiancee.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Marty, write and direct a one-man show on the life of Phil Silvers.”

“Who?”

“Sergeant Bilko, you cretin!”

“Yes, Master.”

“Marty, put this dress on and drive to Lodi to pick up my grandmother.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Marty, fetch me a decaf soy cappuccino from the coffee shop.”

With a tremendous waver in my voice, I scream, “No, Master!”

“Marty Fintuzler! Why are you defying me?”

“Because,” I sob, “I don’t know what a decaf coy sappuccino is, Master!”

The Master sighed. “Hot cuppy-cup from green-white circle place!”

“Oh yes, Master. Sorry, Master.”

I returned with an open bottle of Fresca that I found outside the Manpower office and the Master was not pleased. He’s threatening to make me a character in his novel––for Pete’s sake, does the man have no feelings left at all?