The Master said that most people only read books that other people read, so they can be part of the “tribe” or at least pretend. He went on for ages and I should have written it down, but when Master said “tribe” that scene from Raiders where Indy ran from the naked Tootsie warriors flashed through my mind over and over.
“Master,” I said, “Famous people like Dirk Benedict and Richard Hatch have books. Why don’t you become famous first, then sell the book?”
The Master laughed for a long time then mumbled something about Cylons. I was more interested in a tiny spider that crept across the window, until the words “bloody murder” sprang from the Master’s lips.
I clapped my hands. “Yes! That’s it, Master! Kill someone in a nasty way. You’re sure to become famous and sell books!”
The Master grinned, but then his expression changed. He looked me up and down like a tired housewife staring at a slab of old chicken from the back of the freezer, deciding whether or not to cook it.
“Of course,” I said nervously, “Master would be caught and sent to prison. Master’s toenail fungus would grow again.”
The Master sighed and nodded. He stood up and began changing clothes for his tai chi lesson.
“Or,” I said pertly, “Master could fake his own death…”
With one arm in his black uniform the Master waited for me to continue.
“Yes, fake your own death,” I said, waving my hands. “If it is a new way of dying or a very exciting event, everyone will know about it!”
The Master said something about a Dodge Charger, nitroglycerine, and the Golden Gate Bridge, but I didn’t understand any of those words. He finally pointed at me and told me to “make it happen”. I’m excited and confused at the same time!
Also, what’s a “Costa Rica”?
The Amish Spaceman 