happy. He had all he’d ever wanted—the fame, the fortune, the recognition. However, he knew it wasn’t real. Fool’s gold. The only reason for it all was in that ancient box.
The brain food was calling to him like a drug, tormenting with empty promises. With it, he was Stanley Cox, writer extraordinaire, master storyteller and billionaire in the making. Without it, he was just plain Stan, the has-been, the guy who wrote that book once and made it big, then faded into obscurity.
He raced to the bedroom where his bags were waiting, plucked up a small tote, and set it on the mattress. He zipped it open to reveal the antique wooden container and yelled, “You won’t get me, understand! I don’t need you anymore! I can do this by myself, now, you hear me!”
He zipped the bag closed again and rushed back to his computer.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The cursor had returned to its old tricks. Stan did his best not to pull out his hair. He got up and paced the room once, twice, thrice, sat down, and tried again.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
“What’s happened to me! Why can’t I think of a goddam thing!” he went to the terrace and shouted into the night, into the street with the traffic and the horns and the sirens. “Why can’t I think of a fucking thing!”
He sat at the computer again, panting, sweating, even bleeding after making a fist so hard he’d dug into his palm. Determined to write, he pressed his fingertips on the keys. Shaking, twitching, he had nothing. No power left. He was nothing without brain food, and he ultimately gave up and admitted it.
He returned to the bedroom swiftly, to the bag where the precious little box waited. Before he got his luggage unzipped for the second time, he heard a knock at the door. At first he was scared, then he remembered he’d ordered room service.
10.
POP!
“Shit!” Stan jumped at the sound of the champagne cork. He glared at the waiter, salt and pepper hair, dark complexion, slight build. “You scared the hell out of me, man.”
“I am sorry, sir,” the waiter had a heavy Hispanic accent. He poured a glass and handed it to Stan. “Compliments of the house. We are very, very grateful to host an amazing talent such as you, Mister Cox,” he picked up a knife. “Would you like some cheese with your champagne?”
“Thanks, but I…” Stan’s pulse shot to light speed. He fumbled the champagne glass and it shattered on the floor. Neither of them reacted. That face. He’d seen it before. He’d been to hundreds of places, seen thousands of faces in the last three years, but this one face he remembered from somewhere…somewhere important. Then it hit him like an adobe brick.
“Alejandro!” he backed up a step. “The bartender in Mexico.”
“At Guillermo’s, in Bahia de Los Angeles,” Alejandro nodded.
“But, what are you doing here?” Stan was suspicious. He’d heard of gangs kidnapping the rich and demanding excessive ransoms. “I’m calling security!”
Alejandro rushed toward him, his empty palms up in a submissive gesture. “No, no! You must listen to me. Give me a chance to explain why I’m here.”
“You’d better talk fast, Alejandro.”
He sat on the expansive leather couch. Stan took the loveseat opposite him, across the glass and silver leaf coffee table.
“I know what you’ve been doing. I know how you’ve been able to become the great and beloved writer that you are.”
“I’ve…I’ve worked hard…honed my craft.”
“You went to Señor Gomez in Cabo San Lucas. You got the brain food from him. That’s the only way to explain your instant rise to success,” Alejandro sighed. “It is my fault. I told you about it. I tried not to, but the man at the bar…the man, he…he—never mind. That is the past. I’ve come to make it right. I’ve come to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Stan stretched,
The brain food was calling to him like a drug, tormenting with empty promises. With it, he was Stanley Cox, writer extraordinaire, master storyteller and billionaire in the making. Without it, he was just plain Stan, the has-been, the guy who wrote that book once and made it big, then faded into obscurity.
He raced to the bedroom where his bags were waiting, plucked up a small tote, and set it on the mattress. He zipped it open to reveal the antique wooden container and yelled, “You won’t get me, understand! I don’t need you anymore! I can do this by myself, now, you hear me!”
He zipped the bag closed again and rushed back to his computer.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
The cursor had returned to its old tricks. Stan did his best not to pull out his hair. He got up and paced the room once, twice, thrice, sat down, and tried again.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
“What’s happened to me! Why can’t I think of a goddam thing!” he went to the terrace and shouted into the night, into the street with the traffic and the horns and the sirens. “Why can’t I think of a fucking thing!”
He sat at the computer again, panting, sweating, even bleeding after making a fist so hard he’d dug into his palm. Determined to write, he pressed his fingertips on the keys. Shaking, twitching, he had nothing. No power left. He was nothing without brain food, and he ultimately gave up and admitted it.
He returned to the bedroom swiftly, to the bag where the precious little box waited. Before he got his luggage unzipped for the second time, he heard a knock at the door. At first he was scared, then he remembered he’d ordered room service.
10.
POP!
“Shit!” Stan jumped at the sound of the champagne cork. He glared at the waiter, salt and pepper hair, dark complexion, slight build. “You scared the hell out of me, man.”
“I am sorry, sir,” the waiter had a heavy Hispanic accent. He poured a glass and handed it to Stan. “Compliments of the house. We are very, very grateful to host an amazing talent such as you, Mister Cox,” he picked up a knife. “Would you like some cheese with your champagne?”
“Thanks, but I…” Stan’s pulse shot to light speed. He fumbled the champagne glass and it shattered on the floor. Neither of them reacted. That face. He’d seen it before. He’d been to hundreds of places, seen thousands of faces in the last three years, but this one face he remembered from somewhere…somewhere important. Then it hit him like an adobe brick.
“Alejandro!” he backed up a step. “The bartender in Mexico.”
“At Guillermo’s, in Bahia de Los Angeles,” Alejandro nodded.
“But, what are you doing here?” Stan was suspicious. He’d heard of gangs kidnapping the rich and demanding excessive ransoms. “I’m calling security!”
Alejandro rushed toward him, his empty palms up in a submissive gesture. “No, no! You must listen to me. Give me a chance to explain why I’m here.”
“You’d better talk fast, Alejandro.”
He sat on the expansive leather couch. Stan took the loveseat opposite him, across the glass and silver leaf coffee table.
“I know what you’ve been doing. I know how you’ve been able to become the great and beloved writer that you are.”
“I’ve…I’ve worked hard…honed my craft.”
“You went to Señor Gomez in Cabo San Lucas. You got the brain food from him. That’s the only way to explain your instant rise to success,” Alejandro sighed. “It is my fault. I told you about it. I tried not to, but the man at the bar…the man, he…he—never mind. That is the past. I’ve come to make it right. I’ve come to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Stan stretched,
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