Charles had his daily cup of coffee, the granulated kind without milk and with fake sugar, and ten spoons just so it would be sweet. He took up his position by the teak desk that he always sat behind and wrote his latest books. It was some kind of mad quest for him, an inborn habit, a manic depressive writer of sorts. He liked being in full view of the large glass windows from there he cold look out at the freshly cut lawn and the perfectly kept trees that lined the driveway. When he was in need of fresh inspiration he would go down to the city park pick his favourite bench near the water and write. Sometimes an adult like kid who amused him with his dwarfishness would throw bread out to the ducks, the crows ended up with a full bread belly.
Today he would write in his own home outside the city, it felt like a writing day, the sun was shinning and all appointments had been cleared. Mrs. Neville had been treated to a day in a health spa; the brats were away at St. Mary’s boarding school. He was happy with himself as he wrote line after line on a pad that he kept on filling. He was an old fashion writer, he didn’t believe in typing it out on a computer, ink and paper suited him better. However being an old fashioned writer didn’t stop him from getting someone else to type it for him, after all that was what being a famous writer was all about. After writing at a furious amount he stood up and looked outside the window. Mr Henson the gardener was out moving the lawn for what was probably the hundredth time in the month, the grass could have done with a rest. The red satin curtains framed the old windows, highlighting the grandeur of the writers status.
Ten hours later Charles Neville was found in the shower bludgeoned to death.
The news came as a shock to the literary world as well as the entire universes somewhere in mars a few martins sat around sipping Sex on the Moon discussing the death of a literary genius.
It was constantly on the news; the bare breasted news channel presenter looked emotionally traumatised by the entire events. Did her mother ever tell her that you have to get to know people first before taking off your top? There was no exploration for her boyfriend he that already met her tits before he met the woman who owned them. Newspapers bore the news in their bold highlighted font.
The pope flew in for the funeral even though there were a few things that Charles Neville and the pope disagreed on. Bono was there, got to add a few words about clearing world debt and to mentioned his new world tour dates. The usual crowd pleasers turned up, Rick Marty sporting his tight ball hugging denim jeans, Britney Spears appeared who had recently come out of hiding after nine years, and her children were still in child protection. Tom Cruise, who had eaten all his children’s umbilical cords and didn’t look any better for it, turned up to promote The Return of Mission Impossible.
The media had turned the entire thing in to a fiasco; a popular magazine bought the rights to the funeral meaning they were the only ones that could take pictures of such an event and if anyone else decided that they would take even one photograph they would be sued every day of their natural life. Even thinking of taking a photo might lead to arrest a fine or even a stint in prison.
It was common knowledge that it was no accident or suicide. If a man has three stab wounds in the heart and one on each side of his back one assumes that it was murder not self mutilation. Now Charles may argue that if disassociation of gravity was employed such a thing was possible but a lot of people knew that a lot of what he disapproved in his books was just really good writing and not much truth could be found in such thoughts. Though thoughts such as his were written so well that people ended up concluding at the end of each book that he indeed knew what he was talking about and the there was truth in his musings.
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