Writer's Cramp entry; 572 words

              He was jarred awake by the incessant buzzing of the alarm.  He rubbed his eyes, and as the fog lifted from his brain, he realized what was happening. 

                “Ye gods, “ he thought, “somewhere, someone is culturally degrading him or herself!” 

         He leaped from his bed, the alarm still ringing in his ears.  He stood in the middle of the room and said:

                “This is a job for The Bardman!“

                With a flourish, he dashed to the closet, squeezed into his tights, donned his tunic, and ran to the stairs, pausing only to exclaim:

                “To the Bard’s Perch!”

                A minute later, he burst onto the roof and made his way to the telescope mounted on the railing.  He quickly scanned the neighboring houses, searching for the dastardly cause of his unease.
 
                “Aha!!”  He focused in on the window of 1596 Avon Park Circle.  “ If I’m not mistaken, that is Jeff Probst.  And that can mean only one thing!” He grabbed his emergency satchel, and sprinted down the staircase and out the front door.

                Turning right, he passed Mr. Montegue, watering his garden.

                “In a hurry, are we?”  Mr. Montegue inquired.

                “No time to talk, good citizen, as it appears someone is watching reality television.” He whispered the last two words, the way some people say “cancer.”

                “Yeah, it’s about that time” Mr. Montegue answered looking at his watch.  But our hero was past him and down the street.  He bounded up to the front door of 1596 and stopped to listen.  He could just make out someone blathering about “immunity challenges.”  Without further hesitation he rang the bell.

                A boy, aged around twelve, opened the door and stared at him.  The Bardman smiled down at him, and asked: “Are your parents home, son?”

                The boy sighed, then yelled over his shoulder, “Mom, it’s Mr. Fallstaff again!!”  As the boy stepped aside, The Bardman rushed by him, and skidded into the living room.  As he suspected, there they sat, the rest of the boy’s family, like zombies, staring at that infernal screen.

                “No time to lose!” he exclaimed, grabbing the remote off the coffee table and aiming it at the box.  A quick click later, and the television was dark.  He turned, replaced the remote and looked at them.  They sat there, blinking up at him, lost sheep without their diabolical shepherd.  He reached into his pack and withdrew two volumes.  He handed one to the matriarch in the straight-backed chair, and the other to the fourteen-year-old girl lying on the couch.
 
                “Now,” he intoned, “these are for you.  They are timeless classics with stories that are relevant even today.  They will free you from the evil clutches of the purveyors of degraded culture.  No need to thank me, your cultural elevation is thanks enough.”  He strode out the front door, leaving them to enjoy their new copies of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare and The young Persons Guide to The Bard of Avon.
             
                As he climbed the stoop in front of his house, exhausted, but fulfilled, Mrs.  Macbeth from next door leaned out her kitchen window and shouted:

                  “Wendell! You’ve left your alarm clock on again! It’s been going off for half an hour!  It’s scaring Oberon to death!”

                  “Yes, Mrs. Macbeth, I’ll take care of it; can’t have your cat being frightened.”  As he opened his door, he muttered under his breath:

                  “Talk about ‘something wicked this way comes…’”

572 words