Mike gets a call about his new work, the detective, being late for first draft. He later comes across his ex on the street, which sends him into an alcohol fueled writing session. He leans back on his chair, falls and wakes up in his own story. He is stuck with no way out with his ex and her new guy. Quickly he realizes that the only way out is to play along and leave the plot as untouched as possible.
A couple of drinks and a gorgeous femme fatale, Marilyn, later, this solution has flown out of the window. After the two murders Mike knew about, there are more and more dead bodies piling on the already big stack, and Mike stumbles through the story accidentally gathering more and more information about his story he never even knew about.
The mystery surrounding who the murderer is never stops right until the end. Mike didn't finish his novel, so he doesn't know who the murderer is. All of this leads to the conclusion, one he would have never realized if it wasn't for his participation in the story.
Mike gets a call about his new work, the detective, being late for first draft. He later comes across his ex on the street, which sends him into an alcohol fueled writing session. He leans back on his chair, falls and wakes up in his own story. He is stuck with no way out with his ex and her new guy. Quickly he realizes that the only way out is to play along and leave the plot as untouched as possible.
A couple of drinks and a gorgeous femme fatale, Marilyn, later, this solution has flown out of the window. After the two murders Mike knew about, there are more and more dead bodies piling on the already big stack, and Mike stumbles through the story accidentally gathering more and more information about his story he never even knew about.
The mystery surrounding who the murderer is never stops right until the end. Mike didn't finish his novel, so he doesn't know who the murderer is. All of this leads to the conclusion, one he would have never realized if it wasn't for his participation in the story.
âI wrote,â I said. âSwear to god, I just finished writing.â
âReally?â The guy said sarcastically. âAnd how far along are you?â
âFar enough,â I replied.Â
âMike, if you donât meet quota, youâ,â he scoffed. âI canât do shit if you donât finish in time even if I wanted to.â I leaned my head against the wall behind me. I knew he couldnât.
âI know,â I said.Â
âAnd I know you havenât been feeling this one, but you canât give up on it like you did the last few ideas. Time is money and youâre wasting theirsâ ours, I mean.â
âItâs just a subjectively bad story.â
âBrother, objectively. Youâre the object. Itâs not bad. Come on man,â the guy replied. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.Â
âMichael,â he went on.Â
âDonât call me that.â
âDonât call your work bad.â
âTell them Iâll have it done, nothing to worry about.â I looked at the ceiling, at my red lamp. A souvenir from Jessica.
âMike, I love you, I really do, but youâre the only thing I worry about.â I put the phone on speaker and flipped mindlessly trough a photography magazine.Â
âQuite a boring life, then,â I said, stopping to look at a picture of a woman dancing in a red dress. Flamingo? Flamenco? Flaming hot.Â
I could almost taste the hopeless moment of silence the guy at the other side of the phone brought into the room. I sighed and threw down the magazine.Â
âIâll pull something out of my ass.â
âYou better pull quick.â
âYeah, yeah. Youâve got my word. Say hi to them from me.â
âYour word doesnât mean anything to them, if you donât deliver at least a first draft of the full story theyâll fire you, man,â the guy said.Â
âI know, and I will.â It was silent for a few seconds.
âHow are you, anyway?â He asked.Â
âIâm alright,â I said.Â
âThatâs good, thatâs good.â I nodded though I knew no one could see.Â
âYou think you can deliver the first draft by next week?â He asked. Fuck no.
âYeah, sure. Itâs basically done, I just need to add an end to it.â
âAs long as itâs just an end, not a middle and a start too.â The beeping of my phone signaled the conversation was over.Â
My publishers office was a bit of a pain in the ass lately. Nothing new, they told me to work and I didnât. I used to pump out books like a gold-shitting donkey when I first started working with them, most of them getting successful right away. I was over a decade younger then, I donât have the same inspiration anymore.Â
You know how it goes, I set a standard back then and I canât reach it anymore. Donât have the same inspiration or motivation. When donkeys get nothing to eat, can you really expect them to be pushing out logs of gold every day? No, they fucking die.Â
I canât find an ending because the story doesnât make any fucking sense. I started without a plot, didnât even know the killer. Still donât. I started really stretching the scenes out really quickly just to fill the page count. I wasnât lying about having a beginning and a middle part, it was right there in front of me, in the opened document on my laptop. The letters on it mocked me, the last date of edit over three weeks ago. I slammed it shut and threw it besides the magazine on the small table. I wonât lie, I hadnât read it for a few weeks.Â
I swung my legs on the desk and stared out of the window in front of it. I just sat there, not doing anything. Paralyzed, almost frozen. I didnât want to keep writing. It felt like Iâd just hit a dead end, pun intended. It being a murder mystery and all, if you catch my train of thought. This shit always happened when I tried to make money off of things. It would just feel useless and I almost always lost interest real quick. I wasnât against making money, because I was doing that for a while already. My brain just didnât want to keep doing that shit. It didnât find it fun anymore.
My head fell to the right, neck muscles just not bothering anymore. I stared out into the night. Didnât see a single star, it seemed semi light out even when it was night around here. Light pollution.
I put up a middle finger to my laptop and plopped down on my couch. My cat brushed against the doorpost and walked into the room.Â
âSo youâre still alive,â I said. The cat let out a meow of acknowledgement.Â
âAs you can see, so am I,â I continued. âYouâll have food for yet another day.â The cat walked up to me and started brushing against my leg.Â
âNot now though, wanker, itâs the middle of the night. Are you crazy?â The cat started purring. Power move, he learned I couldnât resist if he did that shit.
âHustler. Fine, come on. Letâs get you a midnight snack,â I said and stood up.Â
I closed my eyes for a second against the lightheadedness and started walking, relying fully on my other senses. My hands, mainly. My vision quickly came back, luckily. There mightâve been no stars outside but I had some in my eye sockets every time I stood up.Â
âYou feel like meat or nah?â I asked the tiny beast. I shuffled towards the kitchen and opened up some cabinets. The cat meowed loudly and did a little jump to show his clear anticipation.Â
âCalm down dude, donât be too eager.â I took the box of cat food out of the cabinet and shook it. No sound. I frowned like an idiot and looked inside it. No food.Â
âGuess I was wrong. Iâm alive but you get no food.â I sighed loudly and the cat seemed to sigh a just as dramatic sigh. Metaphorically, all he did was meow very angrily.Â
âDude, itâs fate. The universe doesnât want you getting fat. Take that sign. Iâll get food tomorrow.â I threw the empty box in the direction of the trashcan. I missed, but the cat jumped straight to it.
âThereâs no â never mind, good luck.âÂ
I sat my ass back on the couch and put on the tv. I didnât even like tv, I just put it on for the sound. Like a background sound for my thoughts. Or lack thereof. The red bottle of vodka on the ground next to me caught my attention. It matched my red lamp. I tilted my head and kept my gaze on it. It was half empty already, didnât remember how it got like that. I could guess, though. Probably drank it. Wouldnât have been the cat, heâd be dead.Â
âDo you feel like life has slowed down?â A voice on the tv said. My gaze got sucked to the ad.
âBlow new life into your sex life with OtherLove dot com. Consensual adventure!â
âConsensual cheating,â I mumbled. I grabbed the bottle of vodka and put it to my mouth. I hesitated, but that moment passed almost immediately. The burn ran down my throat and into my stomach. I barely even felt it anymore, it was like when youâre lactose intolerant but keep eating cheese, youâll eventually get used to the pain.Â
It was a bottle with a handle, I tried balancing the handle on two fingers. It felt pretty fucking pointless. Not it, to be fair. I. I didnât feel like I did anything anymore. I was just there. I was moving but I wasnât making any movements forward. Not even backwards, though the writers block wasnât something I was happy with.Â
I chugged another double-shot worth of vodka. I heard my cat still attacking the food box. Wasnât any use as far as I could hear, but respect for the effort. Without much effort I put my head on the couch and closed my eyes. I could barely feel a buzz coming in. I took another sip of the vodka and with a limp arm let it rest beside me on the couch.Â
Out of breath I woke up and tried sitting up. The cat fell off of my face into my lap and put his claws in me.Â
âFuck!â I yelled, sprung up and instinctively grabbed my legs, dropping something on the ground that used to be in my hand. Glass shattered and spread across the entire floor. The cat jumped back up on the couch and hissed.Â
âMotherfucker,â I let out and rubbed my legs. âPiece of shit, fuck.â I turned around to the cat.
