A warm December anniversary of a Beatles' death. The Van Man was able to wake up without seeing his breath. The previous two mornings had not been so brutal. He only had to wear one pair of socks. Even the cough seemed to have subsided. It was still there, but not so intense. Perhaps, it was due to the pills he was taking. Courtesy of Swiss Miss. She had taken pity on Van Man and provided the prescription drugs to him, along with the warning to stop taking after four days. That had been Thanksgiving night. But he was no pill popper. Those days were long behind him. He just needed to get better. And maybe the pills helped. Or maybe the cough just came and went when it pleased. The weird, long-haired guy that shows up to all the parties, but nobody knows who the hell he is.
Van Man checked his post office box. The unemployment check had arrived. Payday was at the end of the week. He was a god. And, as if The Sun smiled on him, Van Man had a writing gig that would pay just enough to clear up all of those parking tickets. His registration was expired, as well. The van was one, big rolling violation. A small production company in Las Vegas needed a script. Van Man was contacted through a friend that knew he could use the scratch. All he needed to do was write a screenplay for a horror film in two weeks. There were harder things in life.
Van Man sat in the coffee shop and sipped the hot goodness. He put on earphones and clicked the pen. He looked down at the empty pad. True horror lived outside. In the hearts of the desperate. In the minds of nice neighbors. He looked at the blank page. He thought. Steely Dan played in his ears. And he stared at the college-ruled paper. The Van Man would need more coffee. And AC/DC.