Wild Fiction

‘This isn’t a western,’ Rebecca whispered to him. ‘This is the wrong type of story to have Smith and Westerns appearing out of bibles.’
‘Shut up,’ the author hissed back at her. ‘It’s all I could think of.’
They could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps paused outside the door. For a short while there was silence. Then the door burst open and a deafening roar of semi-automatic machine gun fire filled the room. Bullets ripped into the bookcases and walls above their heads. Glass shattered and pictures fell from the walls. Even after the firing stopped, the sounds of the shots continued to reverberate around the room.
Rebecca had her arms wrapped around Genevieve who was shivering violently. They stared at the author and the gun in his trembling hand. The author jumped up and fired towards the door. He pulled the trigger six times in rapid succession. Each time a shot rang out. Genevieve put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Rebecca gripped Genevieve firmly. After the six shots had blasted off the author continued to pull the trigger. Each time it clicked until he realised what he was doing and stopped. He let his arm fall limply to his side and he stared ahead.
The smell of cordite bit into Rebecca’s nostrils. She looked up and saw the pale blue gun smoke swirling around the author’s head, almost forming a halo. She pulled herself up and Genevieve after her. Betelgeuse Fullroy’s body lay on its back. The legs in the study, the hips in the doorway and the torso and head lying in the hall. A pool of blood had already formed around his body.
Rebecca left Genevieve and the author standing behind the sofa, walked over to the body, and looked down at it. Six puncture marks neatly ringed the centre of the chest.
‘Nice grouping,’ she said turning to the author. ‘Where did you learn to shoot?’
‘I wasn’t always an author,’ he said.
‘I can tell that. This was a very contrived way to get rid of Fullroy.’
‘And this,’ the author said, ‘is the real ending to the book. Now all the loose ends are tied up and we can safely go home.’
C
‘Don’t even think about it,’ the author said when Genevieve and Rebecca appeared in his study the following morning. ‘That chapter was the absolute final last one and the end of this story. There is nothing more to say or add to it. It’s over, finished, finito.’