The Writer Murders
It was not all flowers and roses in the writing community. Writers were desperate and hungry. Publishers knew this and took advantage of the low demand for these near poverty writers. You would pass the streets at nights and see writers begging for food, some even holding up card boards saying they will write for coffee. It was a really bad time for these professionals as no one needed their skills and people read less due to chem-trails that had fried their brains. You would find sonnets and stories all over the streets as frustrated song and poetry writers ripped apart manuscripts which they thought would have given them a name and even a small fortune. But what was more disdained were writers who envied other writers and would do anything in their power to block that person from landing a publication deal. It was a dog eat dog situation, or should I say words eat words kind of atmosphere.
The Publisher Van Pulls Up and Mayhem Starts
One Saturday evening as the sun was setting and the color in the waters above faded from its bright blue, a van speedily came up the street and stopped at a bunch of God forsaken writers feet. Everyone stopped what they were doing, which was nothing, and turned to look at the van wondering what the heck was wrong with the driver for hastily speeding and stopping like that. Then the door opened and a shiny expensive looking boot appeared. It was the big man him self, Paul Publisher. Paul Publisher owned one of the richest publishing company around at that time. But the thing is, he only worked with the elites who had a passion for writing and could easily fund the production of their books. He never once worked with the scrubs of the writing world. He stepped out of the vehicle and announced; "Listen up all you broken soul lacking, tobacco smelling useless writers. I have a special announcement to make. I will be adding a second book to this falls publish and I am looking for one good writer from your worthless lot to hand me a copy of your best work in the next 48 hours. My team will read through and select the best. If you are lucky, you will be paid an upfront value of 20,000 dollars and all other royalties thereafter. Goodbye."
Paul publisher then slid back in the van, made a sinister grin, slammed the door and then sped off. The Authors were dumbstruck to what they heard as they stood there in shock. Then one old scoundrel shouted, "Yippee, I am sure gonna win this 20,000 buckaroos."
The writers looked around at each evilly and went their separate ways. It was now 12 midnight and a eerie scream could be heard coming from down one of the dark allies occupied by one of the homeless writers. All the writers jumped up, ran to the ally to see what it was and saw one of their fellow writers with his throat slashed from ear to ear almost like he had a double smile. Cedric, one of the homeless writers blurted, "Well, at least this means less competition!" That night, everyone began to be on the lookout as they really believed that someone was planning to bump everyone out to get the writing deal.
Jonathan Bailey was one of those homeless writers who everyone respected. They knew if he submitted a manuscript, that would be it. There would be no competition. But poor Jonathan never knew what hit him. Someone literally through the book at him. That same night, one of his pals was calling to him from behind a dumpster only to realize that he was not responding. When his pal checked, Jonathon Bailey's head was smashed in with a book and his left eye gouged out with a pen. Someone took out the best writer of the lot to give themselves a fighting chance of landing that publication deal.
The Darkness Prevailed
After all the commotion with the death of Cedric and Johnathon and the police interrogating the other writers, no one went back to sleep as they thought there was a killer among them. They agreed that they will all stick together in the same area as this would spot anyone making any suspicious moves. The night air was tense as everyone was giving each other the evil eye. Then all of a sudden, Boom! The lights went out. The writers all started to scream and shout and began running around like headless chickens. After 2-5 minutes of screaming their heads off, the lights were restored. After the dust settled, five out of the eight writers had dinner knives stuck in their hearts and Styrofoam boxes over their faces. Aunt May, one of the writers began screaming her head off as one of the persons who got killed was her best friend Jill. Both were late bloomers and had quit their 9-5 jobs before retirement and started writing. It never worked out for them and they had to be ladies of the night at a ripe age of 78 and 81 to survive on the streets. But business in that field came to an abrupt halt for them as their clients complained of them falling asleep while undressing. The cops were quick on the murder scene and pretty soon, all five corpse were scooped up and taken away. It was sad, people had died, they were dead writers who now had the opportunity to start a new chapter. But now their slate were wiped clean. They now had an open book, etc etc etc.
With all the corpse now gone and the time dwindling down to get their manuscript to Paul Publisher, the three writers were scuffling around trying to desperately get something which was worthwhile publishing. Aunt May, Mr. Freckles and Donald Bump were in line for publication, well at least one of them that is. There were no trust among the three because in the midst of it all, one of these writers were the killer.
Time was surely running past these three washed up bag of bones which called themselves writers. It was a cut throat affair. Everyone wanted the grand prize and they would slit their puppy's own throat to get the deal from Paul Publisher. Aunt May, Mr. Freckles and Donald Bump were at their last end. Donald was acting weird has he did not reach anywhere near publication and you could see the pressure being mounted on his lips as they begun to sweat. Aunt May was in her smelly little corner just giggling and peeping. She would constantly make some annoying sounds like, "Oh Yes! This is the Best Article yet! Aunt May 1, Competition 0." She was smart and knew that by making her competition believed she was ready and her article was good, it would cause them to rush and panic and hence creating crappy content which would surely be rejected by Paul. Mr freckles came to an abrupt end and made a demonic scream and began to rip is papers in half. He simply couldn't manage the pressure and gave up. He looked at Aunt May and gave her the thumbs up in support. It was now down to her and Donald Bump.
Donald walked up to Aunt may and started a nosy conversation. "Gee Aunt May, looks like you are walking away today as a brand new published writer." Aunt May replied, "HO Gorsh honey, what makes you say that? You are a great writer, aren't you? I am sure your work topples mine."
"I tell you what. Let's not burden Paul in reading these two articles, let us read each others articles and then we can agree which one is better of the two and let that one go through? Deal?"
Aunt May looked at Donald Bump and his sleazy deal, chuckled and agreed. They both exchanged articles and began reading. As Donald began to delve into Aunt May's article, his eyes got wider and wider with his eye brows nit up nearly touching his toupee. Then all of a sudden he flung down her writing to the ground and began to flee. Aunt may gently lifted her article from the floor, slowly pulled out a large gun from her bag and fired one shot hitting Donald Bump in the back of the head. Mr Freckles was shocked out of his skin to see what just took place.
"Aunt May! What the hell was that? Why did you shoot him? Where did you get a gun even?"
Aunt May chuckled her golden age laugh and said, "I have been writing for all my miserable years. Not once have I ever been properly compensated. I sweat, I cry, I fall, I beg for food. Now I see all you writing scoundrels coming along to try and take what was mine. I had to get rid of y'all."
"What? You are the one who killed the writers?"
"Yes, Yes it was I! That fool Donald Bump was just too nosy. Sticking his hair everywhere it doesn't belong. My article was about killing you all. It was bloody, climatic and worth publishing. Donald read what I did and you saw him run off, most likely was on his way to the cops. That little snitch. So I had to waste him. Now, what will I do about you Mr. Freckles?
"P...P...Please Aunt May, don't kill me too. I can keep a secret. After all, they were crappy writers anyway who would have probably died of some heart disease or kidney failure soon. Please don't shoot me." My Freckles begged to live. Aunt May had the gun pointed at Mr Freckles. "OK, I am going to let you live, but if I ever hear a water drop about what happened here. Your ass is grass!. Mr Freckles turned around and made a quick run off only to be greeted by a gunshot to the back.
Aunt may stood there with her legs apart with her two hands clutching the gun firmly. Then said, "I changed my mine."
A Published Murderer
Aunt may played dirty. She played lethal and she won the prize. Pretty soon, she was published by Paul Publisher who kept his word. That break Paul gave her was huge as everyone loved her work. She wrote many stories about solved and unsolved murders, many of which she probably committed her self.
© 2018 Clive Williams