Shownotes Transcript
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The keys were dull and yellowed by age. Most of the letters and numbers had been rubbed off at some point in time.
The body looked clean, but when Brian leaned in to get a closer look, a faint whiff of rust reached his nose. Yet, despite the obvious flaws, Brian had to have the typewriter. "How much?" Brian asked, the young punk seated in a ready-to-collapse-at-any-second wicker chair next to a TV tray with a cash box on it. "How much is what?" the young punk asked. He didn't even bother to look up from his phone.
Brian stood there and waited for the young punk to put his phone away before answering. It was a long wait. Finally, the young punk glanced up, a seriously bored look on his face. "What do you want?" the young punk asked. He started to go back to his phone, but Brian placed a hand on the screen. "Hey, what the fuck man?" The young punk yanked his phone away and tried to stand up.
but the ready to collapse at any second wicker chair kept shifting and warping, making it impossible for the young punk to stand. He gave up and settled back instead, pretending that was what he wanted to do the entire time. "The typewriter?" Brian asked. "How much?" "Does it work?" the young punk asked. "It doesn't have the ribbon," Brian replied. The young punk blinked at him. "It needs a ribbon for the keys to stamp. That's how letters end up on the paper."
The young punk continued to stare. "The ribbon is the ink," Brian said. "Yeah, I know that." The young punk snapped at Brian. "So does it work or not?" "I don't know," Brian said, getting frustrated with the kid. That wasn't good. Frustration led to anger. The young punk couldn't be older than his mid-twenties. Brian was twice his age plus a little more. He could have been his father. Not that he wanted a brat like that as his son. Kids were a burden.
They sucked the life right out of you." The young punk licked his lips, glanced over at the typewriter, then looked back to Brian. "Maybe it works great," the young punk said. "200. What? Are you nuts?" Brian nearly shouted. A few of the other folks perusing the yard sale turned their heads but quickly went back to what they were studying before Brian's outburst. Brian gave the yard an apologetic smile and even received a few smiles of sympathy in return.
The young punk hadn't exactly been making friends that morning. It's a collection item, the young punk said to Brian and went back to his phone. You mean collector's item, Brian said, his face turning red. The young punk shrugged. $2.50 then if it's a collector's item, the young punk said. No, you said it was a collection item, but the phrase is a collector's item, Brian said. I'm not saying this is a collector's item, the young punk shrugged.
Brian could feel his anger building and knew that if he didn't back off, he'd be in trouble. It took the third failed marriage before Brian Lee finally admitted he had anger management problems. It took a road rage incident and court mandated therapy before he was forced to actually do anything about those problems. Brian took a deep breath. What I'm saying is that I don't know if it's a collector's item or not, Brian said. I just like it.
"But 200 is two." "250." The young punk interrupted. Brian clenched his fists and counted to 10, then to 20, then back down to zero, then back to 10. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. The young punk looked up. "You having a stroke or something, old man?" The young punk asked. "You need 911?" Brian let the old man remark go. He was bald with a paunch and his beard had been more white than red for a few years.
"I'll give you 50," Brian said, and fished two 20s and a 10 out of his pocket. The young punk looked at the cash and laughed. "Venmo only," the young punk said. "You won't take cash?" Brian asked. "Who doesn't take cash?" The young punk pointed at himself. "And it's 250." "Then what the hell is the cash box for?" Brian asked. "It's for sale, 10 bucks," the young punk said.
Brian took a look around the front yard which was filled with brown dirt and dead grass instead of the nice manicured lawn that had been there for years. Brian had lived in the neighborhood for more than two decades. He'd suffered through his three marriages in a bungalow just around the corner. So he'd watched the yard go from respectable to sad ever since the husband of the house had passed. Brian had heard that the widow had died also.
He had swung by to see if anyone was at the house and if there was going to be a service he could attend. Instead, Brian found a punk kid sitting in a ready-to-collapse wicker chair in most of the house's contents set randomly around the front yard. A handmade sign declaring "Yard Sale" was duct taped to an ancient console television set by the sidewalk. "You aren't selling anything because you're only taking Venmo," Brian said. "You'd sell more if you took cash."
"It's all going to the dump tomorrow, so what do I care?" The young punk replied. "Two fifty, old man. Fenmo or fuck off." "Was this your grandparents' place?" Brian asked. "Not no more," the young punk replied. He sighed. "Jesus Christ, do you want the typewriter or not?" "For fifty, yeah," Brian said. "Cash." The young punk snorted and smirked and kept his attention on his phone. He lazily lifted his left hand and made a shooting gesture at Brian.
