A story I wrote for my friend, Foster, who is in love with Johnny Depp.
“What happens at the lookout, stays at the lookout,” he sneered. In spite of his threatening and ill-tempered manner I couldn’t believe my luck. Johnny Depp was here, on my mountain, to visit me. Me!
“You can never tell Foster you were here,” I said.
“Exactly,” I said with a smile. I was enjoying our little game.
“No seriously, who the fuck is Foster?” he barked.
“I don’t know anyone named Foster,” I said with a wink. Then I reached out and walked my fingers up his plaid adorned arm. Funny, I knew Johnny Depp was small, but I never imagined his arm would be so frail that by touching it I felt like a molester seducing a ten year old.
“Foster’s just a beer,” I sighed as my fingers made their way to his collar, then to his jaw and finally to his perfect cheek bone. My fingers pressed against that fine cheek bone.
He stared at me wide-eyed; with interest or terror I’m not quite sure. His jaw clenched.
I whispered, “Are those things real?” I suspected they weren’t. In fact, I suspected Johnny Depp wasn’t human at all. I shoved his cheek bone hard. His head snapped back and he whimpered. I reached forward for more, more cheek bone, more contact, more anything. I had lost control.
He slapped my hand away.
“Why are you here anyway?” I snarled.
He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He leveled me with his perfect stare, his chocolate eyes in flawless olive skin. “You know exactly why I’m here,” he paused, for effect I think, then he said it:“ Jo.”
I gasped. He knew my name.“You know my name!”
“Of course I know your name, you bitch,” he spat. My gosh, Johnny Depp was a foul little thing.
“Johnny Depp, you are a foul, tiny man,” I observed.
Then it happened.
In times of great stress, perception sharpens, time slows. With the flick of his tiny and perfectly manicured fingers Johnny Depp sent his still lit cigarette spinning into the crisp mountain air. My eyes locked on the red embers on the end of that nicotine stick as it spun around and around, slowly making its way to the ground.
Not in this fire hazard, is what my mind shrieked but all that came out of my mouth was, “Nazi!”
Then, quick as a whip, Johnny Depp clenched his tiny fist and sucker punched me. He spun on his size 5 heels and scampered down the mountain. But I swear, while I’ll was doubled-over in pain from that needle-fist in the gut, I swear I heard him shout, “That’s for Foster!”