âDidnât mean that. God damn does it hurt though.â Only a little bit of blood came from the scratches the cat made. I sighed and looked at the pieces of glass. It was impressive how much small pieces came from just one bottle. The floor was filled with tiny red shards. No alcohol, I probably drank it all. The light from the window reflected in the pieces of glass, making the entire room shimmer red. A bit like a slasher or some shit. Looked like blood was dripping from the walls.Â
I stood there for a couple of minutes, procrastinating the cleanup. My cat yelled at me, which was fair. I would yell if I almost got killed by a bottle. I yelled when he put his nails in me, so I got it.Â
âWhy the fuck were you on my face dude?â
My feet brushed the sidewalk as I walked past prospect park. I didn't usually walk to the store. To be honest, I didn't go there that much at all. I usually just ordered online. Figured I might as well today, it was early and I felt weirdly motivated. Mightâve been the alcohol still in my system, but it was a while since I felt any at all. Was cheaper than ordering online too. Online service is a blessing and a curse all in one. Hadnât talked to someone in person for a long, long time, aside from delivery boys. Most people I talked to was over the phone or via face calls. The last one I saw mightâve been my ex when I dropped her shit off at her place. Was a couple months ago. Jesus, Iâd become a hermit. Â
The leaves on the sidewalk stuck to my shoes. There weren't that many people around, which wasn't surprising for the time of day. The store had probably barely opened, the sun was barely up. It was the first time in a while that I was awake at this time. Hadnât seen the sun come up in even longer than when I saw my ex. The sunrise was nice, but it was cold. I hated fall. Couldnât wait until spring started. Lost in thought I walked on, almost hypnotized by the cars that passed by.Â
âWatch where youâre going, mate,â I heard and looked up. I almost walked into this dude with his girlfriend. His coat was one of those wool ones that are so unnecessarily long they reach your knees. Big coat to make up for something else. His girl had blond hair, it was dancing in the wind. It was put up in a ponytail, a high one. My head jerked as I looked back at them.Â
âJessica!â I said, more out of surprise than anything else. Fucking hell, the last thing I wanted was to talk to her. Why the hell did I do that? I turned back around as quick as I could, hoping she didnât hear. To my horror I heard her turn around, two coats rustling against each other. I kept walking. I wasnât in the mood for whatever the fuck they had going on.Â
âMike!â I heard. Footsteps came running after me. I felt a soft hand grab my arm, stopping me from walking away. It didnât work, I kept walking.
âIs that you?â
I turned to her, faking a smile. Didnât stop walking, hoping she would get the hint. She didnât.
âHey, howâve you been?â She asked.Â
âAs you would expect,â I said. Jason caught up to us, looking just as happy as I did.Â
âMichael,â he said with a short nod, then turned to Jess. âWe need to go, honey. We canât be late.â He put his hand on her shoulder and nodded his head towards wherever they were going.Â
âIâm sure they can wait one minute,â she said. I didnât hate them, I just strongly disliked them. Especially Jason, heâs the kinda guy that gets everything handed to him.Â
âYes, they could, but why would we let them?â he said.
âSounds important, think you shouldnât let them wait,â I said. I dodged Jessicaâs gaze, instead stared at the reflective windows of a building on the other side of the street. Her blue eyes pierced my soul even though I didnât look directly at them.Â
âHow is your book coming along?â she asked, like she didnât hear either of us. I couldnât tell if she was genuinely curious or mocking me. She probably knew I hit a writerâs block by lack of, frankly, her.Â
I stopped walking, causing Jason to walk into me. He sent me a pissed look. I couldnât care less.
âItâs alright,â I just said. I didnât feel like talking to her, especially about my book.
âLet me know when itâs done,â Jess continued. Definitely mocking me.Â
âSure,â I replied sarcastically.
âIâm sure your life is exhilarating and I would love to stay and chat, mate, but weâve got somewhere to be,â Jason said and gently guided Jessica in the direction they were first going.Â
âHowâs life with a tiny dick?â I asked Jason, after which I turned away and started walking away from both them and wherever it was they were going.Â
âSeems to me like itâs preferred over yours,â Jason said. I heard them walking away. Fucking asshole.
I donât know when I came home. I just came in, poured the cat a bowl of food and now sat on the couch with another bottle of vodka. It was half empty. Or full, depending on how you look at it. Drunk no matter which. I wasnât sobered up from last night, but at least I wouldnât be hungover today. Canât be when youâre constantly drunk. Fucking pathetic.
The bottle felt cold in my hand, the rounding of the glass uneven. I couldnât see it that well. Maybe because my room was dark, maybe because I was half a bottle of vodka away from a night in the hospital with a pump in my stomach. I took another sip. Glad I mixed vodka with vodka though, couldâve been worse if I mixed it with another type of alcohol.Â
I noticed my laptop as I put the bottle of vodka beside me on the floor. I stared at it for a good five minutes, trying to focus my blurry vision.
âYouâre a bitch,â I then told it. I stood up, turned the TV on and grabbed the bottle of vodka.Â
âYou want one?â I asked my cat who walked into the room. I scoffed and shook my head. I continued in my silly cat voice, the one I only use on my cat when no oneâs around.Â
âYou donât even know what work is, do you? You donât have to work for your food.â
The cap of the vodka bottle disappeared into the trash and I grabbed my laptop. As I walked to the dinner table I chugged over a shotâs worth of alcohol.Â
âAnd the worst thing is that Iâm jealous,â I said to the cat. I put the laptop down on the table and stared at it again, like itâd start throwing words at me, telling me what the hell to write. I sat down on the chair and looked back at the cat, now licking himself.