"Go away, old man," the young punk said. "I don't need your shit. Someone else will buy it. Like you said, it's a collector's item." It took every ounce of Brian's will not to slug the little punk-ass bitch in the face, but that would probably put him right in jail, considering his court-mandated anger therapy.
So, instead, Brian threw the fifty bucks in the punk's face, turned, picked up the typewriter, and walked off. "Hey!" the young punk shouted. "You can't take that!" "I bought it!" Brian yelled over his shoulder, never pausing. He heard a few of the browsers snicker. No one tried to stop him, except for the young punk. The sound of wicker breaking reached Brian's ears, but he didn't slow down.
Footsteps chased after him, and the young punk appeared a foot in front of him, his hand out, his chest heaving from the exertion. "I'll call the fucking cops!" the young punk gasped. Brian wondered just how long the punk had been sitting in that chair. By the look of him, it had been years. "I'll do it," the punk said and held up his phone. He'd already keyed in 911. "You may want to have them call an ambulance too," Brian said. "You look like you might have a heart attack."
The punk reached for the typewriter, then drew his hand back quickly. He clutched it to his chest and took a couple of steps away from Brian. What the fuck? The young punk said when he pulled his hand from his chest and examined it. Drops of blood had formed at the tips of three of his fingers. Fucking thing cut me! It's old, Brian said. Things were sharper back then. Fuck that, the young punk said. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and winced.
With his fingers still in his mouth, he mumbled, "Get the fuck outta here!" There were more snickers from the browsers, and the young punk's eyes shot to the yard sale. He pulled his fingers from his mouth. "You know what? All y'all can get the fuck outta here too!" he shouted. The young punk stormed through the yard and into the small house, the door slamming behind him. Most of the browsers kept browsing. A few helped themselves to some of the smaller items.
Brian smirked, then started walking again, heading for his house just around the corner. Oh, it's such a clutch off-season pickup, Dave. I was worried we'd bring back the same team. I meant those blackout motorized shades. Blinds.com made it crazy affordable to replace our old blinds. Hard to install? No, it's easy. I installed these and then got some from my mom. She talked to a design consultant for free and scheduled a professional measure and install. Hall of Fame's son? They're the number one online retailer of custom window coverings in the world. Blinds.com!
Frustrated, Brian set his phone on the kitchen table and rubbed his forehead. He'd called eight different antique shops, and none of them had a source for old typewriter ribbon. They had typewriters of their own for sale, but no ribbon. One store owner said, people don't actually use typewriters for writing anymore. They are decorative now.
It took all of Brian's self-control not to bite the man's head off over the phone. Because Brian had every intention of using the typewriter to actually write. That's why he bought it. For most of his life, Brian had wanted to write. He wanted to tell stories, like in the old pulp magazines his dad had. He wanted to write potboilers and tales of damsels in distress and barbarians conquering fantastical lands.
He wanted spaceships and aliens. He wanted cowboys and the ghosts of butchered tribes. He wanted unspeakable horrors and tales of dread. And Brian felt that a computer, even the shitty PC laptop he owned, just couldn't bring the spirit he wanted to his ideas. He tried for decades to write that way, and nothing ever came of it.
He'd even tried a pen and pad, but with the same lack of results. A typewriter, he thought, would unleash the real writer in him and get him back to the inspiration and origins of his love of pulp fiction. But the fucking typewriter didn't have ribbon, and Brian couldn't find any anywhere. He'd even tried the internet, and that was less help than the local antiques dealers. He was told more than a few times that not only did they not have the ribbon he needed,
but that the model of typewriter he had didn't exist. He'd been laughed off the phone at least three times. The email responses were even worse. The internet could be cruel, and Brian was sick of it. Brian sat at his kitchen table, eyes on the useless pile of iron and steel, ready to scrap the whole thing. Except, deep in Brian's gut, he knew that the typewriter was the one.
The typewriter was the key to unlocking the genius that had been hiding in Brian for so long. Brian's phone rang, yanking him from his thoughts of defeat and yearning. He didn't recognize the number, so he let it go to voicemail. When the inevitable alert chirped and the icon appeared, Brian played the message. "Good evening, sir. This is John Dolan," the voice said.
The voicemail stopped, and Brian stared at his phone. That was weird. But Brian called the man back. It wasn't like he had many other options. Dolan said before Brian could say a word.
"You do? Great," Brian said. "The model is-" "Underwood Model 13," the man, Dolan, interrupted. "A very rare typewriter indeed." "Really? I guess you're gonna gouge me on the price, huh?" Brian said, almost snapping. There was silence on the other end. Brian took a deep breath.
"Sorry, it's been a tough search." "Oh, I get that," Dolan said with a chuckle. "I've been in the antique business for a very long time now. It can be very tough indeed." Brian rolled his eyes, and just the few hours he'd been interacting with them, Brian came to realize that antique dealers were a little quirky at best. "Okay, so when can I come pick up the ribbon?" Brian asked.
"I close soon, but we can arrange a meeting for this evening," Dolan said. "After hours." Alarm bells went off instantly in Brian's head. "After hours? I just want some ribbon for this old typewriter. I don't want to sell state secrets or anything. What are your normal business hours?" A story idea exploded in Brian's brain, and he wished desperately that he could type it out that very second.
He knew the keys would bring to life the spies and intrigue that had suddenly flooded his imagination. "With an item like this, I prefer after hours, sir," Dolan said. Brian hesitated. It sounded sketchy, but the story that had exploded into his head was already raging along. He knew character names, he knew the plot and even the plot twist. "Fine, sure, let's meet," Brian said. "When and where?"
"How soon can you be here?" Dolan asked. "Um, 30 minutes?" Brian replied. "Good, good," Dolan said. "I'll be closed by then, so just knock loudly on the back door. I'll let you in and you can get your ribbon." "Great, I'll see you in," Brian started to say. "Bring the typewriter," Dolan said then hung up. Brian stared at his phone for a second. Dolan hadn't told him which antique shop it was.
He'd reached out to so many that it wasn't obvious to Brian which shop Dolan was calling from. So Brian searched the internet once more. "Dolan's Curios and Hard Defines," read the Google listing. No website, only an address, phone number, and three two-star reviews. One of the reviews said that the shopkeeper was a crazy old coot and to stay away. Another said that the items for sale all looked like someone had pulled them from crime scenes.
The third review said that the prices for the items were suspiciously low. The reviewer suspected counterfeit and fake merchandise. Brian closed his computer and took a long look at the typewriter. Was it worth it? The spy story that was almost fully formed in his brain told him it was. Brian grabbed up the typewriter and left his house. Dolan answered Brian's knock instantly like the old man had been standing on the other side, waiting ever since the phone call.
His age was hard to distinguish, especially in the gloomy light of the alleyway behind the shop. "I'm Brian, the guy you called earlier, and you're Mr. Dolan?" "Yes," Dolan said. "Please, come in." Dolan hurried Brian inside. He closed and locked the back door.
"This way," Dolan said, and led Brian through a maze of grandfather clocks and stacked chairs until they reached a space in the back room's corner that was set up like an office. A desk, a couple of chairs, and several dented, rusty filing cabinets filled the corner space. Dolan plopped down in the chair behind the desk and gestured at Brian to sit in one of the other chairs. Brian sat and set the typewriter on the desk's surface.
Dolan studied the typewriter slowly, carefully, then locked eyes with Brian and smiled. The smile held zero warmth, and Brian began to wonder if he'd made a huge mistake. But that spy story was so real in his head, all he needed to do was get it out. "The Underwood Number 13," Dolan said, but it sounded more like he was talking to himself, so Brian didn't respond. Dolan smiled at Brian,
He seemed to be waiting for something. "Yep, an Underwood number 13," Brian said, breaking the awkward silence. He turned the typewriter around so Dolan could see the model name and number stamped into the back of the cast iron housing. "I can't find a serial number though," Brian laughed. "A few people told me that this model doesn't exist." "It doesn't," Dolan said. "Officially." He waved at the typewriter.
But it's not imaginary. We both can see it sitting right there. Then Dolan opened a desk drawer and pulled out a beat-up tin canister. The canister was about an inch and a half high by four inches in diameter. He set it on the desk and gave Brian a slight nod. There you go, Dolan said. An ink ribbon that will fit this machine perfectly. Okay, great, Brian said, his skepticism building. How much? I only brought...
