Morton Rainey looked out into the distance over Tashmore Lake and thought
about what had happened. He thought about finding Bump dead, attached to
his garbage shed with a screwdriver. He thought about Shooter. About Amy.
About anything that had to do with the whole mess of shit...
She had stolen his love, and a woman who would steal your love when your love was really all you had to give was not much of a woman. He loved her, all the same. It was Shooter who hated her. It was Shooter who meant to kill her and then bury her down by the lake near Bump, where she would before long be a mystery to both of them
Then he thought about how he didn't care. He didn't care he had killed his ex-wife's cat. He didn't care he had killed Tom Greenleaf. He didn't care he had killed Herb Creekmore. He didn't care he had burned down the one hundred and thirty-five year old restored Victorian house he had bought for his wife. He especially didn't care he had killed the man who ended his marriage. He didn't care he killed his ex-wife. He didn't care about jack shit...
And he liked the apathy. It soothed his tortured mind.
But he couldn't help but feel that he did commit the crime Shooter accused him of.
Plagiarism.
"But it was back in college!" he reasoned with himself. "I was young and stupid and wanted my name published with an awesome bit of writing."
But it wasn't yours, Mort. Was it?
"No... It wasn't mine..."
What was his name, Mort? Do you remember?
"John Kintner."
And what was the story you stole and put your name and title on?
"'Crowfoot Mile.' I didn't mean for them to publish it!"
But you let them, Mort. You let them publish it. Plagiarizer.
"No..."
You stole someone else's story and laughed when you weren't caught. What would you have done if John Kintner found out, Mort? What then?
"But he didn't."
What if he did?" What then? Hmm, Mort?
The door shook as someone knocked on it forcefully. Morton walked over and opened it. His jaw dropped. On the porch stood a man who looked exactly like an older John Kintner.
"Morton Rainey?" the man asked.
"Ye-yes," Morton stuttered.
"I'm John Kintner. We were in a creative writing class together in college. Do you remember?"
"Yes. What do you need?"
"I want my story back, you goddamn son of a bitch."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Morton said, his blood running cold. Yes, you do. He ignored the voice.
"Yes you do. 'Crowfoot Mile.' You changed the name to 'Eye of the Crow' and sold it to a magazine with your name attached to it," Kintner said calmly.
"I never wrote any such story. You must have the wrong person, Mr. Kintner," Morton said, starting to close the door. "I'm sorry." The door shut in the man's face and Morton locked it hastily.
Give him his story, Mort. It's the least you could do to make up for it.
"I didn't steal any story."
Yes, you did. Give him the story. Write to all the big newspapers and confess about your crime. Pay the fine and get on with your life, Mort. It's that simple. I swear.
The man, Kintner, knocked again. Morton sighed and opened the door. The last thing he saw was Kintner holding a .44 caliber at his head. When the gun went off, he saw red then nothing. Just black.
They saw you see a light when you're dying. It ain't true... I can't see a damned thing...
~*~
Morton woke up with a start. He put on his glasses and looked at his watch on the coffee table next to The World-Famous Mort Rainey Sofa, also known as The Couch of the Comatose Writer. The time was 11:57 am.
The door shook as someone knocked on it forcefully. Morton walked over and opened it.
"Morton Rainey? I'm John Kintner. I want my story back, you goddamn son of a bitch."
She had stolen his love, and a woman who would steal your love when your love was really all you had to give was not much of a woman. He loved her, all the same. It was Shooter who hated her. It was Shooter who meant to kill her and then bury her down by the lake near Bump, where she would before long be a mystery to both of them
Then he thought about how he didn't care. He didn't care he had killed his ex-wife's cat. He didn't care he had killed Tom Greenleaf. He didn't care he had killed Herb Creekmore. He didn't care he had burned down the one hundred and thirty-five year old restored Victorian house he had bought for his wife. He especially didn't care he had killed the man who ended his marriage. He didn't care he killed his ex-wife. He didn't care about jack shit...
And he liked the apathy. It soothed his tortured mind.
But he couldn't help but feel that he did commit the crime Shooter accused him of.
Plagiarism.
"But it was back in college!" he reasoned with himself. "I was young and stupid and wanted my name published with an awesome bit of writing."
But it wasn't yours, Mort. Was it?
"No... It wasn't mine..."
What was his name, Mort? Do you remember?
"John Kintner."
And what was the story you stole and put your name and title on?
"'Crowfoot Mile.' I didn't mean for them to publish it!"
But you let them, Mort. You let them publish it. Plagiarizer.
"No..."
You stole someone else's story and laughed when you weren't caught. What would you have done if John Kintner found out, Mort? What then?
"But he didn't."
What if he did?" What then? Hmm, Mort?
The door shook as someone knocked on it forcefully. Morton walked over and opened it. His jaw dropped. On the porch stood a man who looked exactly like an older John Kintner.
"Morton Rainey?" the man asked.
"Ye-yes," Morton stuttered.
"I'm John Kintner. We were in a creative writing class together in college. Do you remember?"
"Yes. What do you need?"
"I want my story back, you goddamn son of a bitch."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Morton said, his blood running cold. Yes, you do. He ignored the voice.
"Yes you do. 'Crowfoot Mile.' You changed the name to 'Eye of the Crow' and sold it to a magazine with your name attached to it," Kintner said calmly.
"I never wrote any such story. You must have the wrong person, Mr. Kintner," Morton said, starting to close the door. "I'm sorry." The door shut in the man's face and Morton locked it hastily.
Give him his story, Mort. It's the least you could do to make up for it.
"I didn't steal any story."
Yes, you did. Give him the story. Write to all the big newspapers and confess about your crime. Pay the fine and get on with your life, Mort. It's that simple. I swear.
The man, Kintner, knocked again. Morton sighed and opened the door. The last thing he saw was Kintner holding a .44 caliber at his head. When the gun went off, he saw red then nothing. Just black.
They saw you see a light when you're dying. It ain't true... I can't see a damned thing...
~*~
Morton woke up with a start. He put on his glasses and looked at his watch on the coffee table next to The World-Famous Mort Rainey Sofa, also known as The Couch of the Comatose Writer. The time was 11:57 am.
The door shook as someone knocked on it forcefully. Morton walked over and opened it.
"Morton Rainey? I'm John Kintner. I want my story back, you goddamn son of a bitch."