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Hawkins cracked open his eyes. Ahhh, what a lovely Monday
morning! The sunlight was streaming through his window, the birds were singing
outside the green Kyrii's window, the clock on the nightstand was showing 8:50…
8:50?!
Hawkins threw off the covers in a panic. How
could he have slept in!? He grabbed the alarm clock and shook it furiously.
"Why didn't you wake me up, you? And you call yourself an alarm clock!"
In the underside of the clock, He caught sight
of a small label reading "Warning: I am not an alarm clock! Do not try to set
me, as I will not get you up for important meetings, job interviews, etc."
"You worthless piece of junk!" the pet shouted,
hurling the alarm-less clock at the wall. He jumped out of the bed and rushed
out of his room into the main living room of the apartment in which he resided.
The apartment was sparsely furnished, filled
with little more than a couch with a coffee table in front of it, a small kitchenette,
filled with as many of the latest commodities as could be afforded by two bachelors
living on their own.
A true bachelor's apartment (or "pad", as they're
called).
"Why hello, sleepyhead! Have a good night's sleep?
I made you a hearty meal before you're interview today!" Hawkins glanced up
to see a certain red Lenny cooking up a hearty breakfast in their kitchenette.
Lennert. Assuredly, this meal was a disaster waiting to happen.
"Sorry, Lennert," Hawkins replied to his roommate,
pausing to run a paw through his fur in a mirror. "I don't really have time.
I'm running late."
"You know," the Lenny shouted, pulling a rag
from off the counter and throwing it to the ground in a semi-dramatic fashion.
"I spent a whole twenty minutes slaving over a hot stove to make you a nice
breakfast! I had to call the fire department twice and risked life and limb
to get you eggs from the old lady two flights down! The least you can do is
eat it!"
Hawkins sighed, glancing at the clock desperately.
8:52. He had to get moving… but on the other hand, it would be unwise to allow
his roommate to stay in a bad mood. Last time that had happened, Hawkins had
come home to find all his stuff outside on the street. He'd had to sleep on
the couch for a week (even though they each slept in separate beds in separate
rooms anyway). "Alright," he gave in, conceding defeat. "I'll eat your breakfast.
But right after that, I have to get going!"
"Splendid!" the bipolar Lenny shouted, brightening
up immediately. "I'll go iron your clothes!"
Turning to the "breakfast", or so it had been
referred to, it was not a pretty sight. Remember when you first saw what the
mutant Grundo looks like? Yeah worse than that. Sloth in undies? Worse than
that. It's like… well, you get the point.
There were two small slices of bacon. "Well,"
the Kyrii said aloud, optimistic, "these can't possibly be that bad…" He stuck
his fork into them and lifted them off the plate. Immediately, as if made of
liquid, they oozed right through the prongs of the fork and fell back to the
plate with a -PLOP!-.
"Ugghh!" he gasped, sickened. They were literally
nothing but grease!
But the eggs looked appetizing! Cooked sunny-side-up,
they did at least appear to have the consistency that one would expect of eggs.
Still optimistic, he plunged his fork into one of the eggs… and there it stuck.
He tried to pull it up, but it wouldn't budge; neither the egg, nor the fork.
It was like glue… glue that… ate? Yes, the egg began to suck in Hawkins'
fork. Soon, the fork entirely disappeared into the goo which was an egg.
"You… you ate my fork!" Hawkins exclaimed. "You're
not supposed to do that! I eat you! Not the other way around!"
The egg merely responded with a burp.
Finally, the green pet turned his attention to
the toast. Nothing, nothing, could possibly be wrong with the toast! How could
one mess up toast?! The Kyrii took his knife and tried to cut the piece of toast
in half, but to no avail. It was hard as a rock and black as one too! He took
the slice and start banging it on the counter. No good.
He spun around and threw the burned bread at
the wall, ninja-star style. It flew right into the wall, imbedding itself there,
and leaving a huge hole.
Annoyed at the food's ignorance, he grabbed the
piece from the wall and threw it into the floor. It went right through the floorboards,
into the apartment below…
The Apartment Below
Old man Giles, a rather elderly, very superstitious Poogle, sat on his couch,
munching on a fortune cookie. Cracking open the annoying, yet very tasty, shell,
he pulled out the strip of paper in the middle and read it.
"'You will get hit on the head by a hard object
today.'" He looked up, confused. "But that doesn't make any sense…" Suddenly,
a large piece of char-burned bread came falling through the roof above him,
hitting the poor Poogle over the head and knocking him out cold…
The Apartment Above
Hawkins sighed, looking through the toast-shaped hole in his floor. This should
surprise him… but alas, it didn't.
"Lennert, I'm leaving," he called out, rushing
to grab a derby hat off the counter and making for the door. He was almost there,
almost free! But then…
"Wait up! I've got your shirt all pressed and
ironed!" The Lenny rushed out of the back room, the iron, its cord wrapped around
his leg, dragging dangerously on the floor behind him.
