Inspired by a dialogue from the movie, may have been in the book too… I didn't check it. The dialogue is:
"I thought it was one of those whadjamacallems? Pseudo-names, or -nyms?"
"No, no. I've never used one. I've NEVER used one."
"Well, I can't imagine why you would… I mean, hide behind some made up name."
This is a story about Mort in the younger years, when Amy still lived with him and he still had a bit of his sanity left. A small one-shot about Mort's true pseudonym powers.
I don't own Johnny Depp or Morton Rainey or Amy Rainey or John Shooter. All I own is a computer, several assorted CDs (including the soundtrack to Les Miserables, I recommend you see that one), and several books…
Name Unknown
Mort Rainey sighed fiercely, staring blankly at his computer screen. He'd been typing for hours and he'd yet to come up with more than two sentences.
A simple way to tell if a man's lying is to watch his eyes when he delivers the fabrication. At least, that was the theory of Jeffrey Mason, the one cop in town who never lost his prey, and with such a reputation, no one dared to deny his beliefs.
"Ugh… This is pure bullcrap!" Mort sat back and closed his eyes, searching in his mind's eye for the one thing that would make the words flow together magically, with little to no effort on his part. The elusive ability remained distanced too far to reach.
"Mort? You alright in there?" Amy's voice trailed up to him from the garden just out his window. Standing, Mort wandered aimlessly about the room before stopping in front of the window, opening it up and peering out to the garden. Smiling, he met his wife's eyes.
"You ever leave that garden, Amy?" Mort's laughter filled the woods around the secluded cottage.
"Do you ever leave that computer, Mort?" Amy's quick-witted retort caught Mort off guard as he stared down at her.
"I suppose that's what I get… I can't think lately. Stuck in a rut, I guess."
Amy smiled and motioned to the flowers around her. "Well, come on down here and help me in the garden a bit, Mort. Maybe you can run your ideas past me. I'll let you know which ones seem neat… Like the old days?"
Mort nodded, vaguely remembering "the old days." The days when he'd sit on the porch with a yellow notepad and rattle off ideas and phrases to Amy as she tended the garden or merely sat watching the sunset. Amy would tell Mort her opinion on most of his ideas, and from this, further ideas would spike.
"Alright, Amy," Mort stepped away from the window and headed downstairs. As he approached Amy in the garden, she threw a pair of working gloves at him and continued her business. "What am I to do, sweetheart?" Mort knelt down next to Amy and watched her pulling weeds.
"Join in. I've got to get the weeds out of here before I can really plant much more of anything. We let them get out of hand…"
"We?" Mort looked over at Amy with a chuckle. "I don't think 'we' consented to this garden."
"Alright, Mort. Give me your ideas?" Amy continued her work in the garden.
Mort began to aimlessly pull weeds, any that he could reach from his vantage point. "Well, I've got a couple short story ideas… One of them being a short murder story. One of those, cops find the bodies, call in a special expert that everyone says is real good to figure it all out. Only twist is, this expert is actually the killer… in more ways than one. It's twisted… that's for sure. Only problem with this one is I can't get anything good to go on the paper."
He sighed gently and looked to Amy a moment, before turning back to his weeds. "You know how I normally type in my name before the story while I'm typing the story, then I delete the name once the story's finished?"
"Yes, Mort. One of your more peculiar traits by far." Amy giggled slightly.
"Well," Mort continued, seemingly unaware of her comment. "I did that with this one, and I got half a sentence out. So I deleted my name, just to see what would happen… And I got two sentences… But the two sentences I got were crap. It's like, I can't type it knowing it's my own because I know it's a piece of crap story."
Amy nodded and sighed lightly. She seemed to think a moment, then spoke up. "Well, Mort. You may not want to take the count for this one until you know it's really good. So, make up some name, then type that in place of your own name. That way, it'd be that guy's fault… Not your own. Then, when you've finished and you know it's perfect, put your name back in there. It's not like your stealing anyone's work, coz that guy was made up… but you'll be able to get it into the computer and fix what needs to be fixed."
Mort stopped pulling weeds and stared widely at his wife. "A pseudonym, eh?"
Amy nodded. "Why don't you use that name you made up when we went to that garage sale? John… something?"
"John Shooter?"
"Yeah. That's the one." Amy smiled, giggling. "Maybe the 'dairy farmer from Mississippi' can help you out."
Mort nodded and stood. "Amy? Do you mind?"
"No, Mort. Go write. Go have fun with John What's-his-name." Amy watched Mort walk back into the house and turned back to her garden when he had left.
Mort returned to his seat at the computer and stared at the screen a moment. Those two sentences blared out at him in defiance. Resigning himself to the moment, he opened a new document on the screen and hid the shameful one in the recesses of the toolbar.
