I believe I’ve just murdered my publisher with a pen. It is my favorite pen too, a sturdy little thing, polished ivory. Imagine the scene, his neck quivering with the pen 4 inches deep into his windpipe. The blood flowing down the embroidery following the redness following the path of least resistance, erupting from the fountain tip, and spreading– like the flooding of a river delta– all down his satin shirt.
I put that shirt on his back. He was a no name publisher printing pulp fiction and pornography to get by. I was an up and coming star (at least I knew I was…) and I took him under my wing. With my soaring use of prose I crafted stories of such uplifting nature that I almost ascended into the heights of a bestselling author. Little did Clarke know that I am more snake than bird and would strike with a vengeance if he ever dared cross me.
Which of course as you can probably tell by the scene I was previously describing that this was a self fulfilling prophecy. Anyway I got distracted by the satin shirt which I bought him for his 30th birthday (a dismal affair). Maybe I’m so focused on the shirt because it is a fundamental metaphor that symbolizes our tumultuous relationship. I bought the shirt so it was my right ruin it if I pleased, by that principle I brought Clarke up with all my success so it follows that it is also my right to bring him down…
Damn! Sidelined again by my wayward fancies. Back to the murder at hand.
It was glorious in all it’s small motions and subtle sounds that made up the scene. I made an effort to memorize each individual moment like the frames on a film reel. And each individual cross section is as glorious and telling of the human spirit as Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa.
His screams for help and/or mercy came out a sickening gurgle as choked while trying to breath through his rupturing jugular. But for all I cared it could have been Beethoven’s 9th with the euphoria I was experiencing. The adrenaline pumping through both our veins separated us from the rest of the world , as if in slow motion every detail pulsed. Both of us had never truly been more alive than in this moment. It all went beyond the laws of science and society but like a cannon shoot us into the realm of myth and legend, we took our respective archetypes. I was the king, and the man in command of the situation, meanwhile he took the role of the woman and the slave, being penetrated.
All homosexual themes aside this moment was eternal perhaps the entire universe had been a crescendo leading up to this final note when I would watch the life leave from his beady little eyes.
It was coming I could feel the tension relax from Clarke’s muscles as he starting collapsing to the floor. He looked like he wanted to say some last words so I quickly placed a single finger on his lips, there was no needed for some imbecile utterance to run the climax.
Still in this transient state I could almost exact the moment his soul left his body. But before we reached the triumphant summit, higher than Everest or Kilimanjaro, but then tragedy struck.
A moist flatulence erupted, the sound I could only describe as a shart– a shit fart. The smell was of eggs and cowardice, the man had emptied his bowels out of fear.
You fucking cunt.
I exclaimed as I was transported back into reality with all of its absurdities, the lack of purpose hit me like a lukewarm tidal-wave of piss- bitterly.
It has all been for nought… and I would have left the house completely unsatisfied had I not found Clarke’s designer poodle to entertain me until my airport shuttle got here. The little rat didn’t last long, it succumbed to the torture long before the taxi arrived- but at least it didn’t fucking shit itself.