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Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Comedy · #2047741
"What? No! Photographs can't talk!"
         Greg walked into a thrift store to shop around. He walked over to the CDs, and one particular album caught his eye. The Very Best Of The Doors was the album. He grinned and picked up the album.
         "Jackpot!" he said to himself. He walked to the counter to buy the CD.
         "Is this an old CD?" Greg asked the man behind the counter. The man shook his head and replied, "No. It's practically brand new. It's strange, though. Any time someone buys that, within a week, they return it."
         "That's weird. Probably just beginner Doors fans," replied Greg.
         "You have a point. That'll be five bucks."
         He payed for his CD and went home. His wife greeted him with a kiss, and she asked, "What'd you get?"
         "A CD," he replied casually. He showed it to her, and she asked, "Don't you think we have enough Doors?"
         "You can never have enough Doors."
         He put the album on their coffee table and sat down. He turned on the television and watched the UCLA football team play USC.
         "Woohoo! Yeah! Come on, Bruins!"
         Greg looked around to see who had just said that. He ignored it and continued watching the game. He gripped the couch as UCLA tried a field goal, and when they made it, he heard someone yell, "YEAH! Let's gooooo!"
         Greg looked around again, but he saw nothing. His eyes fell on the screen again, and Greg's wife sat down beside him.
         "Football again?" she asked. Then, the two heard someone sass, "Shut up, woman. This is UCLA! Woohoo!"
         They both scanned the room, and Greg said, "Just ignore that. It's been happening since I got home."
         "What is it?" asked his wife. Greg shrugged, and she said, "Well, it needs to stop."
         "You need to stop," the mysterious voice said. When USC fumbled the ball, the voice screamed, "Yeah! Those sons of bitches! They don't know who they're messing with!"
         "Greg, what is that?" asked Greg's wife, annoyed.
         "I don't know, honey."
         "Well, I'm going to find out."
         She walked into their bedroom to investigate, but Greg leaned back on the couch and continued watching. During halftime, he bent down to pick up a magazine that was sitting on the coffee table when something starting caught his eye On the cover of the album he just bought, Jim Morrison wasn't looking straight ahead, but his eyes were fixed on the television. Greg felt ridiculous, but he lightly tapped on the plastic case, and Morrison screamed and looked at him. Greg's eyes widened, and the photograph on the cover asked, "Can I help you?"
         "What?" asked Greg, confused out of his mind. "What kind of trick is this?"
         "I have no idea," replied the photograph. "That penalty on UCLA was bullshit."
         "No, not the game! How are you talking?"
         "What are you talking about?" asked the deceased rock star, who then fluffed his curly hair and added, "Are you drunk?"
         "What? No! Photographs can't talk!" exclaimed Greg.
         "I know they can't."
         "Well, how are you talking?" asked Greg, bewildered. Jim Morrison took offense to that.
         "Are you calling me a photograph? Oooh, I'm gonna kick your ass."
         Trying to calm down, Greg asked, "What do you think you are, then?"
         "Um, I think I'm a human being. What are you?" asked Jim. Greg argued, "You are not a human."
         "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Because I'm famous. Drop it. I'm just like you."
         "Have you seen yourself?" Greg asked him. Morrison laughed.
         "Oh, because I'm godly handsome? Good one."
         "No! You are a picture on the front of an album?"
         Then, it hit the photograph.
         "What? I am?"
         "Yes!"
         The picture grinned.
         "Well, this is new."
         "Are you insane?" shrieked Greg. "How did you not know that?"
         "How can I tell from in here? I've seen many strange people lately, but none are as strange as you. Just saying."
         "How are you possibly talking?" Greg asked. "I don't understand."
         "I'm moving my lips and exercising my vocal cords, I suppose."
         "I'm so confused."
         "So am I," said Jim. "Some of your confusion is rubbing off on me."
         "This just doesn't make any sense. You're a 2-D piece of paper," said Greg. The photograph was offended.
         "I am not! I'm so much better than you, mister! Don't think you can bring me down! I refuse to stoop to your level!"
         "Oh, I am so sorry," Greg said dramatically. "I've just never seen a photograph talk before."
         "Stop analyzing this. I am what I am, and you ain't going to do anything about it. Kapiesh? Besides, if you think this is strange, open this thing up and look inside."
