An unwanted meeting

"Why come you don't write about me anymore," she slurs, spitting a loogy over the deck, takes a drag from her cigarette and chases with a tall boy PBR and a shot of bourbon.

"Why come?" I ask laughingly.

"Yeah ... why come you don't write about me anymore either?"

It's my drunken bicycle who's been pretty upright for the last few years.

"Screw off," my Guardian Angel says flipping him off with one hand while pulling her dirty robe back over her shoulder to cover her exposed right breast.

"Ruff," Winston The Little Gay Dog barks in his high pitched voice ... wearing a black sweater vest with pink letters ... reading ... "3 words to save the American Economy: GAY BRIDAL REGISTRATION!"

"Shut up," I say.

"Here Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!" the Cat Lady screeches from next door. "Dammit Micheal! You don't write about me anymore either."

"Oh for Christ's sake," I mutter.

"I didn't like the way you handled my death," says the neighbor who used to garden in her underwear. "You could have done much better."

"You're dead," I reply. "Why are you here?"

Smiling she answers, "Haunting's in my future."

"You don't get new panties in Heaven?" I ask which pisses her off so she tries to call the Tybee Police on our dogs but hasn't mastered cell phones yet.

"Who in the Hell are all these people?" my Guardian Angel demands crushing out her cigarette on the kitchen table.

"Figments of my imagination," I grin.

"TO HELL WE ARE!" they screech in unison.

My left foot is suddenly warmer than the right one and looking down Winston, TLGD, is peeing on it.

"Listen," my drunken bicycle slurs, "don't you forget that we're the ones who made you what you are today?"

"What's that?" I ask suddenly interested.

They all look at each other searching for an answer.

"GET OUT!" I yell.

Everyone disappears except  my Guardian Angel ... who hands me a beer and smiles, "You can't do that with me."

"Ruff," Winston, TLGD, barks in his pitched voice.

Apparently I can't do it with him either.