Take it, Dolan said. Brian narrowed his eyes and studied the old man carefully. Dolan was in his late 70s, maybe. His skin was parchment thin and just as pale. The man looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep since forever. A walking cadaver, his dad would have said. What do you mean, take it? Brian asked. It's yours, no charge, Dolan said. Consider it a courtesy between storytellers.
"Storytellers?" Brian asked and shook his head. "What does that mean?" Dolan stretched his arms out. "Every item has a story. So does every person." He set his arms on the desk and leaned forward. "You just have to be willing to bleed for it. Are you willing to bleed for your stories, Brian?" Brian laughed. Dolan did not. "Is this a joke?" Brian asked. "Far from it," Dolan said. He smiled and leaned back.
He nodded his chin at the canister. "Take it, please. If for anything, as an apology for making you feel uncomfortable." Brian hesitated, but the story in him raged and fought to be free. "Yeah, sure, fine, cool, no problem," Brian said. He reached out to take the canister. Dolan's hand slapped over his, grabbing on tight and squeezing until Brian winced. "Hey, no returns," Dolan said and squeezed harder.
Brian yanked his hand free, taking the canister with it. "What does that mean?" Brian asked. "You're giving it to me for free, so why would I return it?" "Do you agree?" Dolan asked. "Do you? Will you take this ribbon as yours and never return it to my shop?" Brian held the canister in his hands and felt something he hadn't felt in years. "Hope." He nodded his head. "Say it." Dolan said.
"Yeah, I promised to take this ribbon and never return it to the shop," Brian said. "We cool?" Dolan sighed heavily, and his entire body settled into the chair as if he was the most satisfied person in the world. "Yes, we are cool," Dolan said.
"Great!" Brian said and stood up. He leaned over the desk and studied the body. "It goes right here. Let's see how it works." "No, Brian," Dolan said as Brian started to open the canister. Brian's hands froze mid-twist. "Take that home. You can see if it works there, but not here. Right."
But if the ribbon isn't any good, then I don't want it, Brian said. Too late, Dolan replied. You already promised. The ribbon is yours. Now leave, please, and do not come back. Hey, listen, I'm not trying to be difficult or... Brian started. Please leave, Dolan said much more forcefully. Now! Brian's anger began to build, and he took a deep breath. Who the hell did the guy think he was? But something in the way the man looked at Brian told him to back off.
And fast. After counting to ten, Brian picked up the typewriter and shook his head. "Well, Mr. Dolan, it's been weird," he said, then turned and left. When he reached the back door, he was about to call for Dolan to come and unlock it. But he could see by the deadbolt's position that the door was already unlocked. Brian shifted the weight of the typewriter to his hip and opened the back door.
He took one last look in Dolan's direction, but the man was hidden by the maze of old and broken junk. As Brian left, he swore he heard faint laughing coming from the corner of the back room. Brian had a room set aside as a small office in his bungalow. The room had been one of the many sources of friction between him and his last wife. She wanted to use it as a craft room, or even as a mini solarium since it got so much light.
But Brian had insisted it was the space he needed for writing, even though he hadn't written anything in it since he'd bought the house with his first wife. She left him the house but took everything else. The sun had long set, so Brian turned on the small lamp after setting the typewriter down in the middle of the desk. He took a couple of steps back and admired the piece of machinery. It was solid and beautiful. They made things to last and look amazing back then.
The story burned to be written, so Brian didn't waste any time. He got himself some coffee, sat down at his desk, and opened the canister. The first thing that Brian noticed was the smell. Coppery and rancid. Not rotten per se, but close. Images of butcher shops and slaughterhouses filled his mind and he laughed. "Slow down now," he said to himself. "Let's write the first story before we lose any ideas." Brian had watched a YouTube video earlier.
so he knew how the process worked. In the canister was a thin metal wheel with typing ribbon spooled around it. Brian set the spool inside the typewriter and clicked it into position. He then threaded the ribbon carefully and slid the other end into a second spool that was already locked into place on the other side of the typewriter's interior. "Here we go," Brian said as he cracked his knuckles and started typing and typing and typing.
by the time Brian finished typing. The sun was coming up outside, and the birds were beginning to wake up. Brian blinked a few times. His head was fuzzy and his eyes were blurry. His coffee had run out hours before, but he never got up to refill his mug. He stared at the pages before him. 32 fully typed pages were neatly stacked next to the typewriter.
