I wrote this in different spurts over the past 3 years, each time trying to completely change the way the story went. I edited it to be much more disturbing, leading to what you see now:
Chris Rogers. That was his name. Nobody else in the world could have possibly been like that ginger-haired man. This guy was– murdered!
My name is France. Named after some country or something. After graduating community college with a degree in botany, I decided to go into private detective work. Christ was my first case. Seems the boy was working at a local book-store, clocked out- blam!- dead in the river. Connections to the mafia? Perhaps. That’s my initial thoughts, anyway. Podunks like them will always go out and lynch an innocent redhead.
Twelve. I see the body and guess that it is dead. Eleven. No gunshots, no poision. Had to have been suicide. Ten. Anonymous sources tell me that it was murder. Nine. We take the body to be tested for drugs or alchohol. Eight. None. Sever. I ask about the autopsy. Six. That wasn’t until next week. Five. Had to do it myself. Four. I am considered a maniac by them. Three. Time is running out, hurry. Two. Tick Tick Tick. One. Run.
All dead, I am alive. I am alive? I AM alive! Killing equals bomb? Rogers ate a bomb. Conclusion. No. Wait. Someone put bomb there. Out of rubble and in street. Sirens flashed, my escape. Bomb put in Rogers by killer, but for what reason? Chris is new mystery. I am new mystery. I am alive.
“The exam went quite well, did it not?” Pro asked.
“Quite,” I answered myself.
“Yes, well, er…”
“Okay, I hate to break it to you, but all of the references on your resume were false. Even if you passed the exam, you cannot have the job. You cannot join our agency. I am truly sorry.”
“I am fired, am I not?”
“You were… never hired.”
“So… Please leave.” Unfortunately for Pro, I did not leave. I was in the middle of my case. A bomb had gone off inside the victim’s body, with an explosion that killed my partner and the rest of the building, might I add! No one word could describe the feel or distress I felt I encountered when that blood-cutling scream howled out in the distance as I ran from the police. It was a female. Her beauty outmatched all else as I witnessed the crime of muggery being committed. In an act of selfless compulsion, I smacked the mugger onto the ground, as not to let this woman’s purse be stolen. But suddenly, blackness came upon me and inundated me whole. The next moments were my awakenings back on the streets. They were deserted; not a soul’s trace anywhere on the rust-colored pavement, nor a vehicle. The black tar, dried, was both fresh and tasteful, but also empty. My next decision was to visit the woman whom I so unselfishly rescued, but first, I needed to report in with my commanding officer at the private eye headquarters.
But when I arrived, he, Professional Mau, informed me of my denial of employment, which caused me to anger myself and explain just what I was doing up to this point, by speaking of the mugging, the darkness, the reporting back to Pro, the angering, the telling of the story, the mugging, the darkness, the reporting, the angering, the telling, the mugging, the darkness, the reporting, the angering, the telling…
Grr. Rawr. Muauh.
“Seriously?” [Pro asked.] “Why are you acting like an animal?” [Pro was definitely confused.]
“Focus!” Grr. Ruff. Huhh. Ruff. mmmmmmmmm Bleah.
“Aww, come on. Fuck it, all over my shoes!” [Pro kicked him.]
RAWR. Rarrrrghh. Woof. Ribbit. Grrrrrr.
“I….I’m sorry… France?”
“Are you okay?”
Bark. Ruff. Mleh.
“Please stop this…”
“I’m gonna cry….” [He cried out.] “You have to stop this!”
ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff
What a wonderous night it was! Naught but the gleaming moonlight resides upon our bodies; a perfect representation of a perfect time spent between two perfect gentlemen. Oh, Pro…. Wow… I have never felt a greater connection to another man in a long, long time.
France Parris stood up and finished the mourning of his fallen comrade– his dead best friend– his former employer– his long-past pal– Professional Mau’s death was a travesty to me, and to France as well. We both knew tough, that it was investigatin’ time.
The first thing to do would be to analyze Pro’s body. Neither of us could find any gunshot wounds… even any obvious signs of poison. He thought it was suicide, but I told him there was no way; that it had to have been a murder. We took the body to be tested for alchhol and drugs. None.
“What about the autopsy?” France asked.
I didn’t respond.
I never responded.
You know why I never responded.
Ten. Eight. Six.
No anonymous sources tell me that it wasn’t until next week.
Nine. Seven. Five.
We take the body to ask if I can do it myself.
Tick Tick, I am considered a maniac.
Run. Time is running.
No, we take tick to run.
No, we take tick to run.
Run, to tick take we no.
No, to take take to no.
No. to take take to no.
What does that mean? What do you mean? What does mean mean?
My name is Professional Mau. I am a detective. Chris Rogers is a man. He was killed. I went to investigate. I met a man. His name was France Parris. He wanted to be a private detective. I asked him why. He didn’t respond. He never responded. You know why he never responded. No, it was because he was to take no take take to no. That is why. Why is that? No, to take take no take to, was he? Why he never responded, knew I? These are the questions I pondered as I entered the building.
No. Hmph. Now, I had not lived in any of the campaign targets, but in Scandanavia, which was far to the north of the war. I arrived back at home only to find the entire village engulfed in smoldering flames. That’s where things began…No, to I wasn’t alone, as misery loves company. It wasn’t nearly enough to combat an entire legion, but tried we did. Fordo commanded. Holy Rome would crush us! We took off with him.
A memory. While I was distracted, a flaming arrow flew past me, singing my hair. My first kill. Oh no… HEY! take take.
Once again, I let my feelings get ahold of me, and my fighting suffered, I picked up a sword from one of the miscreants and slowly to no decapitated a nearby archer. Waves more were shot out and showed the remaining bloodthirsty fighters, quenching them with a river and washing them down the drain.
Has anyone ever discussed the concept of the fourth wall? Why is it so odd a concept? You are beautiful. If the author wants to address zher audience directly, then let zhem. What an author should not do is step into the story to give a tract. Let the story itself give the message, not the author. This is what I am telling you. I have known you.
Professional Mau jumped down. Now he was surrounded, inundated, even, by several walls, each one more than the last. Naught but the moonlight gleamed upon these walls… these walls, these walls….
The wall. My wall. Our wall… our wall, our wall…
I finally realized the truth behind Chris Rogers’s death. Our wall did it, Pro. It was us. Chris never existed, but he also did. Inside all of us. Just as your beauty is inside of yourself, once again. Thank you.