Categories > Original > Drama > Lola
"THE EVER CLEVER DINNER GUEST"
That was the title of the first piece that I had stumbled across. I found it while shuffling through some old rough copies of Hunters. He was an editor for "The MD Remedy", a local young writers publication. It was a low budget basement company, but it was the place to go if you wanted to start your career.
Hunter had been an editor for quite some time, until as of late. Oh that's right, you don't know yet do you? Hunter is dead. Yeah, dead.
He took his own life for unknown reasons. It was odd really, he wasn't a manic depressant, he was a glum person, witty, smart, and with humor as dry as the Gobi. But he was never capable of taking his own life.
The police investigated briefly, and ruled out homicide for the fact that the gun was still in his hand, with powder burns on his hand from firing. Not to mention he was shot from an upward angle, from below the chin. He did it to himself, without even a friendly proper note.
His close friend Ethan, who was also an editor for "Pulp Friction" magazine, was their with me to go through Hunter's personal belongings left in his apartment.
As sad as we wanted to be, we just couldn't find ourselves to harbor that emotion on this day. We were silent, I worked on clearing out his study/editing room, while Ethan set upon the bedroom. We would each work on one room per day. We hoped to be done before the end of the week, which was his funeral.
I had only wished the crime scene cleanup had done a better job, they didn't bother tossing out any bloodstained papers, and they had missed the rusty red spots on the wall behind the chair that he had killed himself in. All that they had managed to do was remove the stains off of his chair, and cut out the offending blood and brain spattered carpeting of the room in sections.
I was on my hands and knees, sorting out the scattered papers, trying to discern which ones to keep and which ones to toss. I hoped to salvage some of his original work and get it published as a memoir or tribute volume, but knew the chances of getting anything published around here, even for a dead comrade was rare. You had more of a chance of catching an STD than getting noticed, edited, and published here in Maryland.
I found it, stuck to a crumpled page of his haiku''s about ducks and nature, stained with speckles of faded brown gore. I was ready to toss it, not wanting to read such sullied work, when the title caught my eye, "THE EVER CLEVER DINNER GUEST". I couldn't help but read it out of sheer curiosity.
"HE GOES FROM TABLE TO TABLE
MAKING HIS ROUNDS LIKE ANY CRAFTY DIPLOMAT SHOULD
HIS EYES SHINE WITH THE WORST KIND OF KNOWLEDGE
A HANDSHAKE THAT BRING A NATION TO IT'S KNEES
STRIP A NATION RAW, THEN TOSS AN AMERICAN FLAG GARMENT
HE CAN PEN A HATEFUL THREAT, BUT WON'T HOLD A SWORD
HE CALLS THE SHOTS, BUT WON'T STAND IN THE LINE OF FIRE
HE WANTS ONLY WHAT IS BEST FOR HIS NATION OF HIMSELF
UNDER HIS GOD
HE IS THE EVER CLEVER DINNER GUEST
HE IS GOOD FOR ONE THING
AND THAT IS NOTHING...."
I was stunned with it's gritty, white knuckled written assault upon who I assumed was our President. I had to snicker to myself, feeling as though if I smiled, I'd split my head in two.
I wanted to get Ethan in here, to read it himself, but I thought better of myself.
I looked for an author, and saw that most of the name had been stained with blood. Great.
I sighed impatiently, ready to discard it, when I heard Ethan walking back to the study.
I do not know why, but for some reason, I felt compelled to keep it. To keep this tiny morsel of political satire and angst. I folded it hastily and pocketed it, figuring I could scrape away the dried blood with an X-acto knife later on to find the writer.
Ethan entered the room with a milk crate full of random items.
He looked sad, but then again, Ethan always looked sad with his light blue eyes.
His lip quivered slightly, he looked away, an expression of self disgust in his own weakness scrawled his face. He hated to cry, his father used to chastise him for it, so he learned to hold it in.
I got to my feet and walked over, giving his back a reassuring pat.
He nodded, sniffled, tried to turn away, but ended up turning back around and weeping bitterly on my shoulder.
I don't know, sometimes I can be an asshole and a dick. As he cried on my shoulder, all I could think about was the mystery author in my back pocket, and that Ethan was soaking my shirt.
That was the title of the first piece that I had stumbled across. I found it while shuffling through some old rough copies of Hunters. He was an editor for "The MD Remedy", a local young writers publication. It was a low budget basement company, but it was the place to go if you wanted to start your career.
Hunter had been an editor for quite some time, until as of late. Oh that's right, you don't know yet do you? Hunter is dead. Yeah, dead.
He took his own life for unknown reasons. It was odd really, he wasn't a manic depressant, he was a glum person, witty, smart, and with humor as dry as the Gobi. But he was never capable of taking his own life.
The police investigated briefly, and ruled out homicide for the fact that the gun was still in his hand, with powder burns on his hand from firing. Not to mention he was shot from an upward angle, from below the chin. He did it to himself, without even a friendly proper note.
His close friend Ethan, who was also an editor for "Pulp Friction" magazine, was their with me to go through Hunter's personal belongings left in his apartment.
As sad as we wanted to be, we just couldn't find ourselves to harbor that emotion on this day. We were silent, I worked on clearing out his study/editing room, while Ethan set upon the bedroom. We would each work on one room per day. We hoped to be done before the end of the week, which was his funeral.
I had only wished the crime scene cleanup had done a better job, they didn't bother tossing out any bloodstained papers, and they had missed the rusty red spots on the wall behind the chair that he had killed himself in. All that they had managed to do was remove the stains off of his chair, and cut out the offending blood and brain spattered carpeting of the room in sections.
I was on my hands and knees, sorting out the scattered papers, trying to discern which ones to keep and which ones to toss. I hoped to salvage some of his original work and get it published as a memoir or tribute volume, but knew the chances of getting anything published around here, even for a dead comrade was rare. You had more of a chance of catching an STD than getting noticed, edited, and published here in Maryland.
I found it, stuck to a crumpled page of his haiku''s about ducks and nature, stained with speckles of faded brown gore. I was ready to toss it, not wanting to read such sullied work, when the title caught my eye, "THE EVER CLEVER DINNER GUEST". I couldn't help but read it out of sheer curiosity.
"HE GOES FROM TABLE TO TABLE
MAKING HIS ROUNDS LIKE ANY CRAFTY DIPLOMAT SHOULD
HIS EYES SHINE WITH THE WORST KIND OF KNOWLEDGE
A HANDSHAKE THAT BRING A NATION TO IT'S KNEES
STRIP A NATION RAW, THEN TOSS AN AMERICAN FLAG GARMENT
HE CAN PEN A HATEFUL THREAT, BUT WON'T HOLD A SWORD
HE CALLS THE SHOTS, BUT WON'T STAND IN THE LINE OF FIRE
HE WANTS ONLY WHAT IS BEST FOR HIS NATION OF HIMSELF
UNDER HIS GOD
HE IS THE EVER CLEVER DINNER GUEST
HE IS GOOD FOR ONE THING
AND THAT IS NOTHING...."
I was stunned with it's gritty, white knuckled written assault upon who I assumed was our President. I had to snicker to myself, feeling as though if I smiled, I'd split my head in two.
I wanted to get Ethan in here, to read it himself, but I thought better of myself.
I looked for an author, and saw that most of the name had been stained with blood. Great.
I sighed impatiently, ready to discard it, when I heard Ethan walking back to the study.
I do not know why, but for some reason, I felt compelled to keep it. To keep this tiny morsel of political satire and angst. I folded it hastily and pocketed it, figuring I could scrape away the dried blood with an X-acto knife later on to find the writer.
Ethan entered the room with a milk crate full of random items.
He looked sad, but then again, Ethan always looked sad with his light blue eyes.
His lip quivered slightly, he looked away, an expression of self disgust in his own weakness scrawled his face. He hated to cry, his father used to chastise him for it, so he learned to hold it in.
I got to my feet and walked over, giving his back a reassuring pat.
He nodded, sniffled, tried to turn away, but ended up turning back around and weeping bitterly on my shoulder.
I don't know, sometimes I can be an asshole and a dick. As he cried on my shoulder, all I could think about was the mystery author in my back pocket, and that Ethan was soaking my shirt.
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