The writer by Michael Lewis

The Writer

Kill the bitch, kill the bitch, kill that fucking bitch!

That’s what raced through my mind over, and over as I sat at the cherry oak desk and having to hear her bicker, (or should I say-bitch!) over every little goddamn thing unknown to man.

If you don’t go and kill that bitch,-I will! The little voice inside my head shouted startling me away from my writing. I looked around wondering if I had said it out-loud to where ‘IT’, could hear. When I say ‘IT’ I mean her, and when I say her, I mean the bitch, and when I say the bitch, I am referring to my wife. You may think that I am mad, sadistic, even somewhat sinister in my convictions, but I can assure you that I am quite the opposite. I think myself as a sane, rational man in a complete stateof-mind. This and only this is why, I think… yes, I’m quite sure I could get away with it; with ‘It’ I mean murder. (I’ve never killed anyone, but I’m willing to give it a try.) How does that old saying go? “I’ll try anything once.” I said this aloud to myself and begun to chuckle under my own breath. “Yes, just once. After all - once is all I need if I do the job right. ‘The Job.’

Is that what murder is, a job? In either case; ‘The JOB’ will get done and I shall be free from this ridicule and controlling behavior that I have become accustomed to over the years. “No more!” I shout slamming my fist down hard upon the writing desk as if to proclaim my innocence before a Grand Jury. Suddenly, I could hear ‘IT’ coming down the hall toward my study like a bad thunderstorm. The nagging, the yelling, the slanderous forked tongue of the beast, “My god why haven’t you killed that woman yet? Bury her someplace in the far corner of the cemetery. Out of place, and all alone.” “Good question?” I answer myself. “I guess I just want to finish this story before I’m off to prison.” And how would I do it? Where, and when? Poison? “Too slow and easily traced.” Gun? “Too fast, too messy.” And when Tonight, tomorrow, a month from now? Where would I dump the body? The woods, the dump, a ditch? ‘Ditch the bitch.’ I thought in my own amusement. Holy hell! Murder really is a job. Planning, so much planning. After all, I should be good at this. I plan out my books before I write them, so planning someone’s demise should be no different. Only the characters are real, and ‘IT’. I refer to my wife as ‘IT’ because I find ‘IT’ easier to disassociate ‘IT’ from a real live breathing human being; which will enable me to kill ‘IT’ without my self conscious getting in the way and fucking up things. In which case I might back out, in any case would be a big fuckup. Not out of sheer fear of getting caught. This I almost felt sure that I would, sooner or later. But having the right mind to let her live. That in itself would be the real crime. Like allowing a

rabid dog to roam free in a populated neighborhood knowing the dog could bite or even kill someone at any time and doing nothing about it. I know what you’re thinking? Why don’t ya just leave. Wouldn’t that be a lot simpler than murder? The answer is no! An ‘IT’ like her doesn’t just let you leave. No, no that would be too easy for her and less painful for me. No, she would want to inflict pain and suffering for the rest of my life. Not physically, or mentally but financially and emotionally. The bitch had to go, maybe not tonight, or tomorrow, but soon… very soon. As I sit to write, I carefully plan ITs murder with malice aforethought. And once again I can hear the bitch’s IT voice in the background. “Why haven’t you come to bed?” IT yells down from upstairs. Her voice sounding much like thousands of tiny chipmunks squealing all at the same time for the ‘Big Bad Pussycat to come and eat them.’ “You’re down there talking to some bimbo on that computer again!” She cried. “Fucking bastard.” She then said much more quietly as if I couldn’t hear. Come the fuck down here and I’ll show you what the fuck I’m doing. I thought silently to myself. But you ain’t gonna like it, you fucking ‘IT’ looking bitch! I thought again, and wondered why I don’t just say it. Say it like you mean it! And I do. I do mean ‘IT’ and I plan to show ‘IT’ that I mean it as well. Looking hard now at my number two TiconDeroga freshly sharpened pencil and how I’d love to just shove the fucking thing deep into her eye socket, sinking it deep into that rotten, foul mouthed useless excuse for a brain of hers.

