writer's glock

Chapter 1 - The Stand-Up Comedy Club for Psychopaths

First and foremost, I have never killed a man.

I've killed scum. But never a man.

I am not a killer. At heart, I am a writer. I've been writing stories since the age of 5.

My best received novel to date was the picture book I wrote for my Year 3 art teacher.

She showed it around to friends' parents and the teaching staff and that was the last time a critic had anything good to say about my work.

Berry from the Guardian said that I wouldn't know a good crime novel if it actually stabbed me in the throat.

Ouch. Stabbing in the throat must never be pleasant, that's why I always went for the heart, and that's why I never brandished a blade like Jack the Ripper, not only for my victim's sake but also for the sake of the police who I'd imagine are getting tired of knife crime by now.

I always used the Glock.

Gun crime's uncommon here. And I'm no gangsta rapper either, I don't use the term "Glock" lightly or in a lyrical context. It is my weapon. I take it as seriously as a writer would his novel. 

There are only three problems with using a gun. It's loud. It's hard to get. And if you miss, it looks awkward trying to fire it again.

Luckily, I've learnt how to aim. And the gun suppliers aren't as underground as you'd think. I haven't figured out the noise problem yet, but I usually opt for coughing really loudly.

I sit in the police interrogation room. The cops need to hurry themselves. The room is cold, the brick walls are dull, and the decor is drab. Two chairs on opposite sides of a redwood table. I've never been good at description which is why I write action. Who needs sensory imagery if I can just get to the point and start blowing up stuff? I face a two-way mirror, as I gaze upon my reflection.

I look nice. Slightly guilty. I shouldn't look guilty. I am not a guilty man.

I'm certainly dressed guilty. A jet black trench coat that bleeds into the night, a flat cap, and grey cargo trousers. A face-mask and sunglasses like a COVID victim who knows how to party. Hell, if I saw myself I'd think I was a serial killer.

The Glock slips out of my hand into my pocket, I grip it tight as it submerges in a pool of palm sweat. 

I understand why criminals go insane in prison. No writing utensils? I'm alright with solitude, but being deprived of creation is equivalent to Chinese water torture.

How did I get here? Could these handcuffs be anymore tighter? Maybe I should go back to writing picture books about Lucky the Dog. There's a good serial novel in that. 

Entering like the precocious Lucky the Dog inspecting the grounds for a bone after it was thrown at him, Inspector Yamashita starts to browse the nothingness of the room averting eye contact and finally landing in the swivel chair opposite me. He spins around mysteriously for a bit, and then looks at me dead in the eye as if I've killed his son or something.

I have killed his son. If I'd knew it was his son, I wouldn't have shot him but I don't believe his life was more valuable then the average serial killer victim. All lives have the same value. Which is nothing.

Grief spreads around his eyes like an infection, you could tell by his pulsating veins that directionless anger consumed him but he tried his best to conceal it under an invisibility cloak of morbid seriousness. 

His act doesn't work on me. I've written enough detectives to know that they never win in the end.

"So, you're a writer?" He bellows, trying not to skip the middleman and go for the throat.

"Novelist."

"What's the difference?"

"One writes stories, and the other kills people."

I snort at my little quip but if you learn one thing about being an outlaw it's that the police interrogation room couldn't be more different than the stand-up comedy club for psychopaths.

"How does it feel to take an innocent life away from someone and then have the audacity to joke about it to the man grieving it?"

Not funny anymore. The hum of the A.C. system blankets over the palpable tension between us. 

"Inspector," I try to collect my thoughts, "I never intended for any of this to happen."

"But you did. You always wanted to taste evil, but you were too much of a coward to commit to it. Not sociable enough to be a psychopath. Not smart enough to be a sociopath. You're a pathetic excuse for a killer, and a pathetic excuse for a crime novelist!"

He sheds a tear. The effects of my killer writing are staring back at me. It's the first time I've ever felt someone else's pain, for an empath could never kill: it would be like slowly killing yourself and being alive to experience all of it. This sympathy flickers for a second and then disappears. Would it have been better if I killed someone else's son, why does he take it like a personal attack? It could've been anyone.

"I'm sorry."

"WHAT?"

"I'm sorry that you feel that way."

"Can I get any bloody dignity?? MY SON IS DEAD!"

He stood up but I didn't think to move out of my seat. No point trying to establish power over him, I was getting life anyway. Inspector Yamashita had the same puppy dog eyes as Lucky, and he wailed in pain like him too. I'm not a killer, but I feel like one. 

I looked at my hands for the first time in months, I washed my hands every time I took a victim even though they usually never got messy. The palm lines that could never tell me which direction my life was to traverse. The fingers I wrote with. My index finger. I wiggled my hands about aimlessly but then I noticed my trigger finger was physically incapable of moving.

I'd finally worn it out.