Hawkins stopped, paw on the door-handle, cringing.
He had been so close. He once again humored the Lenny, putting on the white
dress-shirt. His fears were confirmed: his roommate was no better at ironing
than he was at cooking.
"Went a little crazy with the starch, didn't
you?" Hawkins remarked, looking down at the shirt, he arms sticking out ridged
at his sides. A little crazy with the starch, indeed.
The Lenny only smiled innocently, wiping away
a non-existent mellow-dramatically tear. "Kids… you all grow up so fast!" He
spread his red feathered wings wide. "A hug before you go?"
Hawkins paused, trying to decide if he was serious.
"No chance," he replied simply, bending over and, with some difficulty, opening
the door. After trying to walk through front-way, only to discover his stiffened
arms wouldn't let him through, the Kyrii turned and sidled his way out. Finally,
he was on his way!
And to think, it was only 9:10!
***
Hawkins practically ran the whole ten blocks there. At one point, a friendly
officer helped him loosen the shirt sleeves, though not after a whole two minutes
of uncontrollable laughter.
But finally, he arrived at his destination! The
Neopian Times Headquarters! This was where all the magic happened! And it was
Hawkins' unrelenting dream to be part of it all!
He walked in to see a Wocky sitting at a reception
desk in the lobby. "Yes?" she inquired as Hawkins walked up.
"Hi, I'm Hawkins and I'm here for the job interview!"
The Wocky just stared back blankly.
"Which is today…"
Same blank look.
"Which I have to get to…"
More blankness.
"Which means you have to let me pass so I can
get to the interview…"
The Wocky looked back, hurt. "You don't have
to be so rude, you know," she replied sharply, deeply offended.
A little baffled at what he'd done, Hawkins walked
on through. Beyond the desk, Hawkins saw paradise! Reporters working furiously
to get articles done for print, story writers trying to find their lost muses,
a Doglefox attacking a lone Techo, holding on to his leg as the poor pet tried
to shake him off… ahhh, what heaven! This was where Hawkins desperately wanted
to work, what he had wanted to do ever since had been a young Kyrii and first
read a story in the 'Times.
"Are you Hawkins?"
The wannabe writer turned to see a white Blumaroo,
very official looking, waiting for him in the doorway to an office.
"Ummm, yes I am…"
"Good," the Blumaroo said briskly, waving his
paw for the Kyrii to come over. "Get in here. "I've been waiting."
Hawkins followed the Blumaroo, whoever he was,
into the office, where he proceeded to close the door. The office was pretty
plain, a desk with two chairs pulled up in front of it and a large, comfy, leather
chair behind it. On the desk sat a sign reading "Mr. Brintle: Assistant Editor".
The "Assistant Editor", or so the ID suggested,
motioned for Hawkins to take a seat in one of the two chairs and, when he had
done so, the Blumaroo took his own seat in the leather chair. "We've been waiting
for you," the Blumaroo began, "I've just been talking to the other applicant
who's vying for the position of reporter also -- Rocky."
Hawkins took his seat and looked over to see
the other "applicant" sitting in the chair next to him. "Uhhh, Mister, umm,
Brintle," the Kyrii began hesitantly, not quite sure how to say it. "That's…
a rock…" Hawkins glanced from the mindless mineral up to the bewildered Blumaroo,
then back to the mineral.
"Mister Hawkingin," the editor corrected, "that
is not just a rock - it is a pet rock. And we don't discriminate in hiring
here.. Now, Rocky was just telling me some things about his life. So, why don't
you tell me some things about yours?"
Hawkins glanced from the rock -- excuse me, Pet
Rock -- to the Blumaroo, half-expecting him to be joking. But after a few seconds,
it became painfully apparent that he was not. So, begin the Kyrii did.
"Well, I was born…"
"Psshh!" Brintle cut him off. "Well that was
a real whopper of a story wasn't it, Rocky! Boy, you're life made his
look like Swiss cheese! I mean, what with all the princess saving, pirate adventures,
and treasure-searching"
Hawkins glanced from "Rocky" to Mr. Brintle,
desperately wondering what was going on. Could it be… was he going to get beaten
out for a job… by a rock?!
Oh, it was just like his mother had predicted…
"Now," the assistant editor continued, not missing
a beat, "I'm going to give you both a test. I want you to come up with a poem,
right here, right now." He turned, speaking to Hawkins more directly. "I want
you to go first, Hawkyness…"
"It's Hawkins, sir…"
"Yeah, whatever. I want you to go first." He
narrowed his eyes, staring at Hawkins intently, in a creepy, distrustful way.
"I don't trust you - you might try to steal Rocky's poem, and that wouldn't
be fair would it?"
Hawkins froze. Make up a poem? He hadn't been
prepared for something like that! Nowhere in his book "How To Get Hired" had
it mentioned anything about making up poems! And poetry was most certainly not
his forte…
"Okay, umm, here I go…
"There once was a guy named Kurt.
