Frog in the Salad

Sal hadn’t written anything in weeks. His publisher was willing to give him an extension in good faith, but that only made him more anxious. Maybe the well had run dry. It was bound to happen. He was over forty now. His dick still worked, but if this went on much longer, he’d trade erectile function for a brain that could write the next chapter of his goddamn book.

He was attempting book two of his series about the adventures of a small-time crook who is drawn into the mafia to afford experimental treatments for his kid with a rare disease. It wasn’t groundbreaking stuff, but he did okay.

All Sal could focus on at the moment was the wall across from his desk. It was a non-committal shade of green that was almost gray, like corpse flesh. An ex had insisted on painting it this color. Sal hated it, but repainting was out of the question. Too much work. Sal needed to devote all of his time to writing. Well, sitting in front of his laptop with his hands on the keys waiting for inspiration to strike.

It was no use. Maybe if he ate something he’d be in a better frame of mind to figure out some clever way for his protagonist to fool the FBI. It was January. Sal wanted to get healthy for the new year, but wasn’t sure how to prepare vegetables, so he stocked the fridge with nothing but those bagged salad kits from the grocery store.

He made the salad right in the bag, shaking it vigorously to distribute the dressing. The first bite was fine. The 400 calories worth of dressing really drowned out the taste of the lettuce and other roughage. The next bite was…moving! Sal screamed, ejecting the contents of his mouth right onto the corpse wall.

Clinging to the wall in a splatter of salad, glistening with buttermilk ranch, was a tree frog about the size of a quarter. Sal was as curious as he was disgusted. He’d heard of small animals finding their way into packaged foods, but it had to be extremely rare, like winning the lottery. What a shame to waste odds like that on a lousy salad frog.

“Hello,” it said.

Sal blinked in disbelief. The frog also blinked, but probably just to moisten its eyes.

“You can talk!”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know what to say.” His mouth went dry.

“I thought you were a writer, Sal.”

“This is unbelievable!” Sal was suddenly very warm and disoriented. He leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, there was the frog, still staring at him, still talking.

“If you do something for me, I’ll do something for you.” He pointed one of his tiny alien-like fingers at Sal’s laptop.

“What, you’ll write my book?”

The frog nodded solemnly. Sal decided to play along.

“And what do you want from me, little frog?” Sal Snorted. “I’m not gonna kiss you if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“My toxins are already in your bloodstream. You’re going to feel strange.”

Sal did feel strange, and even stranger when the frog suddenly leaped onto his sweaty bald head with a little wet slap.

“From here I’ll give you my instructions.”

Sal seemed to remember a Disney film like this except it was a rat not a frog and that guy had a full head of hair! There was no backing out now. Sal gently placed a hat on his head and headed out to his car with the frog directing his movements.

They stopped at a Mexican restaurant. The frog told Sal what to order, a combination platter. It was more food than he knew what to do with.

“But I’m not hungry.”

“Eat!”

People at nearby tables began to stare. Sal shoveled the food into his mouth and continued to sweat while the frog made small talk. It was the craziest date he’d ever been on and there had been some real doozies. After he finished his meal, it was back into the car and off to a part of town he’d never driven before.

The frog forced Sal out of the car in front of a gated mansion. A keypad prompted guests to enter a numeric code which the frog provided with no hesitation. Sal became increasingly more paranoid with each step as he entered the property, wondering if a finished novel was worth committing a crime.

Halfway across the lawn he was caught in the beam of a security light and froze. The frog assured him the light was motion activated and nobody was home. The frog’s voice was urgent that they must get inside and fast.

The key was apparently under the mat and the code for the keypad inside the door was the same code for the gate but in reverse. You’d think someone with this kind of money would be better at protecting their property against thieves, but who would be bold enough to try it? A man under the influence of a talking frog, that’s who. Sal assumed they were here to steal something.

He relaxed a little after he confirmed that the house was indeed empty. He took his hat off so the frog could have a proper look around. Sal could see right away, whoever owned this house loved books, ones by John Grisham in particular. He estimated this guy owned everything the author had ever written. There were movie posters from The Pelican Brief and A Time to Kill. It was like a museum. Guy must be a super fan, he thought.

“You should sit down,” said the frog. “Over there.”

There was a large overstuffed leather sofa in the middle of a beautiful library. Sal did as he was told, but the moment he made contact with that very expensive leather, he broke wind so powerful it scorched his asshole.

It became immediately apparent that he would have to evacuate his bowels. He raced to the adjoined bathroom and proceeded to do just that. The smell was so foul there were tears in his eyes. When he finally got up from the toilet, the frog leaped down the length of his arm to his hand as he was about to flush.

“Leave it,” he said.

And with that they left. It was time for the frog to make good on his end of the bargain. Sal raced home in the wee hours of the night with the frog on the dashboard. There was a sort of camaraderie between them now. Back at the apartment the frog got to work leaping purposefully onto the keys. Sal, exhausted from his wild night, passed out in bed.

The phone woke him up the next morning.

“Hi Sal, it’s Deana from Random House. I just got the manuscript you sent me. I can’t read this. It’s gibberish. Sal, are you okay?”

Sal was reeling, trying to piece together the events of the last twenty four hours. The frog. The break in. What had he done? And for what?

“Sal, I’m gonna have to call you back, I’ve got John Grisham on the other line.”