After the Foul Murder of My Muse, Mid-story Last Week
by Greg Vanno
Copyright© 2025 by Greg Vanno
After the foul murder of my muse, mid-story last week
AKA I am not amused
Prolog: Honestly/Honest-like/Whatever (damned thesaurus) How I Think out Stories in Three Acts
After the foul murder of my muse, mid-story last week, I cobbled together an escape for the pretty love interest
but I left Blo Stalwart hanging by his fingertips over the alligators.
Whilst sprinkling blood on the waters.
I never liked that pompous ass, anyway.
Act 1: Apres la Guerre AKA Guerrillas in the Missed
Except, next morning, who is pounding on my door by dawn’s early light?
Right. How could I have forgotten B. Stalwart, Private Eye? That was a series, well received, if lightly promoted, and underpaid.
“Dammit, G.” -he always refers to me initially –”One dead muse looks much like another!
“You know, there is a plot device that the murdered woman – She is a She, Right? – was really a look-alike.
“What makes you, of all the poor slobs who can’t decide if they are a long winded epigramist or a short-story fiend who can’t parse a sentence, think that poor stiff in the alley was your muse?
“Did you, run to her, and lift her and sob into her dead eyes?
“Hug her, lift her and carry her? Stagger off to a hospital hoping against hope?
“Scream that primordial angst crap?
“Or was it you called for a body bag and a dumpster?”
I reached under the table for my spare back button but paused when the shiny pistol was thrust into my face.
“Hell, G., If I was your muse, I’d a died alone a long time ago...” Blo muttered/spat/grunted (damned thesaurus).
That chrome plated automatic pistol had always been just a prop,
always ready, an ever-present retribution,
never yet fired in anger but suddenly, today,
right now,
I was wishing I’d have armed Blo Stalwart with a worn-out revolver with a cylinder that keeps falling out past the broken linchpin or whatever,
a hail of cartridges raining down and bouncing off his shoes and all that.
yet...
Bang! Bang! Bang!
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