Kurt, he had a hurt.
He found a cure,
And now, it's for sure,
Kurt, he no longer hurts."
Hawkins sat there, sweating bullets, trying to
grin and bear it. The Blumaroo was not impressed.
"That's all you got?" Brintle sighed. "Fine…
Rocky, you go now!"
The Rock… it sat there.
And sat…
And continued to sit…
And the seconds continued to tick away, with
the Rock continuing to sit there. And what was scarier - Brintle sat, riveted
to his seat, staring deeply at the Rock -- I'm sorry, Pet Rock -- as
it spoke. Or did lack thereof. Soon, Hawkins felt he should speak up.
"Ahem. Uhh, sir?"
"Shhhhhh!" Brintle hushed. "Hawkirons! How can
you be so rude?! Rocky didn't speak during your poem; now give him the same
respect!"
And so, Hawkins waited. And the rock, it sat
there, like rocks tend to do most of the time. But as for Mister Brintle - he
leaned forward, hunched over his desk, enthralled at Rocky's "poem", listening
deeply, taking in every word.
Finally, after another minute, he leaned back
slowly, eyes wide open, as if he had just seen a ghost. "Wow…" he murmured softly.
"That… Rocky, that was beautiful…" He reached up and wiped away a tear (a real
tear, unlike Lennert's) and gave a little sniffle.
Please, the Kyrii thought, praying silently
that it wouldn't go down like this, his paws nearly shaking as he tried to grip
the bottom of the chair for support. Please don't let him pick the rock over
me…
Hawkins paused. That was one thought he hoped
he'd never have to think again. It just… wasn't right…
"Well," announced the assistant editor, seemingly
recovered from the great piece of literature he'd just heard, "I've finally
made my decision. Honkings, come with me." He got up and led the Kyrii out of
the office.
Out in hall, the Blumaroo turned to "Honkings",
a grim look on his face. "Well, it was a tough decision. Rocky seems to be far
more qualified for this position than you, but, frankly, its not what we're
looking for. So, I've decided to hire you!"
As anti-climatic as it may be, Hawkins wasn't
in the least surprised. Which kind of scared him: he'd expected to be really
worried that the rock might beat him out for the reporting job.
Brintle clapped a gruff, fatherly paw on his
new employee's shoulder. "There's something about you. Something that I think
sets you apart from Rocky. Something more than just qualifications."
"Is it that fact that I'm not an inanimate object?"
The Blumaroo just shook his head grimly. "Boy,
I hate to have to break the news to Rocky -- he was really hoping for this job."
As he turned and glumly trudged back to his office, Hawkins called out, "So
when do you want me to start?"
"You start Monday," the Blumaroo answered, stopping
to look back.
"But… today is Monday."
"Okay then, you can start Saturday."
"But… we don't work Saturday…"
"Look, just come in tomorrow and I'll give ya
something to do!"
And that's how it ended. The Neopian Times had
on more pet to its payroll (and one less rock), and Hawkins had landed the dream
job of his life. Sort of.
***
Hawkins walked into his apartment to see Lennert, his all-too familiar roommate,
standing there, holding a cake, a (very false) downtrodden expression on his
face. On the cake were the words "Nice Try."
"I'm sorry you didn't get the job," the Lenny
cooed, trying his hardest to look sad and hurt.
Hawkins paused. "But, Lennert, I did get the
job…"
An awkward pause on both sides ensued. Then,
Lennert simply ducked behind the counter, emerging a few seconds later holding
another cake, this one reading "Congratulations!"
"Congratulations!" he cheered. "I always knew
you could do it! I always had faith in you!"
Hawkins just rolled his eyes at the stupidity
in it all… the unimaginable stupidity…
"I'm going to bed." The Kyrii walked past cake
and Lenny and trudged into his own room, closing the door behind him.
There was still a problem. Two cakes. One pet.
"But, what am I supposed to do with all these cakes?" the Lenny shouted. "I
can't eat them all!"
No response.
"Aww, I spent all afternoon baking two cakes
and now no one's even gonna eat them?! I'm so under appreciated around here!"
In a fit of anger, he slammed the cake into the floor, where it broke through
the floorboards, falling into the apartment below…
The Apartment Below
Old man Giles stood before Mrs. Giles, desperately trying to convince her of
his crossings with luck earlier that day. "But dear," he exclaimed, seeing the
scepticism in her face, "I swear! It really happened! First, I opened the fortune
cookie! It said I was gonna get hit on the head! And then I…"
At just that moment, a cake came falling in from
apartment above, hitting the old Poogle and knocking him to the floor.
With the top of his head covered in cake and
icing, he looked up and shook his fists in the air. "Curse you, fortune cookie!
Curse you!"
Those fortune cookies. They're always causing
trouble.
The End
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