fame kills.

same as last week; tasked with writing anything. this is a vague continuation from a piece i wrote a few weeks ago. if i’m honest, i’m not that happy with it, or with much stuff that i am writing at the moment. but here it is anyways.


A few days later, in the very same bar, two men were talking.

“You hear who died last week?”


I know who. Sitting in the corner with a black coffee. Pretending to read Fear and Loathing.

“That writer guy. Right on this here floor” There was still a patch of bronze blood on the floor where he’d fallen and hit his head. Just would not wash off. Hung about and just would not go. Kind of ironic really.

“Him? What? Seemed sucha healthy fella”

“Really? He had a bad time of it tho”

The rumour mill was already spinning overtime. The cacophony of the bar was all too much.  I sat there tuning into different conversations like a broken radio.

“Ya think?”

“Well, he lost it some time ago. ‘parrently he was something of a drunk after that, he just cudn’t cope. Depresshun I hear.”

“Y’know what I hear?” His fellow man leant his head to one side. Eyes curious,

“foul play they’re calling iht!”

“You see-re-as?” Every syllable enunciated in strange slang. Tabloid readers.

“They say he was killed by fame. Poisoned or some such shite.  Apparently he was lying there for ages, babbling. Everyone thought he was having a seizure, but he said he could see Death hanging over him. I don’t know, the guy was crazy! Seeing things”

Yes, an utterly ridiculous idea. Or is it?

“Fame can’t kill you!”

“Sure it can” I input, “goes to your head, like oxygen”

They ask who I am; I tell them. A reporter, a dog with a trail under his nose. A kid playing with a piece of string and seeing where it goes. Mysterious.

“An’ then what?”

“Like you said; he lost it. The oxygen stops. He dies.”

“An you’re what? The police?”

“Nope, just an interested party” They look at me cross-eyed. I’ve just blown their minds. I am sitting on the story of the decade and I know it. I smile and get up to leave.

But in the corner of my eye, I see a man in black standing there. Smells like death. And I know he’ll be coming for me too, if I decide to play this fame game and take the torch from the dead writer.


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