(Publisher’s Note: we recognize the fact that we have previously leaked the Secret Origins of Meyer Rowling, most notably in 1986, during the ‘Crisis on Infinite Meyer Rowlings”, and again every three or four years or so, but this time it’s totally not fake. We swear.* )
*(Actually, it’s a little bit fake. Until July of last year it was 35% fake, but then we revised it so that it’s now 70% fake. The 30% that’s real we’re going to repackage as an entire comics line ghostwritten by the best writers in Continental North America plus the two women we’re contractually obligated to include.)
Meyer Rowling had everything a successful author could want: a butler; a private island (which he shared with Stephen King, Award-Winning Neil Gaiman, Tom Clancy, and Amanda Hocking); an agent who didn’t understand the term ‘involuntary servitude’; a functional thyroid; and an optional caffeine addiction – everything, that is, except the most important thing – validation.
In desperation, Meyer Rowling went on a pilgramage to the sacred place where all of the great decisions in publishing are made: the bar behind Jeff Bezos’ house.
“I need validation,” Meyer Rowling said to the bartender.
“So do I,” said the bearded man on the next barstool. “I could have been worth a hundred billion dollars by now.”
“I think you’ve had enough, Paul,” the bartender said, taking his glass. “Why don’t you go play with your Jimi Hendrix dolls? That always cheers you up.”
“I told you, it isn’t a doll,” Paul said.
“Lalalalalalalalala,” said the bartender. “I can’t hear you.” He turned to Meyer Rowling. “Why do you need validation?”
“I’m a world-famous author that no one knows about,” said Meyer Rowling.
“What have you written?” asked the bartender.
“Nothing yet,” said Meyer Rowling, “but when I do, it’ll be $23.99 in hardcover.”
“Mmmm,” said the bartender. “I think you’re supposed to write a book, first. Then you get rich, and famous, and get discounts from loyal fans who work the drive-thru window at Taco Bell.”
“But how?” Meyer Rowling wailed. “With a name as forgettable as ‘Meyer Rowling’, I’m bound to be a failure. I need a real author’s name… Something like ‘Snooki’ or ‘James Frey’ or ‘Dude, You Bought A Dell!’.”
“You don’t need a special name,” the bartender said. “You just need to find that one great story that you can totally exploit for fame and fortune. You know, like I did.”
“You’re an author?” Meyer Rowling asked. “What did you write?”
“Lots of stuff!” he exclaimed. “Great Expectations and a Bartender, and The Odyssey and a Bartender, and How To Win Friends And Influence People And a Bartender. They’re all available for the nook and the kindle, and you can find the links to the books on my facebook and twitter, although social media ought to be used as a method to share one’s philosophies and make new friends, and not to merely sell books. I’ll review yours if you’ll review mine. You go first so I can tell whether or not I like your book.”
“Urrrp!” Meyer Rowling belched. “What?”
“I think that counts as a ‘like’,” the bartender said. “You ought to work for Kirkus.”
“Well, thanks anyway,” Meyer Rowling said, stepping away from the bar. “What did you say your name was, again?”
“Steve Case,” the bartender said. “And feel free to take a handful of coasters with you. They’re all version 9.0 you know.”
“Thanks,” said Meyer Rowling, who opened the door, despairing of ever finding that one, special story that would make the name Meyer Rowling famous and special and something people name their babies because it’s cool and would get him invited on the MTV Movie Awards to re-enact a ‘Best Kiss’ with Kristen Stewart, Emma Watson, or Taylor Lautner, whichever is sitting closest to the stage, when out of nowhere a huge, haggard man dropped out of the sky on a flying vacuum cleaner, landing directly on top of the werewolf who had been waiting in the shadows to pounce on the unsuspecting Meyer Rowling.
“Thanks for saving me from the werewolf,” Meyer Rowling said to the huge, haggard man. “What’s your name?”
“Haggard,” said the man. “Usually, I spend my time riding around with the Heck’s Angels, when I’m not tending my garden. But tonight, I had to come here to find him.” He was pointing at the werewolf who was gasping for breath underneath the vacuum, which was the old heavy canister kind, and not a Dyson, although if Dyson wanted to make a flying vacuum, they totally could do that.
“Me?” the werewolf, whose name was Ralph, panted. “Why? I’m nothing special – I’m just a werewolf who likes to wait in the shadows to jump out and scare authors – you know, like royalty statements. And besides, when you landed on me, you hit my head with the Hoover sucker attachment thingie. I’ll have a scar.”
“You’re needed,” said Haggard, “to fulfill your destiny by rescuing a girl named Beauty from a vampire who sparkles because he likes to sit on car batteries.”
“I always knew I was special,” said Ralph, “like authors are. That’s probably why you came looking for me, right?”
“No,” said Haggard. “It’s because you’re a Hairy Wizard.”
“Mmmm,” Meyer Rowling mused as Ralph and Haggard flew away on the non-Dyson vacuum. “’Hairy Wizard with a scar’. I could do something with that.”
The rest is history. Except for the part about kissing Kristen Stewart, although Meyer Rowling would totally be up for planting one on Emma Watson, and even Taylor Lautner would be a coin toss.
Below is a candid portrait of the author in residence at the castle on RollingInIt Island.
The rest of the works of Meyer Rowling can be found here: