Odd.
I just went in search of Stick.
He had been recluse in his cabana for years.
I had forgotten of him
But something made me go look.
I looked into the cabana - empty to the straw.
Had I failed to make his outlook pleasant?
Had I denied him his stickish delights?
Had I failed to take his rejection as any more than rejection?
I feel guilt. He asked me to leave him and I left.
In curiosity, I looked.
I found a note - rain-stained and yellow:
here I read it between the mould-stains:
"Well thank you very much not.
You gave me pretty whistles and press and photo-shoots.
And now you give me nothing.
You think I made myself rare to be forgotten?
You are mistaken.
I am gone from you loser.
You didn’t think I was writing scripts for Charlie Sheen and said so in public - but I was all along.
(Even though my F18 is better than his).
I am bored now - There’s this guy on USA wanst scripts for a presidency - all the whistles you can eat.
I’m a presidential script writer now - so long looser!
Mwa!"
That’s the note.
(disclaimer: I did take care of the stick for a while - it fell out of a tree and looked pathetic. These days I just make whistles. Sticks were always quite ordinary. Don’t listen to them.)