Norman comes round the other night and I show him the little I’ve written. He hates it, as he now hates everything I do. This then is the novel we wrote together, taking turns mid-sentence:
It was a dark & stormy night. Already her eyes reflected the future events of that evening.
“Sounds like total crap to me,” ventured Abigail. “Killing that bastard will solve all our woes.”
“Curtains don’t move without someone hiding,” said Latch.
“What the hell would you know? I’ve been the one that’s been living with him.”
Abigail stood up off the bed and pulled the trigger. Fuckhead was dead.
“Good girl, Abbie. Our future looks just as rosy as the blood pouring from his temple.”
They put all their things in a pile. With the accelerant and the cheap hotel carpet all clues to the hit evaporated like backwash. The night grew stormier still.
Latch lit a cigarette.
“Tomorrow, my girl, we’ll be gone and he aint nothing but a cinder.” Latch packed up his barbecue. Looking one last time in the direction of the newly deceased Fuckhead, he said: “be still.”
Across town the night grew tendrils.
After that Mum comes home, and anyway we’re too drunk to write.