I was perfectly prepared to apply for the job. My dress shirt was ironed, my slacks wrinkle free. Even my suit jacket was properly buttoned, and my tie fastened with exactly one tie tack, to stay securely in place.

Only one final detail to check. I reached into my jacket pocket, but found only my phone, business cards, and a bit of lint.

What if I needed to write something down?

I looked back and forth frantically. Where, at a convention full of crazed fans wielding laser swords, trading foil embossed collector cards, and hanging halfway out of skimpy "Slave Leia"' costumes, could I get something as ordinary as a pen?

I spotted a sign: "Dealers In Ordinary Things." This was my chance!

I rushed through the crowd, only narrowly dodging a very convincing looking catgirl, who hissed and bared her claws as I hip checked her. Less than a minute later, I slammed both my hands down on the dealer's table, and looked him in the eye.

"I need a pen, stat!" I announced. "My future may depend on it!"

The weasel faced man (complete with fangs and whiskers!) nodded. "What kind of pen? A space pen, that can write even when held upside down? A pen filled with the acidic blood of Rigelian worms as ink, so every line you write both tints and engraves? Or perhaps something more exotic. To perfectly complete a costume as a Secret Service agent, you might like a pen with ink that doubles as colorant and as truth serum."

I thought about my shrinking bank balance, bane of the unemployed recent college graduate. "What's cheapest?"

The man grinned, showing off mismatched teeth which I thought must include some of his real ones. "For you?" He leered. "One penny."

I dug through my trouser pocket, finding two quarters, a stick of gum, and a used contraceptive wrapper left over from a room party last night. I slapped down one quarter, with a sad, dull tapping sound. "Keep the change."

The man rummaged beneath his table, finally handing me a black pen.

"Thank you!" I ran away.

Minutes later, I reached the center of my hopes and dreams. The most important publisher of our time. The center of our literary economy.

General Publishing Inc.

Everyone has heard of GPI, of course. If you haven't, you must have been living under a rock for the last ten years, or at least you must be one of those people who don't know how to use the internet to do anything other than "reply to all" on spam.

When it seemed that book publishing was dying because no one wanted to read anymore, GPI's founder, a visionary genius, stepped up to save literature. If no one wants to read real books anymore, because people are too busy forwarding cat pictures and memes of green faced people making fart jokes? GPI's founder said, don't try to hide from the truth. Give people what they want, but make it quality literature.

Six months after he created the GPI website, one of his writers' ebooks, "Chicken Dumplings to Soothe Anon's Crabbed, Wretched Soul," reached number one on the New York Times best sellers list. Less than two years later, GPI had single handedly saved American literacy, with inroads into the rest of the world.

Everyone was reading books. Everyone was reading creative stories and fun poetry that had so much to say about the human condition.

Sure, maybe the human condition had turned out to very often include the human imagining that he's a green faced, smart alecky everyman who wants to cuddle alien horse creatures and maybe have sex with them. But isn't it better that literature truly face what humanity is, instead of trying to hide the truth?

At least that's better than yet another story about a middle aged car dealer thinking about how he wants to cheat on his human wife with his human secretary. "Run, Hamster Run" my ass!

You would think an important business like GPI would have an enormous, fancy booth, probably taking up a big part of the convention's main exhibition hall. And you'd be correct.

An enormous screen showed a green face on a green background, uttering portentous pronouncements.

"The measure of literature is not how many critics it pleases, but how many readers don't throw it down in disgust."

"A stitch up in time saves two reprintings."

"Reality is overrated."

People stared slack jawed at the fifty foot face, taking in the oracle's wisdom. I, however, had a plan.

I didn't stand where I could get the best view of the screen, Instead, I tried to slip between the screen's edge and the room's wall, so I could sneak "behind the scenes."

I hoped to find one of GPI's movers and shakers. Perhaps, if I was very, very lucky, the Founder himself.

I pressed my body against the room's wall, reached into the space behind the screen, and tried to wriggle my way through.

It wasn't easy. But I was determined! I was prepared! I had everything I needed!

When I was only about halfway through, I was surprised to feel jaws clamp around the wrist of my arm that was behind the screen.

As the jaws yanked and pulled on me, I whimpered softly, feeling my jacket snag on the screen's edge, hearing fabric tear.

"My interview suit," I softly moaned.

When I was entirely behind the screen, though, I could finally see my captor. I stared. Wouldn't you stare, if you saw a real life My Little Donkeys knockoff character?

"I can't believe it," I gasped.

The creature released its hold on my wrist. "You can't believe what?" he asked.

"I can't believe GPI somehow got a license to produce a My Little Donkeys themed robot. You're so lifelike! If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a real alien from another universe."

The creature smiled. "Thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I believe you have an urgent appointment."

"I do?" I said unbelievingly. Then I decided to bluff. "Oh, of course I do. Just refresh my memory about who my appointment is with."

The creature shook its head. "With the Founder Himself, of course."

"Yes!" I agreed. "With the Founder, yes. I knew that."

"Follow me." The creature led me through a maze of temporary partitions and cubicles, to the largest cubicle of all.

As I entered the cubicle, I tripped over a power cord, falling to my knees. "I can't believe it's you," I gasped. "The single handed savior of modern day literature. The hero who breathed life into the dreams of writers everywhere. The legend who made it possible for tens of thousands of creative wordsmiths to make a living out of their basements."

He smiled at me. "No need to kneel and grovel at my feet. Please, stand."

"Of course!" I stood.

"I've seen your PubBlog," the Founder said, "where you've written about your ambition to work for GPI. Where you analyze GPI's business, and lay out plans for how GPI could grow and become even more successful."

I blushed. "I feel honored, sir."

"The honor is mine, to have such a talented business major trying to help GPI. Are you here to ask for a job?"

"Yes, sir. If you'll have me."

The Founder held out a sheaf of papers. "If you'll just sign here, your salary starts today, But you won't have to report to work until after the con."

"That sounds just perfect, sir!" I accepted the papers. I took the cap off my new pen, and started to write the first letter of my name.

Instantly, I was no longer at the convention.

I was sitting in a grassy field, somewhere I'd never been before.

A little white bunny hopped up to me. He sniffed my trousers, lifted one of his legs, and urinated.

Farther away, a butter yellow creature, not unlike one of the stars of My Little Donkeys, shouted: "Angel Bunny! You stop that right now!"

The bunny blew a Bronx cheer, and hopped away.

Author's Note

Serious question: Is it bad to have a character from the human world who isn't named Anon?

Someone told me that Anon makes every story higher quality by making the story more relatable for most people on the internet.