He had no recollection of taking pages out of the typewriter. He had no recollection of putting blank sheets in. The more he thought about it, he had no idea what he even wrote. But he was so tired that he could barely focus. So he stood up on numb and wobbly legs and staggered his way to his bedroom where he collapsed diagonally across his bed, fully clothed. He was asleep immediately and didn't move from his bed for the next 12 hours.
When Brian awoke, it was dark outside once more, and his stomach was growling. Brian slowly got up, took a quick shower, and walked into his kitchen with just a towel on. He turned the coffee pot back on, too tired to make a fresh batch, and waited for the old coffee to slowly heat up. While he waited, Brian searched his fridge for anything to eat, finding some old pizza,
Brian munched on that until the coffee was warm enough that he could dissolve some sugar in it. Then, with only his towel on, Brian made his way to his office, where the 32 pages waited for him. Brian set the coffee down, picked up the pages, and started to read. But he was instantly confused by what he saw. Not the words so much, although they seemed brand new to him even though he was the one that had written them. No, it was the color of the words that was the problem.
Instead of black ink, the words were in red, but he wasn't sure how. He set the pages aside and stood up, leaning over the typewriter so he could peer inside the body. Nope, the ink on the ribbon was black. The ribbon wasn't even half and half, as he had seen online where some ribbons had a top half that was black and the bottom half was red. The red ink was meant for corrections and editing if you engaged a specific shifter.
But Brian's typewriter didn't have that shifter, so even if the ribbon was half and half, he wouldn't have been able to use the red ink. Except all of the words he'd typed the night before were in red. There was no denying that. Brian was confused, to say the least. But his curiosity over what he'd written started to dominate his worry at how he'd written them. So Brian sat down, picked the pages back up, and began to read.
He went through those 32 pages over and over, and each time he read the story, he was more impressed at himself. It was a damn good story. It was more than damn good, actually. It was amazing. Before Brian could think of revising or editing a word of the story, a new idea struck him. He grabbed up a blank sheet of paper and fed it into the typewriter. Then he started writing again, and he didn't stop until the story was finished.
Again, the sun was already rising and the birds were chirping. 48 pages were stacked in a second pile next to the first one. Brian got up and staggered to his bedroom and was out as soon as he fell across his bed. For the next week, all Brian did was type, drink coffee, scrounge what little food he had in his fridge, and pass out across his bed. He'd stopped showering or even getting dressed. He only wore a pair of ratty boxers after day three.
In awe, Brian had written exactly 13 short stories, and he thought they were brilliant. He honestly did. He couldn't wait to write more and more. His dream had finally come true, and Brian was soon fantasizing about all the acceptance emails he'd get from publications wanting his stories. Then, on the eighth day of typing, Brian froze in mid-typing. He wasn't sure why he froze.
The story in him was alive and vivid, and he knew he could keep going for several more hours. Then he looked at the sheet of paper on the roller before him and cocked his head. It was blank, completely empty of words. Brian tapped the keys and nothing happened. Yes, they clacked and clicked, but no words appeared on the paper. He stood up and leaned over so he could see the ribbon. The spool on the left was empty, and the permanent spool was full.
"No!" Brian whispered. "No, no, no! It can't be empty already!" Then he looked at the many stacks of paper on his desk and realized it was true. Brian had used up all of the ribbon in one week. For a few seconds, Brian was stunned. The story that had been so vibrant in his imagination was suddenly gone. Only a dull buzzing at the back of his head existed. Brian knew that buzzing. He took several deep breaths, but they didn't make a difference.
The buzzing built and built until it consumed him. With a guttural roar, Brian punched the typewriter as hard as he could. Over and over and over he smashed his fist into the cast iron body until his knuckles split open and blood flew everywhere. The pain finally kicked in and overrode his rage. Brian stopped and clutched his hand to his chest. He looked down and winced. He'd mangled the hell out of his hand.
"Okay, okay, not good," Brian said, the buzzing still audible inside his head. He turned to leave the office, but a sound stopped him. The sound of the carriage return bell. Brian slowly turned around to see that every word he'd typed without ink was now there on the page. In red, of course. The buzzing in his head faded out, and the story he'd been writing came slamming back in.
Despite bleeding profusely from his shredded knuckles, Brian sat down and got back to work. He typed and he bled. He bled and he typed. Neither stopped for hours. When the ribbon ran out of ink for the fourth time, Brian was so weak he could barely read the fruits of his labor. He had produced dozens and dozens of short stories, all of them brilliant. He could hardly believe that the words on the pages were his. They were so damn good.
