DAY OF A WRITER
Slate Stone, private investigator kicked the bedroom door open and shot and killed three armed would-be assailants. He looked down at serial killer, Biff Bowers as he drew his last breaths. “Hey Biff, how long you been a cold-blooded killer, not countin’ tomorrow?” “What the hell you writin’, a comic book?” The author’s wife considered herself a critic and practiced the talent in every facet of Ebeneezer’s life.” Ebeneezer Penisqueezer, had adopted a new pen name or pseudonym if you will, for obvious reasons. Under his new name of Joe Penisqueezer he had written three novels. He maintained a secret laptop on which he secretly plotted his wife’s demise. In it he slyly referred to her as “fat mouth,” to avoid any connection.
Slate Stone entered the kitchen and shot all its inhabitants. His partner asked, “Slate, why did you kill everyone?” Slate curled up his lip and through gritted teeth grunted, “because they was home.” Slate Stone had become an American folk hero, rivalling James Patterson’s Alex Cross. Slate seemed to have greater appeal to shoot from the hip republicans who basked in the reference.
One afternoon while Penisqueezer was employing his hideaway laptop at his cottage in the woods and his wife was not so covertly servicing his publisher at a downtown hotel, he seemed to hit paydirt. A woodchipper would be the perfect divorce vehicle. While clearing an area near their cottage, he would insert his wife into said chipper and drive one and a half hours to a book signing. Having already mingled in the hotel the night before, his alibi would be iron clad. Now the trick was to get fat mouth dismounted from his publisher long enough to go to the cottage and be murdered.
Joe returned to the campground in the morning and was not aghast to find his wife and publisher in mid-thrust. Joe wondered if that thing was suddenly throwin’ sparks. He waited until his soon to be deceased bride and her beau fell asleep. He decided to retrieve the hypodermic out of his vehicle containing a strong sedative. A revamped plan was coming together. Revamped in the sense, Joe was as surprised as the next guy of what the hell was gonna happen.
When it all came to him, it seemed so simple. He crept into the bedroom and injected the sedative into his publisher’s neck. His wife stirred but he injected her as well. The sedative would knock out the recipient for two hours, leaving no evidence it was ever in the system. He picked up his wife and carried her to the woodchipper. Too early to start the woodchipper without alarming neighbors, he threw some branches and his wife in and set the timer to start in ninety minutes and run for five minutes and stop. She would be dead, her paramour would be charged. I would be back at my book signing and life would be good.
If you’re wondering why the sedative seemed to ‘appear’ or why a woodchipper would have a timer on it, sans any information, the answer is a simple one. I only have five to six-hundred words to work with so deal with it.