A 17th Writer's Cramp Birthday Party - what could possibly go wrong?
|SoHoHoHophy entered NYC The Four Season’s large ballroom and saw Bianca . “Oh, how good to see you,” said SoHoHoHophy . "This room arrangement is odd. Where are we supposed to sit during the Cramp’s summit session? I like to take notes. There are no chairs set up for the meeting. Are we suppose to stand for the next several hours?”
Bianca glanced around the room, “There must be 200 people here. I don’t know any of them. No wait, there is Santa Shaara and Jay -- Thank you, ANON! standing by the bar. Let's ask them if they know what's up."
A voice boomed from the speakers. “Welcome, fellow Cramp judges and writers,” said Robert Waltz speaking from behind a lectern microphone. “I know you think we were assembling here this afternoon for the Writing Cramp’s First Summit Session. Instead I’d like to say, SURPRISE! Welcome to the Writing Cramps 17th Birthday Party.”
At that moment the ballroom double doors swung wide for a parade of caterers rolling in tables piled with delicacies and appetizers. The final "float" in the parade was a giant birthday cake. “Is that the kind of cake someone jumps out of?” asked Jay -- Thank you, ANON! to Santa Shaara and the other two judges who had joined them by the bar.
Last to strut out was Chef Oliver Ramsay. His face darkened by a frown for a moment. It was so fleeting, most people did not notice. But Luke did.
Luke thought, what’s up with that guy? Before Chef Ramsay arrived at the lectern, Luke was at the buffet table filling a plate. He was a professional party crasher and starving writer. Sampling a cube of cheese, he was once again grateful for his event planner girlfriend. Free food was widely available. All a person needed was someone directing them to large events.
Chef Ramsay was seething inside. As he spoke a few words of honey to this hated group, his thoughts were poisonous. Just like the cake he would soon be serving them was. He would hand out the slices himself and watch them collapse and suffer torment as they died. How dare they not invite him to attend as an honored past Writing Cramp judge? He had been the best judge of all of them. Had it not been for his magnificent prompts during that first year of the Cramp, it would have died in its infancy just as his own precious baby boy had. Or that was what his ex-wife had told him. She could have at least let him know when the funeral was. He probably won't have attended. Funerals could be so dull, but it was the thought that counted.
Shocking the happy crowd to silence, a second villain leaped out of the cake. Well, actually, the dramatic entrance was kind of spoiled by the villain losing her balance and falling sideways, tipping the whole cake over, breaking it into dozens of frosting covered chunks. The villain struggled to rise from the slippery floor eventually making it to her feet. A piece of cake slid from her hair plopping to the floor. “Well, that was supposed to be my “Carrie” moment of revenge,” she said. “But you get the idea.”
“♥holiday tHiNg♥ , is that you?” asked Robert Waltz . “Are you crazy?”
“No,” said ♥holiday tHiNg♥ , “Okay, a little maybe. But I was not going to remain silent while you celebrated the success of the Writer’s Cramp without inviting me here too.”
“You were invited,” said Robert Waltz incredulous. “Right, Dragon ?”
“Ah, well, maybe not,” said Dragon looking sheepish. I might have sent it to her old email address. I’ve been busy you know. I don’t always find time to update my contact list. I meant to. Sorry, ♥holiday tHiNg♥ .”
“That’s okay. It's the thought that counts. I'll try not to get so upset next time. Sorry about the cake, Chef Ramsay.” ♥holiday tHiNg♥ said looking at him then lowering her eyes.
“My cake,” shrieked a stricken Ramsay. “You have ruined my revenge.” The chef charged at ♥holiday tHiNg♥ . His face distorted by rage.
Luke leaped forward and tackled the chef. As they wrestled in the cake and frosting, Luke’s jacket and sleeve pulled up exposing a scarlet pimpernel birthmark. Chef Ramsey saw it and froze. “Luke?” asked Ramsay.
“Yes, my name is Luke.”
“Luke, I’m your father,” said Chef Ramsay.
“No, Mother said my father was one of best culinary mystery writers of all time." Luke's face twisted in horror, "not a world famous chef.”
Chef Ramsay hugged Luke while they both lie in the smashed cake on the floor. “My baby son had a scarlet pimpernel on his arm. And more importantly, I was a bestselling culinary mystery writer. I just make more money at catering.”
Luke helped his old man to his feet. “Would you be willing to feed me until I can hit it big on Amazon?”
“Self publishing? Maybe you should aim higher, like the NY Times Best Sellers List,” suggest Chef Ramsay. "I can get you an agent."
The gossip of the various 2019 writing conferences was the Surprising Writer’s Cramp 17th Birthday Party. No one could believe Chef Ramsay still knew an agent he could refer his son to.