Yea, that’s the ticket. Come on down! You’re the next contestant on the Price is Right, but if you get the questions wrong; it’s off with your fucking head! Show our contestant what’s behind door number one! Well Bob, we have a butcher’s knife, for all your slicing and dicing needs. “Slice her throat!” Slice her throat!” I can hear the audience shouting. “What’s your bid?” Bob asks. Then the bright red number 10 shows up on the board in front of her. The other Contestants bided much higher. Bob Barker takes a quick look down to his note card, walks over to IT and slices her fucking throat with the Ginsu butchers knife spraying the crowd in her blood. Later that next day, bright and early, I began to set my murderous plan into motion. (A) Murder in a wooded area. (X) out. (B) (B) Murder at the dump. (X) out. (C) Murder by accidental fall. (/) check. It was so easy a Caveman could do it. And my hands would come out clean as a whistle in the end. What I chose was a fancy Italian restraint. You know? A last supper so to speak. I wouldn’t want IT to go to her grave on an empty stomach.(lol) I would wine and dine the bitch, drug her spritzer and whoo-lah! The first part of my plan would be etched in stone. But, first things first. I made reservations at the Rossigno. A nice little Italian restaurant with an outside patio and an ocean view by candlelight.

We would eat, drink, and drink some more over pleasant conversation about who the fuck knows what? By the time I’m done with her, she’ll be ready to go home to our cozy little love nest and breed like rabbits. Only she wouldn’t make it to the bedroom. No, she wouldn’t make it to the top of the stairs with our drinks in hand, fucking on her mind, and a slight push with the hand, and down she goes falling head over heels down the stairwell breaking her little neck once she hits the bottom. And if her neck doesn’t snap upon impact? Well, that can easily be fixed with just a gentle twist, and a sudden jerk. (Pop goes the weasel!) I couldn’t but help to feel rather anxious about the whole ordeal. After all, I knew what the fuck I was doing-right? Sure I did. I thought with much more confidence than before. I had written over a dozen crime stories over the years. Hell, I was practically a professional Ruse Comme Un Renard. Let the glorious news be spread. At last the wicked ol’ bitch is dead! This I thought as I sat across the candle-lit table setting from IT, looking out and across to all the other couples who were actually in love with one another. My God how I’ve longed for true love. It was a beautiful thing when done right. But alas, I never did get it right, and now I’m contemplating murder because of it. But my mind didn’t see people in love. What I saw was all the little people in munchkin land dancing and frolicking over the bitch’s death. This brought a devious smile upon my face. Calm before the storm feeling. It was exciting to say the least. How could planning someone’s murder be so exhilarating, intoxicating, and it was making me so fucking incredibly horny? Not for her, IT of course. No way was I going through this shit again. Learn from your mistakes. I could hear my father say before the police slapped the handcuffs around my wrist and hauled my ass off to Juvey-Hall. Of

course, I didn’t listen. Who does when you’re young? It goes in one ear and out the other. Well I’m a grown man now, and making just one mistake was one too damn many. And at my age, one mistake could last through the rest of your life. I could not afford to just give away any more of my precious time to mistakes. I figure I have maybe twenty years left in this life if all goes well. If I get caught, and have to pull time for murder all I’ll get is twenty, even if they give me thirty to fifty. I’ll be dead before finishing my time, and cheating the judge out of my sentence. As for my soul - well, I’ll deal with the devil given the devil his due when that time comes. But for now, I plan on living out the rest of my life in peace. And to do that, IT has to die. The wine was excellent. The best money could buy, and the food superb. It wouldn’t be long now before she would have to go to the restroom, and that’ll be my queue to spike her drink with a little TLC. (Tylox, Lortab, and just a sprinkle of Cocaine) She’d be so out of it by the time we got home she would do anything I asked. That sounded appeasing, but I had to stick to the plan. To do anything else would jeopardize that, and I might not be able to go through with this again. Everything was going according to plan. I had to go through with ‘IT.’ As we entered the front door to our (my home) and put our coats down in the foyer, I quickly headed upstairs to set the next step of my plan into action. “Get us some drinks while you’re down there would yah on?” I yelled down to her before she had the chance to start up the stairs. At first I thought I had blown my cover by calling her ‘hone’. A word I hadn’t used since the first year of our marriage twelve years ago. I listened silent for a moment standing at the top of the stairs on the flat, waiting for

