Cowboys In Montenegro

Peter Tennant is sitting in Starbucks in Norwich having a coffee when he sees a stranger enter. The man seems familiar to him but he can’t place the face nor the figure. He watches as the man joins the queue and eventually gets served with something large and frothy. The stranger then spots him and approaches his table.
"May I join you?" he asks.
Peter Tennant glances up at him. "I didn’t know I was coming apart," he answers dryly.
"Ha, ha, very good!" says the man. He sits down opposite Peter Tennant and places his large and frothy coffee before him on the table. "Are you Peter Tennant?"
"How do you know who I am?" Peter Tennant responds.
"A guess. Well, not quite a guess. More of a deduction really."
The man slurps a tiny amount of coffee through his lips and into his mouth. Peter Tennant still does not recognise him.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"I am Rhys Hughes," says the stranger, "which isn’t a guess at all. Nor a deduction. I actually know that I am Rhys Hughes!"
"I thought you looked a bit Welsh," Peter Tennant replies in a flippant manner. "So what are you doing here?"
"Having a coffee!" Rhys Hughes exclaims.
"Yes, okay, I can see that, but what are you doing in Norwich? It’s a long way from anywhere in Wales."
"I am just passing," says Rhys Hughes. "I’m on my way to Greenland to sign copies of my new book The Haunted Ice Cream Van. After the signing there will be a beach party with an Eskimo theme."
"Really?"
"Yes I am."
"Well good luck with that."
"Thank you."
Both men raise their mugs and take in large amounts of their respective coffees. Then they place the mugs back on to the table in front of them.
"Not only that," says Rhys Hughes, "but on the way I have started my 994th short story, which is about a man who wakes up one morning and discovers that his bedroom has been transformed into Llansantfraid."
"Llansantfraid in Wales?"
"That’s the one."
"So you completed the 993rd story," Peter Tennant says, "the one where a man wakes up in the morning to find he has turned into a giant silverfish?"
"Yes, I did complete that one, and the 992nd in which a man wakes up one morning to find Led Zeppelin have reformed in his attic."
Peter Tennant drains the remainder of the coffee in his mug, and Rhys Hughes follows suit.
"Don’t you see a pattern to these stories?" Peter Tennant finally asks.
"No," Rhys Hughes replies. "What kind of pattern?"
"You can’t see it?"
"See what?"
"You really don’t know?"
"I really don’t know!"
"Well every story you write begins with a man waking up in the morning to find something odd has happened around him. Didn’t you realise that?"
"I didn’t realise it."
"It’s so obvious."
"So what’s wrong with it?"
"What’s wrong with it? It’s so unprofessional! Your stories lack variety. Especially in the beginning department. You ought to vary it a little. Or rather, a lot. Vary it a lot."
"Why?"
"Because it’s unprofessional! Can’t you see that?"
Rhys Hughes scratches his chin and glances at the wall, obviously in deep concentration. After a few seconds he decides to speak.
"You may be right. Maybe I should vary it a little."
"Vary it a lot."
"No sweat. I’ll do that."
Rhys Hughes glances at his watch, and immediately jumps up from his seat, alarming Peter Tennant in the process.
"Well I really have to go," says Rhys Hughes. "It’s been good meeting you. Greenland beckons!"
"So it does."
"Goodbye."
Rhys Hughes begins to leave the table, but before he can do this Peter Tennant snatches his coat sleeve in a maddening grip.
"This beach party with the Eskimo theme," he whispers to Rhys Hughes. "Am I invited?"

