A serious case of writers block leaves our caped hero, McMichael frustrated enough to throw a tantrum. Crumpling and throwing his prose straight into the fire; and his table and chair right out the door. He angrily makes his way outside through the plush grass, stops, slouches and sinks into his thoughts. "I'm not good enough" he thinks "and besides... what's the point... what's the use... it's all for n..."
"Looks like you can use some help there friend" a very strange voice immediately stopped McMichaels train of thought and left him looking at a very strange little man in patched red shorts, holding a green flute. The flute was the same shining green as his wild curly hair that was puffing out the sides of his enormous hat that was casting a shadow over his eyes. What was stranger than the little man... was that there was another little man perched atop his hat reading a little red book, minding his own business. He he didn't stop, or even raise one eye when McMicheal started to talk.
"I-I..." He nervously looked back at the house, and at the mess in the front yard. "I..."
"you're having problems writing your book" The green haired man interrupted, startling McMicheal.
"Yes, I uh... I was writing... then I... well it..."
"you ran out of ideas" the man finished again.
"Yes! I've been..." it was really hard for McMicheal to form a coherent sentence, the little man was making him nervous, and very uncomfortable so he just kept stuttering on "I tried to... my story... why I..."
"Ah, you don't know if your story is good enough, if there is a point telling it at all. Well you're in luck there friend, yes, today is your very lucky day..."
McMicheal looked at the little man.