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September 15, 2011

This is not simply a pen.  This is hand written decadence.  

The MONTBLAC STARWALKER FOUNTAIN PEN is the gold standard of writing instruments.  

Theresa’s father used to have this same pen.  

He was senior partner at the advertising agency where I worked.  He was a legend in the advertising business.  Still to this day he’s the best salesman I’ve ever met in my life.  

The man could talk a piece of shit back into an asshole.

He gave me my first job in advertising.  He payed for the car we drove.  He payed for the house we now lived in.  He payed for the private school our son David attended.  I didn’t make very much money.  I was indebted to him in ways I could never ever repay at my salary and he made sure that I never forgot it.

Not for a second. 

He used to make sure I could see the light gleaming on its 14 Karat Gold ruthenium-plated nib every time he would write us a check to help cover the rent.  As if the shame of not being able to support my beautiful young wife, Theresa and my five year old son, David weren’t enough.  Afterwards, he would tear the check from his check book and ask Theresa to take David and wait outside so he could talk to me in private.  

He would then crumble the check into a ball and throw in on the floor and make me pick it up with my mouth like I was a whore.  

Like a god damn whore.

He’d take the pen and poke me in the chest with it.  Using it to punctuate every barb.  Every insult.  

He would poke me so hard with the transparent cap-top that sometimes I could see the Floating Montblanc Emblem imprinted as a bruise in my chest, branding me as the failure I truly was.  

When he was done we would walk outside.  I would say nothing of what happened and we would drive in silence to take David to get his favorite treat:  a Wendy’s Frosty and some french fries.  He liked to dip the fries in to the Frosty.  He said he liked something about the sweet and salty tastes combining. 

One night after everyone had gone to bed I used Theresa’s house keys and drove back to her father’s house.

I went into his study and took the offending Montblanc Starwalker from his desk.  It’s Midnight Black Precious Resin barrel reflecting the darkness that shellacked my inkheart.  

I walked up the stairs that went to his bedroom and I turned on the Tiffany lamp at his nightstand.  I gripped that pen like I was gripping an ice pick and I pressed German craftsmanship into his stomach.  

I told him I would take it out, but there where three conditions and for every condition he agreed to, I would remove one inch of the Montblanc Starwalker pen from his fatty liver.

  1. You will continue to pay for our house, car and David’s private school AND you wipe my debt to you clean. 
  2. You will resign from your position at the firm and name me as your successor and thus, Senior Partner.
  3. The firm will henceforth be known as Dringle Advertising Inc. and you may stay on as a consultant on salary provided that not a word of this is ever spoken of again.

“Yes” he cried like a little fat girl with a skinned knee.


I dropped him off a block away from the hospital.  I knew he could come up with a story that wouldn’t alarm the police.  

Like I said, the man could talk a piece of shit back into an asshole.  

Within a month he had stepped down.  The house and car were paid for in full.  He even threw in a check that would cover David’s first year of college.  I became Senior Partner and the firm became Dringle Advertising Inc.  

Now once a month he comes to MY office where I write for him a check.  

I’m the one writing checks with a Montblanc Starwalker pen and HE is the one who pick up MY scraps from the ground with HIS mouth like a whore.  


So…who wants to go to Wendy’s?