The challenge: write a short story in 20 minutes using the following:

Characters: Long Island Real Estate Agent, Archaeologist

Genre: Comedy

Setting: Mount Vesuvius

Trope: Talking animal

POV/tense: 1st/future

And the result:

“You can’t go wrong. Seaside views. Beautiful ocean breezes. And look at these vineyards.” Loretta DiChiara will wave a manicured, overtanned, overjeweled arm around the landscape. “And at only half a mil, it’s a steal.”

Charles Weathergood will take off his fedora and wipe a bead of sweat from his brow. “I don’t know. It seems awfully rocky.”

“Rocky’s good. It keeps the wolves away. They hate rocks.”

“Wolves don’t hate rocks,” I’ll tell Loretta. She’ll give me a death glare. That, or the botox froze her face in a permanent squint. Who can tell.

“And who exactly are you again?” she’ll ask.

“He’s my assistant,” Professor Weathergood will say.

“Honestly Ms DiCharia, the professor is only here to do some excavation on the site, not actually buy it.”

“Hold up,” the professor will say. He’ll start breathing heavy. Too heavy. I’ll whip out his inhaler. He’ll take a mighty pull off it and toss it back to me. “It’s true that I did not intend to buy a piece of property, but, but…” He’ll turn red again and start to wheeze. I’ll toss him the inhaler. He’ll drop it on the black earth and when he bends down to pick it up one of the buttons of his shirt will pop off. Loretta will wince. Maybe? Hard to tell through all the fillers.

“You know, my father, Augustus Weathergood, he was named after the great Roman emperor. He was the emperor here at the time mighty Vesuvius vented her gaseous fury across this very landscape.”

I’ll try to interrupt. “Actually–”

He’ll wave me away with a pasty hand. “And my father was one of the greatest archaeologists of his day.”

“Actually it was Titus,” a voice will say.

I’ll look around. Loretta too. And the professor. No one there but the three of us in this ridiculous heat on this ridiculous stretch of earth.

“Not Augustus, you foolish human.”

Up comes a dog, big and sleek and brown, with big wet fangs. “Oh my fucking lord a talking dog,” Loretta will shriek, covering her mouth with her jeweled-up hand.

“Not a dog, you simpleton, a wolf. And for the record…” the wolf will prance among the rocks like he’s in the Nutcracker. “See? No problem whatsoever traversing these stones.”

“Okay, okay, a talking wolf,” I’ll say. “Isn’t this some sort of sign, professor? Some omen? Some bad omen? As in, no way should you buy this land, not for half a mil, not for fifty grand, no matter what some leatherneck shyster real estate agent says?”

“Hey, you little asshole.”

“And what the hell is a real estate agent from Long Island doing in Italy?”

“If you must know, I happen to be Italian.”

“No shit,” you’ll say.

The professor will wrap a sweaty arm around your shoulder. “Listen, my boy, I don’t want you messing up this deal for me. Please be civil.”

“This deal? It’s an overpriced piece of land being sold by a charlatan complete with a freaking talking wolf.”

“And you’re a talking human,” the wolf will say. “You don’t see me making a scene about you.”

“Because wolves aren’t supposed to talk.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who shouldn’t be talking,” the wolf will say.

“Yeah, asshole.” Loretta will shake her fist at me, her bangles jangling in a fury.

“My dear boy, why don’t you take a break. I believe the heat is getting to you.”

I’ll take a step back. Loretta will glare at me while the professor explains to her that his dream has always been to have his own little piece of Vesuvius, to dig at his will, no oversight from any overbearing authority. The wolf will recline. He’ll follow their conversation, nodding and murmuring. Finally I won’t be able to take it anymore.

“This is so ridiculous.”

“If you don’t like it, then leave, smart boy. I’m about to make a hefty comission.”

“Yes, smart boy,” the wolf will snicker. “Leave.” He’ll climb on all fours and saunter over.
I won’t know if it’s the heat or my shit pay or whatever but I drop to all fours and bite the wolf on his front leg. He’ll scream bloody murder and I’ll hoot laughter and then run to the nearest tavern for a nice cold beer.