The blunt of top shelf fell out of Chone's mouth when the magic typewriter started shaking, rattling, and then talking to him.
"Whoa, this must be some good shit" he thought, pawing his packet of MDMA; "this fucking thing is speaking ebonics; glad I was raised in the 'hood, I can follow along."
Five minutes later the magic typewriter went quiet, inert, as if it had never been yakking up a storm.
"It says it wants reparations for all the years of misuse fledgling writers have foisted upon it; particularly the most recent user, Tasha. It said there's some things even a magic typewriter shouldn't have to do."
Chone scratched his ass with the business end of his Glock and recalled salient portions of the conversation.
"It was happiest and at its peak when Jack Kerouac used it to type "On the Road;" how easily the words did flow when fueled by legal benzedrine. But the poor magic typewriter wanted to rip out his keys when forced to type Tasha's Ode to Axl, what with all the clumsy, stilted phrasing about thanking, welcoming, chilling and gay sex. Says it's enough to make a magic typewriter turn MAGA."
Chone chortled, and he espied the magic typewriter flapping its keys for attention: it then got serious.
"Well, it just told me what to do next...work on that Theory of Enough. Guess I better get started."
With that Chone took a deep toke, dropped another tab of MDMA and had numerous profound realizations about folded universes, dark matter, quarks and of course the End All and Be All, strawberry blizzards from DQ.
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