Victor Hodge woke up in a cold sweat. There was a tiny knock on the door, accompanied with a diminutive voice, “Victor Hodge? Victor Hodge.” Over and over again, first a question, followed by a statement. The rhythm was perfectly incessant. He half-groaned and replied, “Coming.”
He sat up, slid his oafish feet into a pair of tattered slippers, and dragged them on the floor, nearly tripping on an antique birdcage. He approached the door cautiously. He looked through the peephole, and saw no one. Yet, the tiny knock persisted.
Against his better judgment, he opened the door slowly. On the ground was a ventriloquist’s dummy, lying face down in what appeared to be a pool of vomit. Victor picked it up, looked down the hallway, and quickly closed the door. The dummy reeked of cheap booze.
“About time. Now put me on your lap, moron.” The dummy said.
Victor propped it up on a chair like it was a child sitting up.
“I don’t think so.” Victor folded his arms over his chest. His body language implied, no way. Are you out of your mind?
Victor was a man devoid of humor. He consciously chose to be sober, which was the nice way of saying, destined to be forever boring and alone. Thoughts of his future made him shudder visibly. He snatched the dummy and placed it on his lap.
The dummy said in a high-pitched smart aleck voice with a tinge of Brooklyn accent, “Nice on you, dimwit. Now, call me Mr. Plinkett and follow my lead.”
“Uhm, ok. Mr. Plinkett. What do I do next?”
“Just talk to me, feed me lines.”
“Alright.” Victor paused and looked around the room, searching for a good line, and added, “Nice weather we’re having.”
The dummy turned its head, “Not as nice as your mother, who happens to be a whore.”
“Hey, my mother’s dead.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s not a whore, jackass, and you’re some kind of living proof. You’re an ugly fuck.”
Victor returned to sleep with a smile on his face. Meanwhile, Mr. Plinkett was a crumpled heap of plastic with a wicked grin on his face. His new mantra was, “Jeff Dunham? Jeff Dunham.”