The stranger appeared in the doorway. She was lying on the couch, facing away from him, a large martini resting precariously on her midsection. “Is that you, Robert?” she cooed.
The stranger cleared his throat and spoke tentatively. “Miss Parker?”
Not recognizing the voice, she snapped her head around, and peered over the arm of the green chintz sofa, ready to face this unknown intruder. In the process she almost spilled her drink, the olive floating dangerously close to the edge of the glass.
But there was no one there. She sat up, and then looked again,
down
down
down.
It appeared to be a small child, but as she examined him more closely, she realized it was a stuffed animal of some sort—a toy bear. She briefly closed her eyes, then opened them for a second look. Definitely a toy bear. “Damn bathtub gin,” she muttered.
The bruin cleared his throat and then spoke again. “Miss Dorothy Parker? You write book reviews for The New Yorker—something called ‘Constant Reader?'”
“No. It can't be,” she thought.
“My name is Edward Bear. My friends,” he gestured behind him, looking back through the doorway, “call me Winnie-the-Pooh. But you,” he intoned with no small amount of menace, “are clearly not one of my friends.”
“Y-Your friends?” she stammered.
At this, the bear snapped his fingers. Several more small stuffed animals tottered dutifully into the room. She could make out a pig, some sort of burro or donkey, a rabbit, a kangaroo, an owl, and an extremely agitated orange and black striped tiger. “These are my friends,” said the bear. “We work for a Mr. Milne, A. A. Milne. I believe you've heard of him?”
Her mind was frozen by fear.
“Let me refresh your memory, Miss Parker. Rabbit?” The hare produced a battered magazine, handing it to the brownish-yellow bear. He thumbed through a few pages, and then found the passage he was seeking. “In last week's New Yorker, you wrote a review of Mr. Milne's latest work of genius, The House at Pooh Corner. In this piece, you directly slander Piglet,” he nodded towards the pig, “Eeyore,” nodding towards the burro, who was playing with his tail, “and myself. After these baseless attacks on our character, you conclude the review with the line, and I quote, ‘Tonstant Weader Fwowed up.' Is this accurate?”
Maybe she could break the ice with a joke. “Well, actually, I only had a stomach-ache.”
The bear lost control of himself, spinning wildly, knocking over the owl in the process. He finally came to a stop, but instead began screaming. “Do you think this is some kind of a freaking joke?” he bellowed as he pointed at her. The tiger slowly edged closer.
She knew this was a bad situation, and began desperately searching the coffee table for anything she could use as a weapon. Of course. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked innocently.
“The condemned prisoner always gets a final wish,” he chuckled, making a dismissive wave with his paw. “Puff away.”
She selected a cigarette from a dish, put it between her lips, and briefly touched the bright flame from her heavy table lighter against the tip. She deeply inhaled the calming smoke, mentally preparing herself for what might be her only chance. She had to keep the nut talking, keep him distracted. “It's a free country. What do you care what I think?”
The bear sniffed contemptuously. “Mr. Milne was about to ink a deal with a major Hollywood animator. It would have made me the most famous cartoon character in the world.”
“You are forgetting the studio's star actor,” the pig mentioned cautiously.
The bear snapped back, “Shut up, Porky! Accidents happen, even to famous mice. I'm taking care of that problem with the help of an extremely ambitious duck who's not afraid to take chances. Maybe he would make a better number two. What do you think, bacon boy?”
The frightened pig began stuttering. “I was just k-kidding. You c-can c-count on me, boss.”
The bear mused for a moment, then turned back to her, seeming to come to a decision. “I won't let anyone stand in my way, especially a writer.” He spat the final word out, as if he was referring to an earthworm. The bear stared into space for a moment, and then slowly fixed his two black button eyes on her. “I could've had all the hunny I wanted, for the rest of my life, but your review blew the deal.”
She mockingly blew a cloud of smoke at the bear. “Things are tough all over, hunny.”
He tensed for a moment, but then seemed to relax. “Especially for you, Miss Parker. I've enjoyed our little exchange, but I'm afraid I must now bid you adieu. Tigger?”
This was it. As the big cat lunged, she rolled to the side, spilling the contents of her martini glass on his neck and back. She could feel his hot breath on her face as she took her other hand and jammed the glowing cigarette into the wet fur.
The tiger instantly burst into flames, burning brightly. He danced to and fro, and higgeldy-piggeldy, but finding no relief from the excruciating pain, he frantically dived through a nearby window, glass tinkling as his body fell with a thud onto Sixth Avenue.
She stood brandishing the table lighter. “As my friend Ogden Nash might say, ‘liquor is quicker.' Any of the rest of you vermin what a piece of me?” she asked defiantly. “C'mon, let's tango!”
The animals began to nervously back out of the room. Perhaps this writer was tougher than they had suspected. “You win this time,” the bear said menacingly. “But we'll be back, tiddely-pom!”
“Tiddely what?” she asked incredulously.
“Pom. I put that in to make it more hummy. Mark my words, you'll never be rid of us!”
And we never were.