After telling my last story about the armadillo, I was persona non grata for a while.  I received a few late-night calls which were basically him saying he was gonna “bust a cap in [my] lying ass” (he loves the movie Pulp Fiction).  I sent him some tequila, and eventually he stopped bothering me.  I was still wary when he called this evening and said he wanted to talk to me.  Still, I had nothing better to do, so I invited him over after making a shopping trip to stock up on booze.

He showed up late, and I’m pretty sure he had already had a few.  We exchanged pleasentries and I got a glass in his hand as quickly as possible.  I put on some blues and he drank silently for a while.  Finally he spoke.

“You’re a jackass,” he said.  That’s nothing new from him, but I asked him to clarify his statement.  “That stupid comment you made the other day.”

“Which one?”

“The one about all blogs becoming Ace of spades.”

“Yeah, so,” I replied.  “It was just a joke.  I know I saw it somewhere before in the sphere.  Besides, it was on a post that referenced one of Ace’s inside jokes.” He glared at me with his beady little bloodshot eyes.  Black on red.

“You pissed Jeff off.  That means you pissed me off.” He finished his drink and gestured that he wanted another one.  As I leaned over to pour, I saw that he had his 9mm under his jacket.  This isn’t unusual for him, but concerned me anyway.

“So I said something dumb,” I said.  “It sure as hell isn’t the first time.”

“You know what he’s doing now?  He’s talking about not coming back to post.  If he does that, then what the hell will I do?” He finished his drink and demanded more.  “You know how many people worth living with will take in an armadillo rent-free?”

“If it’s that bad, I’ll take you in.”

“What part of ‘people worth living with’ didn’t you understand?” he asked.  Then he gave me one of his patented looks, the one where he can look down on you even while looking up at you. 

“Well, why can’t you stay with him anyway?” I asked.  “What’s the difference?” He sat silently for a while.

“Have you ever had any fame?” he asked.

“Well, I’m published in a few journals,” I answered.

“And I’m sure literally tens of people have read what you’ve written.”

“Well, the posts I make on his blog get read…”

“Yeah, and if he quits, do you think he’ll keep paying all that money to keep it going.  And if he did, would he continue to let you post?  Hell no.” He paused.  “Anyway, how many people read your blog?” he asked.

“Maybe a few people.  I stopped looking at my site stats a long time ago.  It was too depressing.” This time I finished my glass and poured another lowball of Jameson (the booze, not the broad).

“So, if you take me in, I can count on pretty much no one reading about me.  That is not an option.”

“Okay,” I said, “maybe someone else will take you in.  Most of the guest-posters have better stats than I do.”

“None of you hold a candle to Jeff,” he said.  We listened to the music for a while.  He broke the silence.  “There’s something you should know.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Jeff doesn’t come back, I’m blaming you.” He patted his jacket where the 9mm lay underneath.  “And I don’t care what I do.  All armadillos look alike to you people.” He smiled grimly.

I decided it was a good time to open another bottle for myself.