"Okay, Mister Shooter. Help me out here." Mort set his fingers gently on the keys and stared at the screen. No words came to his mind. He stared for several minutes before sinking back in his chair, letting his head roll back on the headrest. "Thanks, pal…"
He stared up at the ceiling and began to blink rapidly. As the silence filling the room consumed his brain, he felt himself falling asleep. He sat straight up after several times of nodding off. "Alright, Johnny Boy. You got any ideas for me or not?"
Mort looked across the room at the felt hat that sat on the table. After a few moments of thought, he stood and walked to the table. Sweeping the hat into his hands then to the top of his head, Mort spun to face the nearest mirror.
"Well, hello there, Mister Rainey," Mort spoke to his reflection in a Southern accent. "I hear you been havin' some trouble comin' up with some sort of a story? Is it coz you're afraid that you might not write it well enough?"
"Perhaps it is, Mister Shooter," remarked Mort as he turned back to the computer table and pulled the hat off his head. He sat quickly and typed in a small introduction on the top of the page, as was his habit in writing a story.
This is an original story written by Mort Rainey.
He stared at the screen a moment and deleted his name, replacing it with the name, John Shooter.
"Here we go, pal…" Mort picked up the hat and placed it once more on his head. Feeling a small smile creep across his face, he began to type.
Hours had passed with silence from the house. Amy walked up to the spot where Mort kept the computer. She found him sitting before the computer, typing away furiously, wearing the felt hat that she remembered from the garage sale. As she approached, Mort seemed to finish what he was typing and spoke softly to himself.
"Can't very well finish it with your negative attitude, Mister Rainey." Mort slipped the hat off as he finished typing and stared once more at the screen. He scrolled the screen all the way up to the top of the document and began to skim through the pages quickly. After a few more moments silence, he pushed the chair away from the computer.
"What did I just write?" Mort turned away from the computer. "No, what did John just write?" His eyes glazed in a mix of terror and surprise as he caught a glance at Amy for the first time since he'd left her in the garden.
"It's no good, Amy. I don't think John Shooter was much of an author." Mort sighed and reached out to the computer. He clicked a few buttons and the documents on the screen all disappeared. "I don't like how that one turned out."
Amy sighed and reached out to hug Mort. "It's always worth a shot, Mort. Some stories just aren't meant to be written."
Mort nodded, hugging Amy and letting out a small groan of anger. "I thought I had something there. I really did. But instead, all I had was crap… Only worse than when it had no author name behind it." He chuckled and gave Amy a gentle shove in the direction of the bedroom. "Go on to bed. I've gotta shut everything down in here and get some water. I'll be in in about fifteen minutes, okay sweetheart?"
Amy nodded and kissed Mort on the cheek before leaving the room. Mort walked to the computer and sat down, clicking on the toolbar at the bottom of the screen. A document popped up in front of his face.
This is an original story written by John Shooter.
Scrolling down, Mort found the end of the story.
The blood began to pool beneath his feet. He watched it in fascination. The only time he'd ever enjoyed blood was when it was spilt at his own hands. Today had been a cheerful massacre. Laughing, Jeffrey Mason began to pick his mess up, the tools first, then the bodies, piece by piece.
"I knew it'd happen this way. And now there's only one thing left to do." Lapping up the blood from his fingertips-
And it cut off there. That's where Mort had stopped writing, realizing just how horrid this story had been. From start to finish there had been nothing but pain and sadistic behavior from the main character. Mort didn't like it. It wasn't his style of writing, and frankly, it wasn't a style he'd like to take on.
"I'm sorry, Mister Shooter. I can't write your story. I can't read it without wanting to taste my lunch a second time."
Mort reached out and took the hat in his hands. "That's alright, Mister Rainey. We'll work together again… before the end."
Mort stood and tossed the hat to the table, switching the computer off and heading down to the kitchen. "No way in hell I'm ever gonna write a story like that. How can anyone get such sick pleasure out of that kind of…" He sighed and poured a glass of water. Then, as a last minute thought, he poured out the water and replaced it with some Jack Daniel's. "No way in hell."
"Mort? Come to bed, please?" Amy's voice came down the stairs and Mort turned, smiling a weary grin.
"I'm comin' Amy. Just gettin' a little drink." He drank down the Daniel's and set the glass in the sink. "You, my friend, may well be the only way I'll be getting the memory of this episode out of my head." He sighed and went upstairs to join his wife in bed for what would prove to be one of their last peaceful nights as a married couple.
END
AN: Well, told you. Short. I liked it. It flowed pretty easily. Mort's first true meeting with Shooter, drowned out of his memory by his lovely little friend, Jack Daniel's. The hat and its connection. Mort's tendency to get really into what he's writing… and of course, the pseudonym thing. Review. Tell me what you thought. I may do more fics about Mort. They flow pretty easily. So who knows. Oh, and… "That's alright, Mister Rainey. We'll work together again… before the end."
It had to be said. It fits really well. See, foreshadow… though we all know what happens "before the end."