The following morning Peter Tennant awakes to find that all the furniture in his bedroom has disappeared. This includes the bed itself, so that he finds himself curled up on the carpet. Naturally he is astonished and very puzzled indeed.
"What’s going on?" he mutters aloud.
He gets up and stumbles out of the room and into the bathroom, where he steadily relieves himself, before venturing into the other upstairs rooms, which are all bare too.
Then he goes downstairs and into the lounge, which is devoid of furniture as well, and so is the kitchen, and everywhere else. In fact, there is not one item of furniture left inside the house at all.
"What’s going on?" he repeats.
He slumps down on to the carpet and ponders over it all. When he had gone to bed the previous evening his house had been filled with furniture, and now it has all disappeared. It is indeed a bizarre occurrence.
All the doors are locked, so no-one could have got into the house to remove the items. The windows are locked also, so no-one could have gained entry that way. Even if they had done he surely would have sensed something, some noise or other, especially when the intruders got to take the bed out, as he was lying in it the whole night.
"There can only be one explanation," he says aloud. "This isn’t real. It’s a dream. I’m still asleep!"
So he settles down on the carpet, and stares out of the window, waiting for himself to wake up.

Des Lewis is sitting in Starbucks in Clacton-on-Sea having a coffee when he sees a stranger enter. The man seems familiar to him but he can’t place the face nor the figure. He watches as the man joins the queue and eventually gets served with something large and frothy. The stranger then spots him and approaches his table.
"May I join you?" he asks.
"Yes of course," says Des Lewis.
The man sits down opposite Des Lewis and places his large and frothy coffee before him on the table. "Are you Des Lewis?" he then asks.
"Yes I am," says Des Lewis. "How do you know who I am?"
"A guess. Well, not quite a guess. More of a deduction really."
The man slurps a tiny amount of coffee through his lips and into his mouth. Des Lewis still does not recognise him.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"I am Rhys Hughes," says the stranger, "which isn’t a guess at all. Nor a deduction. I actually know that I am Rhys Hughes!"
"Nice to meet you," Des Lewis replies. "So what are you doing here?"
"Having a coffee!" Rhys Hughes exclaims.
"Yes, okay, I can see that, but what are you doing in Clacton-on-Sea? It’s a long way from anywhere in Wales."
"I am just passing," says Rhys Hughes. "I’m on my way to Montenegro to sign copies of my new book The Witches of Bestwick. After the signing there will be a party with a cowboy theme."
"Cowboys in Montenegro?" asks Des Lewis.
"Cowboys are universal!"
"Well good luck with that."
"Thank you."
Both men raise their mugs and take in large amounts of their respective coffees. Then they place the mugs back on to the table in front of them.
"Not only that," says Rhys Hughes, "but on the way I have started my 995th short story."
"That’s great," says Des Lewis. "You’ll be catching up with me soon."
"I do hope so."
Des Lewis drains the remainder of the coffee in his mug, and Rhys Hughes follows suit.
"Actually I am very pleased with this one," says Rhys Hughes. "I recently got some super advice from Peter Tennant."
"What kind of advice?"
"Well he explained that my recent tales all have a certain pattern to them…"
"Do you mean that every story you write begins with a man waking up in the morning to find something odd has happened around him?" says Des Lewis.
"You noticed?"
"Yes. As in Somewhere Near Milkwood, in which a man wakes up one morning to find that he has changed into Dylan Thomas."
"That’s right!"
"And in From Swansea With Love, where a man wakes up in the morning to discover his house has turned into a James Bond theme park."
"You’re right again!"
"I know I am. So what’s this new story about then?"
"I’ll tell you," says Rhys Hughes. "It’s about a man who wakes up one morning and finds out that he hasn’t woken up at all."
"What do you mean?"
"He wakes up, but he’s still asleep. So he hasn’t woken at all. In fact he will never wake up. He thinks he’s awake but the truth is he will remain asleep forever. I’ve taken Peter Tennant’s advice. The story isn’t about a man who wakes up one morning, but rather a man who doesn’t wake up one morning. This is a fabulous story. It’s pure genius!"
"Pure genius indeed."
Rhys Hughes glances at his watch, and immediately jumps up from his seat, alarming Des Lewis in the process.
"Well I really have to go," says Rhys Hughes. "It’s been good meeting you. Montenegro beckons!"
"So it does."
"Goodbye."
Rhys Hughes begins to leave the table, but before he can do this Des Lewis snatches his coat sleeve in a maddening grip.
"This new tale," he whispers. "What’s it called then?"

Meanwhile Peter Tennant remains on the carpet, staring out of the window, waiting for himself to wake up.