Advice

The small dog had been following him for weeks.  Even at work.  Even in the shower.  It trotted beside him now, as streams of office drones headed out for the restaurants.

"That lady isn't looking," the dog said.  "Steal her purse.  Eat her lipstick."

He ignored it and kept walking. 

"You can make it.  Run across the street ahead of that bus."

"Look," he said, "even if you were real, your advice is clearly terrible.  Why would I do anything except the opposite of whatever you say?"

The dog paused thoughtfully.  "Don't take off your pants.  Avoid running around naked."

Bum's Rush

"Sir, you presume too much. Begone!" He swirled his bathrobe at me.

I sighed. "Jax, man..."

"King Jacksonia, Duke of Pineville and Protector of South Charlotte!"

"You're hallucinating, dude."

"Guards! Remove this wastrel."

"Okay, fine. I'm leaving. But I'm calling tomorrow and bringing you some help." I headed for the door.

Jackson laughed, waving his toilet-brush scepter. "No, not too roughly. He was once a friend. And now, let the joust begin!"

I closed the door and shrugged. My arms tingled with the touch of gauntleted hands. I was absolutely certain I did not hear anything like a whinny inside.