her to yell back, “Go to hell! You want something to drink; you get it your damn self!” But she never did. Then the ice maker was dropping ice into what sounded like liquor glasses. She was doing it. She was really making us a drink. I thought in disbelief. “Perfect.” I said under my breath, and waited for her to start up the stairs with our drinks in hand and unaware of her impending fate. I waited, and waited, and still I waited some more, but still no sign of IT? Horror had struck me like a searing bolt of lightning from that black ominous storm from earlier. Had she passed out upon the kitchen floor? Had my plans of murder been foiled? So many things were racing through my mind as I crept downstairs to see what the matter was. “Hone, are you ok?” I said softly as I tip toed toward the kitchen. Of course she was all right. She wasn’t dead was she? Why in the fuck wouldn’t she be all right you dumb bastard! You couldn’t stick yer finger up yer ass without getting shit on it! I could hear her say, mocking me for fucking up even a simple murder plot. Was I so bad of a writer that I couldn’t even get a simple murder plot planned out when the story was practically writing itself? The character was doing everything I needed IT too except for climbing those fucking stairs! Falling down the stairs, and breaking Its fucking little chicken neck! Cock-a-fucking-doodle-doo, the jokes on you! Wake up Alice, yer not in wonderland anymore, and this ain’t Kansas, and she ain’t Dorothy. Suddenly those little munchkins started to sing and dance inside my head again singing “The Wicked Witch Is Dead!” Only the Witch wasn’t dead, and she wasn’t going to be dead because,

you’d fuck up a wet dream! I slowly peered around the corner to the kitchen keeping out of sight just in case she was still awa-alive. The kitchen was bright as if it had been coated with a fresh coat of white paint. And covering the walls next to the kitchen counter, red blood stains splattered everywhere as if someone had been…murdered? “What in the hell had happened?” I say looking all around at the dried blood, a lot of dried blood. It was enough blood for, “Two people?” I say now shaking from head to toe. Then an all too familiar voice cried down from upstairs. “Are you coming to bed any time soon you stupid son-of-a-bitch!” I turned around suddenly as if someone had punched me in the kidney, scared out of my wits. How the hell did she get passed me? I wondered now stepping softly toward the stairs as if the floor might give way beneath my bare feet. Swallowing me up to some unknown hell beneath the hard wood floor. “Well, come on! I’m not getting any fucking younger you stupid piece of horse shit!” I stand at the bottom of the stairs feeling like a small child who has done wrong and awaiting punishment from his scolding mother. There she was. IT, perched at the top of the stairs upon the flat where I had once stood only moments ago, ready to push her vulgar ass down the steps to complete my murderous plot. She stood there naked as the day she was born with our drinks clasped in each of her hands, and her breasts perky and firm and riddled with…”bullet holes? What, what happened to you?” I say pointing at her bare breasts, pointing at the bullet holes that looked like buck shot.

“You killed me you stupid son-of-a-bitch. You murdered me and then turned the gun on yourself. Every year this day you plan to kill me, and every year this is as far as you get,” She then laughed in her bemusement. “You’ll never get to kill me again. Death won’t allow it. Oh, sure. You’ll plan, and plan, and nothing will ever happen. Till death do us part, remember those vows? But death would not allow us to part, we were made for each other…’hone’, and now you’re stuck with me for all eternity. Welcome to your hell!

In the far corner of the cemetery they were both laid to rest. Out of place, and all alone.