         Greg hesitated for a moment, then did so, and he screamed when he saw the photograph that was supposed to be of the four members of the band. Instead, it showed a living room with a red velvet couch, a few chairs, a small table, and a lamp. Everything in the room was either red or gold, except for the three members of the band lounging in the room. The fourth member, Robby Krieger, walked into the room with a half-eaten cupcake. None of the guys seemed to notice Greg at first. Robby Krieger's cupcake caught Jim's attention.
         "Where did you get that?" Jim asked Robby. Between chews, he replied, "They've been in the refrigerator for a few days now."
         "I want one," Jim said as he stood up and strolled out of the picture. Ray Manzarek stood up and followed him. Robby sat down and continued eating while John Densmore sipped on a beer. Jim and Ray appeared, both with cupcakes. They sat down, and Jim asked Robby, "Guess who I saw yesterday?"
         "Who?"
         "Tommy Gilmore," replied Jim. "Ha! Remember him?"
         Robby smiled and nodded, then Jim said, "We talked for awhile. The man's got four kids."
         "What?" asked Robby. "He was the biggest nerd back in the day."
         "He sure was," replied Jim as he nodded. "His wife's a looker, too."
         "Jim," Ray said sternly, warning his friend not to go there.
         "What? I'm serious. She's awfully gorgeous. I don't understand how Tommy got her."
         "Probably his money," John sighed. Greg watched in awe at the guys talking. They weren't any bigger than his thumb, yet they had lives of their own. As they talked, Jim took a bite of his cupcake, and it left a smear of chocolate icing on his nose. He didn't notice it, though, until Ray cracked up and pointed at his own nose. Jim wiped the icing off his nose with his shirt and grinned. He analyzed the cupcake dramatically, trying to figure out how to eat it without getting it all over himself. He opened his mouth to take a bite, then mumbled, "No, that'll never work."
         Everyone laughed at his foolishness, then he finally had an idea. He took a bite, but icing ended up on his chin. He wiped it off and said, "Oh, for the love of cleanliness."
         Ray laughed and suggested, "Why don't you lick the icing off it, then eat it?"
         Jim looked at his like Ray was stupid.
         "Now, why would I do that?"
         Ray shrugged, then asked, "What are we having for dinner?"
         With a cigarette between his lips, John mumbled, "Don't ask me. I don't know."
         "I'm in the mood for a soup of some sort," Robby said. "Jim, you should make that killer soup you used to make. What's it called?"
         "Potage aux legumes," he replied with a delicate French accent. "It's French."
         "Ooh, listen to you, monsieur Morrison!" exclaimed John. Everyone laughed, and Jim stood up to get a beer. Then Ray looked up at the ceiling and finally saw Greg. Ray screamed, and that caused everyone else to look up and scream.
         "Who the hell is that?" blurted Robby. Greg stared at them for a moment, then asked, "How is this happening?"
         The four musicians looked at each other, clueless on how to answer him. Jim came back in the room and said to Greg, "Oh yeah, you."
         "There are more of you?"
         "What's that supposed to mean?" Jim asked as he sat down. Robby asked Jim, "When are you going to make that French soup?"
         "I'll get there," Jim replied. "I just need to finish my argument with the almighty knucklehead."
         "Take your time, but I'm hungry."
         "Be patient, Robby," said Jim. Robby replied, "Sorry."
         "There's some chees in the refrigerator if you want that. This may take awhile. This man has a big mouth something awful."
         "You're rude, Mr. Morrison!'' snapped Greg.
         "I am not rude," Jim replied coolly.
         "Well, I bought you."
Everyone in the room busted out laughing.
         "You bought us?" Ray exclaimed. In a fake Southern accent, Jim said, "We are not your slaves, master."
         "No, you are part of the CD I bought. I'm just telling the truth."
         "The truth is that you're getting on our nerves," Ray complained. Jim nodded and said, "Leave us alone. What we do is none of your business."
         "Yes it is," argued Greg. "You're a picture in a CD I bought with my own money. You cannot tell me what to do. I'm a living thing You all are not."
         Jim stomped his feet, stood up, and said, "Well, I'm done. I'll be in my bedroom if you need me. I have a headache."
         He stormed off, and Robby whined, "I thought he was going to cook dinner."
         Ray exhaled loudly and snapped at Greg, "Why don't you just close the damn album? We'll be out of your hair."
         Greg said, "I swear to God-"
         He didn't get to finish, for from his bedroom, Jim yelled, "Shut up!"
         The three guys in the living room all gave Greg dirty looks, and Greg closed the album. He immediately drove to the thrift shop to return the CD.
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