While Jenna was at work, Mort decided to do some writing. He sit at his computer, holding a can of Mountain Dew. A bag of Doritos lay on his desk next to a slinky. Hopefully, this story would be done by the end of the week, for it was a short story. The only problem was that Mort was having a bit of writer's block, which sucked apples. He sit there, wearing his torn green robe, his hair a mess, trying to come up with different ideas. Mort turned and looked over at Chico, who was laying on a rug on the floor.
"I'm open to suggestions."
Suddenly, a loud banging noise was heard on the door. Groaning in frustration, Mort got up to answer it. He hated visitors when he was trying to work. It was a huge pain in the ass. Since Jenna moved in, she would handle any visitors that popped by while Mort was trying to work, but since she was at the diner, Mort had to answer the door.
Standing there on the doorstep was a man, wearing a black hat with a large crown around it, a black jacket, a light blue shirt, and a pair of blue jeans.
"You stole my story," the man said, in a thick Southern accent.
Mort stared at this stranger in confusion. He had only been up an hour, and had no idea who this guy was.
"Um... what?"
"You stole my story, and something has to be done about it."
"Um... I'm sorry, sir, but I haven't the faintest idea who you are."
"John Shooter. I came all the way up here from Mississippi just to talk to you. You stole my story."
The man called John Shooter, held out some papers.
"I don't read manuscripts, Mr. Shooter."
"Well, you read this one. You stole it."
Mort was starting to get annoyed now. He did no such thing!
"Listen, I don't like to be accused of plagiarism. I've never heard of you."
"You lie!"
"No, I don't! Now, please leave. You're mistaken."
Shooter shook his head, and sighed. He looked through the pages of the manuscript, and read: 'I know I can do it, Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl...'
Mort went to close the door on Shooter, but Shooter blocked the door from closing.
"Read it."
"I'm not taking that."
"Why not?"
Mort ran his hand through his hair, just wanting to get back to work. He had to pick up Jenna in a couple of hours, and he hasn't even had his shower yet.
"Look, Mr. Shooter, I'm sorry you think that I stole your story, but I didn't."
Shooter shook his head, and backed up.
"This isn't over, Mr. Rainey."
Mort closed the door, and locked it, waiting nervously for Shooter to leave. A loud thump was heard. Mort unlocked the door, and opened it to see what it was. Shooter was getting in his car to leave, and Mort looked down to find that Shooter had left the manuscript. The thump was the sound of Shooter placing a rock over the pages so they wouldn't blow away.
Shooter drove off before Mort could say or do anything. Sighing, Mort bent down and picked up the manuscript, and written on the first page was: Sewing Season by John Shooter.
Mort took the manuscript in the house, and threw it into the garbage can.
"Never heard of you, pal. Never heard of your story."