Title: Farmer John
Rating: PG
Summary: The evolution of Farmer John Shooter.
Disclaimer: Don't own Mort. Never have and never will. Maybe I'll make a bid for the disgruntled tap-dancing, opera-singing garbage man, but that's about it.
A/N: Nope, these thoughts have never crossed my mind. innocent grin I've always just really wondered where Shooter came from. This is my twisted little answer.
The story was eating away Mort's life. The story that just wouldn't finish. He had it all worked out, but there was no way to clear the last hurdle and get to the ending. There was the strong feeling that he was missing something crucial, but he couldn't, for the life of him, place it. He had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with his two-dimensional antagonist. Mort took a swig from the dwindling Jack Daniels and lit up another smoke.
Amy watched her husband intently as she leaned against the doorframe. Had Mort been aware, he would have noticed the metaphorical rain cloud she was huddled under. The electric LCD monitor was drawing his aching eyes like a moth to a porch light. No matter how many times he reread the same paragraph, he couldn't think of a reasonable transition. The blinking cursor mocked him unfairly. 1, 2, 3, 4… Each blink brought another second of empty, torturedexistence. Times like these made writing truly horrific.
Some kind of twist. The villain is… a tap dancer. An opera singer. A disgruntled garbage man. Alter ego. The villain has an alter ego that is a tap dancer, opera singer, garbage man. But not. What is he?
"Mort?" Amy finally spoke up, but it produced no results. Mort was glued to the laptop in more ways than one.
A farmer. Farmers have rotten luck. A pissed off farmer. A hick. Some Jeff Foxworthy type. A bumbling fool, but a cunning one. Farmer John.
Something clicked in the back of his head, like a hidden signal. He laid the still burning cigarette in the ashtray and began to type.
"Mort?" Amy tried again. It was important that Mort know where things stood in their relationship. For the good of both of them. Mort waved her off with a flap of his hand.
"Not now, Babe, I'm on a roll."
Amy sighed and shuffled into another room. Mort noticed the dejected sigh and rolled his eyes. Well, Amy, maybe ifyou spent less timewith yourgarden, I wouldn't be in this mess. Now… talk to me John Wayne.