So damn good that Brian was certain he could take the next step and start on a novel. But there was one problem. Brian was weak, very weak. Even the occasional meals he ordered from DoorDash didn't seem to give him energy. And coffee had stopped working weeks before, which was right about the same time that his job had called to say that he was let go and didn't need to bother coming in. They'd have someone drop off his personal belongings.
Brian couldn't give two shits about his job. All he cared about was writing more stories. So he hung up before the HR person had even finished speaking. Then he'd gotten back to work, his real work. But that had all come to a halt when Brian couldn't bleed anymore, not without serious consequences. "Maybe those consequences are worth it," he thought, Dolan's words racing through his mind. "Maybe I can squeeze out just a little more." But he was too weak to try.
When the doorbell rang, Brian barely had the strength to stand and make his way to his front door to answer it. "Hey!" the DoorDash driver said, holding a large paper bag up and shoving it at Brian. "I was gonna leave it on the porch if it took much longer, man." Brian took the bag then paused. "What?" the driver asked, giving Brian a challenging look. Then the driver paused too. "I know you, right?"
You live around the corner, Brian said when he realized he was looking at the young punk who had sold him the typewriter. No, I don't, the young punk said. I live across town. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at Brian. You're the asshole that stole that typewriter from me.
"I paid you fifty bucks," Brian said and started to close the door. "Hold on, hold on," the young punk said, jamming his foot in the doorway, preventing Brian from closing the door all the way. "You owe me two hundred bucks. Move your foot," Brian said and tried to close the door again. "I don't think so, old man," the young punk said and shoved hard enough to knock Brian back. The bag of food fell from his grasp and tumbled to the floor. Thai food spilled everywhere,
Brian was so tired that he only stood there looking at the mess as the young punk turned and shut the front door. The sound of the door being locked and bolted is what finally got Brian's attention. "You know what I've learned?" the young punk said as he pulled a very large knife from out behind his back. He held the blade up for Brian to see. "I've learned that people who pay with cash have more cash." He flicked his wrist, and Brian felt pain explode across his cheek. His hand went there automatically and came away bloody.
The smell reminded Brian of words, which gave him an idea. "Don't hurt me," Brian said and held up his hands. "Please, I'll give you what I have and then you can leave, alright?" "Yeah, we'll see, old man," the young punk said. He gave a mock slash at Brian, making him cringe and fall back on his ass. The young punk laughed and laughed. "Where's the cash, asshole?" "Back there," Brian said. "In my office."
"Then get your ass up and let's go get it," the young punk said. "Move!" Brian got up and slowly walked to his office. The young punk was right behind him, the knife up and at the ready. "Where?" the young punk asked when they entered the office. Brian pointed at the desk. "Which drawer?" "The middle one," Brian said, and moved to the side of the door so he could lean against the wall.
He was so tired and needed to save his energy for what he knew needed to be done. The young punk rushed to the desk and yanked open the middle drawer. "There ain't shit in here!" The young punk shouted and whirled around, aiming the knife at Brian. But the young punk was too late. Grabbing a lamp from a side table, Brian pushed away from the wall and swung that lamp with all of his remaining strength. The young punk cried out just before glass and metal met his temple.
Then the cry was cut short as blood began to pour. The young punk wobbled on unsteady feet, turned around, and fell across Brian's desk. The ring of the carriage return bell rang out as the young man's head collided with the body of the typewriter. Brian stumbled to the desk, grabbed the young punk by the back of the head, lifted, then slammed the young punk's face into the typewriter over and over and over.
Brian's breath came hard and shallow and spots swam before his eyes. He took a couple of steps away from the desk, away from the body, away from the typewriter. The bell rang once more right as Brian passed out and collapsed to his office floor. When he came to, it was daytime and all that was left of the young punk was a dried out husk of a body, inside baggy jeans and a stained t-shirt.
Brian gulped, stood up, glanced around his office, then moved in close to the body. From what Brian could see, the young punk didn't have a drop of blood left in him. Brian understood the feeling. He waited until dark, then took the body out into his backyard and buried it. Then he moved the young punk's car around the corner where he parked it in front of the kid's grandparents' house. With both of those tasks done, Brian walked home, careful to stay in the shadows.