âI want to just get food without working for it.â I chugged another shot of vodka that tasted like nothing.Â
âAnd lick my ass in public.â
Â
Slowly I started scrolling up, seeing the chapters fly by faster every time I scrolled. The brightness of the screen was rough in contrast with the darkness from outside. Probably night. Another sip.Â
This story sucked. I still didnât know who killed the old rich guy even though I was the one writing. I couldnât decide between the long lost relative and the rich asshole. Imagine if the rich asshole did it, heâd be sent to die in jail. Thatâd be a happy ending for everyone.Â
That asshole took my girl, he showed up to her tours in the museum and theyâd fuck in front of mona Lisa or Leo DaVinci or whoever. That son of a bitch explored her hidden tomb.Â
I took another sip as the words rolled down the screen. Jessica was even worse, she was the one in a relationship, the one who actually did the cheating. God, Jessica. A half-cry left my throat, but right after, an embarrassed cough came out to restore the shrivel that was still left of my dignity. I met her at a party. I was just as drunk as I was now, if not drunker. My alcohol tolerance was higher now, but it was far from low back then. I barely could even see her face in the flashing, colored lights, but I immediately knew she was hot. She was, I wasnât wrong about that, but she was like a succubus. Amazing sex but makes you slowly die the longer you go on.Â
I rubbed my eyes with both my hands but it didnât make it any less blurry. If anything, I fucked my vision up more for a couple seconds. I stopped scrolling and stared at the screen intently with a slanted jaw, trying to concentrate.Â
âJoan and Jack stood in the living room of the mansion, waiting for the count to reappear to make his announcement,â I read out loud. Joan and Jack, Jessica and Jason. I felt inspired with the J names, clearly. They were a pair of bitches. I shouldnât have put them in my story, probably didnât help with the productivity level. I didnât want to see them in real life, what made me think I wanted to see them on my screen? Even for the sake of fake revenge.Â
There is nothing wrong with detective novels, theyâre good books usually. The writers who wrote them had a good thing going, even if there was a formula. Good plot and characters. Writing them is the part that always gets me. Look, I donât hate the idea of a parody. Parodies are great. I just hate the way I personally wrote it. I scrolled further up.Â
âNancy was preparing the drinks, every single one differently, since none of the guests had the same drink. She hurried off to the bathroom.â I could barely make out the letters anymore. I liked Nancy, though I had done what other writers had done too, made her the screaming maid. Was a bit of a waste, there was potential for a good character there. She was the only redhead in the story. Scrolling up even further. The words started moving on itâs own, leaving me to guess what the words said. I blinked a few times and tried again.Â
âThomas t ou he bag oods.â My eyes told me. I knew they were lying. I was at that point of no return.Â
I looked around the room, trying to refocus them. I balanced my chair on itâs two back legs as I leaned slightly backwards. I rubbed my eyes again and pinched the bridge of my nose. Thomasâ face was the only clear thing in my mind, I couldnât even see the fucking hand in front of my face that I was waving numbly around. He wasnât even real, my hand was. I felt the balance of the chair shifting and I reached wildly for the table, making the chair even more unbalanced.Â
âFuck you,â I murmured to the innocent table. With a bang I felt my head hit something and my body probably the floor, but I couldnât tell because the focus was completely lost. The last thing that crossed my mind was Jessicaâs face, her blue eyes fixed on me.
The Detective, by Jake Zuurbier
Mike Davis is an author suffering from writer's block, and his publisher is pushing hard to get him to finish his latest novel. Mike lies and says it is nearly finished even though he stares at the computer screen and hasn't typed in days. He then runs into his ex out walking with her current boyfriend and becomes more frustrated and angry. His solution is to buy more vodka and keep drinking. While drinking, Mike falls and hits his head. When he wakes up he is groggy, thirsty, has a headache, and thinks it is a horrible hangover. As he becomes more conscience he realizes that someone is talking to him. He finds himself in a mammoth mansion of opulence and begins to recognize this place as the Count's home, a home that he designed. There are several other people in the mansion besides the Count: Jack, Joan, Marilyn, Scott, etc. all characters he has been developing within his story. Mike hears someone calling him by the name Leonardo, however, there was never a character with that name in his story. Do they know he is an imposter? Who is he supposed to be to all of them? The Count will be found dead, will they think he did it? Many more questions come up as the story unfolds. More bodies will be added to the Count as murder victims. Will Mike/Leonardo become one of them? How does he save himself?
The storyline has many twists and turns as each character is revealed and questioned by another character who is a detective. Leonardo becomes involved in the detective's investigations and continues to be surprised by the events that unfold with the various characters and their deaths. The characters are interesting and well-developed by the end of the story as more details emerge. The tension builds throughout and keeps your interest up to the surprise ending. The draft I read had grammatical errors and marks across the words making it difficult to read. Additional editing would be necessary for the book to be ready for prime time.