Dissecting a Murder
by
John Morrison
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Dedicated to
the Masses
9
Misanthropic and I’m missin’ the tropics,
Razorblade fiasco in my wallet and chewing gum in my pocket,
Thick sunglasses over a killer’s eyes, except no one knows
he’s a killer. Standing so close in my proximity and dizziness
overwhelms the ignorant. Blink. Island breeze.
The sedative.
Cough.
The plastic pass-off credit card.
Encouraging smile.
The sting.
Revolver is not loaded – the fraction of a murderer.
The kill.
The serum. Period. The end.
10
New identity revolves the Beretta around the enemy,
But the clean shaven morning musk man I can’t begin to be
is the winner – me.
Cayman Island account. Reinhart transfers at twelve
and the novel hits the final chapter. There are no author
headers at the end. Maybe a fake alias and the
surname are dead ringers for a person as faded
like the wash on a dead man’s jeans.
Decapitated emotions and a mechanical
notion. Killing machine circuitry is a
haywire function. Period. The end.
The mood is garish.
Trash. Complete trash. Garbage in a sea
of crumpled papers. Perpetrators imitating me.
Yes. A Schizophrantic fugue.
Prologue preemie. The endurance of coffee
and sleeping pills is like a stakeout, trying to
find the right words to say at the computer
monitor. The insomnia is impressive – yet
old. Writers are always this eccentric, yes.
They are always a little off.
"Honey, come back to bed." She nags.
"Shut up, Cathie."
"What?"
"I said, I’ll be there in a moment."
"Erm." Lover's drone.
Difficulties. Sometimes the switch
is almost involuntary. My hand itches
for the Beretta. That’s right, Cathie. The gun
I purchased without you knowing.
Blurring into a dead man’s post mortem.
The state is serene like dawn napalm in
‘Nam. Killing antics.
"Honey!" Cathie urges.
"Shove it, Cathie." I spit
"What?" I've been married too long.
"I said, I love you baby." Lover's croon.
"Yeah, I bet."
The perfect mystery cannot
be read and reread by the author.
It is like a curse, like seeing the
bride before the marriage.
Writer’s block.
Asleep and drooling.
I wake up and I don’t know where I
am. It is harder to find myself than to
find where I lie.
"Cathie, did you place me in the woods
holding a Beretta towards a bound man?" Inquisitve rain.
"What ever are you talking about?"
"You know, very well what I am talking about." Switch ravel.
Bang!
The Final Chapter
Crooked demeanor of a smile, and twisted
face. Follow a sextant of a crime.
Cathie slumps. The gun drops. I return to my
position at the desk. I bang my hand on the keyboard
and return to the bed, where Cathie lies in a
peaceful sleep. My breathing is raspy and my
voice is a hoarse roar. In an oblivious state, I
proclaim, “Sometimes the things you love are
forever. Sometimes they are temporary. But everything
you love will not make it –“The trigger is pulled.
Period. The end.
I guess mystery writers are not supposed
to double as murderers. I knew the role all
too well.
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