The second he stepped inside his house, Brian got back to work. He suddenly had a novel to write. The doorbell rang, but when Brian answered it, he was surprised to see two police officers standing on his porch instead of the expected door dash. "Hello, officers," Brian said. "Is everything all right?" "Good evening, sir," one of them said. "We're hoping you may be able to help us. Can we come inside?"
Brian hesitated, but then nodded and moved to the right so the officers could get by. "Of course. Come in. What is this about?" The officers stepped past Brian. One studied the living room while the other kept an eye on Brian. The one watching Brian said, "Unfortunately, there have been a few disappearances lately and we thought you might be able to help." "Disappearances?" Brian asked. "Delivery drivers," the officer said.
"Do you use food delivery services, Mr…?" "Sometimes," Brian said without giving his last name. "What's back here?" the other officer asked, done looking about the living room. "Oh, just my bedroom," Brian said. "And my office. I'm a writer." "A writer?" the officer asked. "What do you write? Anything I'd know?" "Nothing published yet," Brian said. "But I'll be submitting to publishers soon."
I can show you what I've been writing if you'd like to see. I really don't know anything about missing delivery drivers, so I'm probably not going to be much help on that." "Understood," the first officer said. "Why don't you take me back there, sir? We can have a look at this writing of yours, while my partner here takes a look about your house, if that's alright?" "Not a problem," Brian said. He wasn't sure why he was being so helpful. He needed them to leave so he could get back to writing.
But his mind was suddenly blank. What he'd been in the middle of writing was gone. But Brian figured he knew how to fix that. "Follow me," Brian said to the officer. "I'll show you my office. And this wonderful old typewriter I found at a yard sale. It's a hungry little sucker. What's that?" the officer asked. "Oh, nothing," Brian said. He showed the officer to his office, a huge grin on his face.
"You know, I've always wanted to write a police procedural." He closed the door. "Hey!" The officer protested, but it was too late. When his partner came looking for him, Brian gladly welcomed him into the office too. He could use all the inspiration he could get. Eleven missing delivery drivers and two missing police officers was a little hard for Brian to keep under wraps for long.
When the authorities finally raided his house the next day, they found Brian at his desk, typing away. It took four full-grown men to pull him away from the typewriter. He screamed and cried and fought as they dragged him from his office and out into his living room where two detectives waited for him. Brian was tossed onto his couch and held there by two officers, while the detectives tried to ask Brian about the missing people.
Brian raged and spit and yelled at the detectives until they finally gave up. "Take him away!" one said. As the officers dragged Brian out of his house and threw him into a waiting cruiser, the detectives made their way back to Brian's office. They found 13 manuscripts neatly stacked and typed in red. Next to those were dozens of short stories. "Oh shit!" one of the detectives said as he picked up one of the manuscripts with gloved hands.
"This is pretty good." "That isn't," the other detective said from the office window that looked out into Brian's backyard. "It doesn't matter how dark it is out there. Those are graves." The detective set the manuscript down and joined his partner. "How many does it look like?" he asked. "I count 13. Better call for more people," he said. "This is gonna take a while." Brian finally got what he'd dreamed of when the first of his novels was published.
His lawyer made sure the manuscripts were submitted to publishers, not to please Brian, but to pay for the legal costs that quickly mounted up over the months and months of Brian's trial. Due to the notoriety surrounding Brian, a bidding war ensued, and Brian's lawyer got top dollar for everything. What Brian did get were 13 consecutive life sentences. "You wrote that?" his cellmate asked him as Brian held the novel in his hands.
His lawyer had gotten it cleared to give him a copy as long as it went into the general population library when Brian was done with it. "Yes," Brian said. "With some help." "What the fuck does that mean?" his cellmate asked. "It means writing is hard work," Brian replied. "Very hard work." "Whatever," the cellmate said. "I could never do that." "Of course you can," Brian said, a new story suddenly entering his mind.
Everyone has a novel inside them. You just have to know how to get it out." Brian smiled at his cellmate, then raised the hardback book high into the air. "Here, let me show you." He said as he brought the book down onto his cellmate's head, over and over. Brian was ready to get back to work, but he knew he didn't need the typewriter anymore. After all, it had already shown him there was no secret to great writing.
Brian dipped his finger in his cellmate's bloody brains and began to write on the walls. See, he said, everyone has a novel in them. You just had to be willing to bleed for it.
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