The Ransom Note

       “A beam of sunlight streamed in through the window, tickling Gary’s nose,” said a clipped accented voice

    

 Gary stirred from his fitful slumber. He opened one bleary eye, the sound of a strange voice awakening him. Gary sat up in bed, and rubbed his sleep encrusted eyes. He was being silly; there was no one in the apartment except for him, and his beloved cat, Mr. Whiskaz.

    

 “Mr. Whiskaz!” Gary called sweetly, there was no response. This was not unusual; quite often Gary would leave the window open to his balcony, so that Mr. Whiskaz could come and go freely. Gary felt certain that his absent feline would make and appearance soon.

     

“Gary slung his legs over the side of the bed, and pulled on his pink, fuzzy bunny slippers. Then he stood up and scratched his butt,” narrated the refined voice once more.

    

 Gary’s hand froze in mid butt scratch “Who said that?” He blurted, regarding the seemingly empty room. Silence was all that greeted him. Gary cautiously walked to the bathroom. Reaching for his toothbrush; he put a dab of spearmint toothpaste on the end, and began brushing his teeth.  While he brushed his teeth, he looked around the bathroom for hidden speakers.

        

 “It was then, that Gary realized he might have had a bit too much to drink last night. That perhaps strip poker was a bad idea,” said the narrator again.

        

“Hey!” yelled Gary, flinging his toothbrush into the sink. “Whoever you are, shut up!”

       

 “Well, I say! You are being quite rude!” said the narrator grumpily.

        

“Rude!” Gary spluttered “I didn’t even play strip poker last night!” he argued into thin air.

       

“Are you going to let me finish telling the story?” the narrator asked Gary.

       

 “What story?!” Gary shouted angrily. “You’re making it all up!”

       

There was silence.

       

“Right!” Gary shouted “I’m going to just ignore you.” He threw his hands up, exasperated.

     

Walking through the living room; on his way to the kitchen, Gary saw that he had indeed left the window open.  He entered the kitchen, and opened a cabinet. Before him were two types of cereal Fruit Loops or Captain Crunch. His hand hovered over, for a minute, uncertain.

        

 “Oh, bloody hell! Just pick one you tosser!” The narrator snapped.

   

 Settling with Captain Crunch, Gary poured himself a bowl. Just then, his buzzer rang. Setting down the milk, Gary walked over to the door and opened it. Standing outside his door was the land lady Mrs. Perkins, with a stack of letters.

    

 “Standing outside Gary’s front door, was his creepy land lady Mrs. Perkins. In her hand was a stack of letters. Gary looked at them ominously,” said the narrator in a hushed voice.

      

 “Damn you, damn you, will you shut up?!” yell Gary waving his fist at the sky.

    

 “These were falling out of your mail box,” said Mrs. Perkins, thrusting the letters into Gary’s hands and walked away quickly.

      

 “Thank you Mrs. Perkins,” Gary shouted at her retreating back.

     

 “It was then, that Gary’s life took a turn for the worse.” The narrator said smugly.

                

 “Thanks for making me look like a nutcase!” said Gary shutting his apartment door.

       

“You ARE crazy,” replied the narrator.

       

“I’m not!” Gary yelled annoyed.

       

“You’re not?” asked the narrator, laughing.

       

 “No!” Gary shouted.

   

 “Look, all I am saying that is that sane people don’t have cats named Mr. Whiskaz. Nor do they hear strange voices narrating their life.” Said the narrator, making a good point.

        

“Oh aye laddie, that is a good point,” said a deep voice, with a heavy Scottish brogue.

        

“NO, no! That is not a good point,” Gary disagreed.

       

 Silence.

   

 Gary walked back into his kitchen, and finished pouring his milk. He sat down at the counter, to eat his cereal. Picking the first letter in the stack, he opened it. Brightly colored letters scattered over the counter top. The directions in the envelope said to place the letters to find out the secret message. When Gary finished rearranging the letters, the clandestine message read “Give us one million dollars, or your “Mr. Whiskaz” will be turned into Chinese food!”

      

“Oh, your cat is done for! Looks like your Mr. Whiskaz is going to make lots of kitty Won Tons!” said the narrator gleefully.

      

“Not Mr. Whiskaz!” Gary cried running into his bedroom and slamming the door. He threw himself under the covers and cried himself to sleep.

    

 A sun beam danced through the window, tickling Gary’s nose. He scratched his nose and opened his eyes. At the end of the bed sat Mr. Whiskaz. “What a dream!” said Gary relieved.

   

 “I agree,” said Mr. Whiskaz, in a clipped accented voice.