“It’s brilliant! Mr. Smith! We’ve never had anything so amazing, so unreal, so engrossing, so masterful, so…so spectacular before! We’ll gladly accept it. It’ll be a bestseller. That’s a no-brainer.”
Harold Smith. His hands, till now, had been placed on the armrests of the expensive chair he’d been sitting on. He was facing the head of a reputed publishing house. His novel had been accepted. They were going to publish it. The publisher sounded pleased, overjoyed, even. The publisher, an experienced man, held legendary status in the publishing world. They talked about his ability to recognize diamonds in the rough. That isn’t entirely an accurate description, though. More accurately put, he recognized a cash cow when he saw one. And this definitely looked a Jersey.
Smith withdrew his hands. He should’ve been happy – this was his ticket to fame. The bestseller lists, the royalty, the mainstream press, he was set. He should’ve been happy, but wasn’t. It takes a lot out of an author, when he has to present hard, cold, true to flesh reality, as fiction. When he has material every publisher would laugh off as being impossible for nonfiction. He has no choice but to conceal it as fiction, purely to sell the story. When you’re a journalist, and the greatest story of your life is so improbable, so impossible, that no reputed paper would run it, and it’s thrown out the window, synopsized to a paperback thriller, you’re a lucky man if you can laugh it off for the sake of the cash. Smith wasn’t. He couldn’t laugh it off.
The protagonist of his novel was John Fielding. 37. Ex-FBI turned private investigator. Leading a one man crusade against John Lansing, the antagonist of the novel. John Lansing – entrepreneur, business supermagnate, Forbes top-fiver, kingpin, emperor of the underworld. A power maniac – intent on taking over the world. A classical supervillain. World Domination his lifetime goal. And currently, he was working on a superweapon – the deadliest ever conceived – as the means to achieve that goal. Fielding was Lansing’s arch enemy . The one man who could stop the most dangerous man on earth. The universe was created in opposites, and Fielding was the Yin to Lansing’s Yang. John Fielding, John Lansing. Sharing first names. Pseudo-siblings in the vein of Cain and Abel. Fielding - foiling Lansing’s plans, trying vehemently to expose his vile nature to the world, all his evil deeds, all his malevolent ambitions.
And the cruelest part was that all of this Clancy worthy story was actually, painfully, true. Smith had found out everything from Fielding. He’d contacted him. Given him irrefutable proofs. Any doubt Smith might’ve had, was almost immediately overcome. Lansing had found out about the transaction of the secret between Fielding and Smith. Lansing was stalking Smith. No doubts about it. He was playing with him as a predator with a prey. Every criminal of the city was his pawn. Every major corporation was tainted by his influence.
And he had Smith on his sights.
Everyone in the city seemed to have it in for him. From his boss, who informed him of the layoffs, to the waitress in the café, to the cabbie, who impatiently waved him off, refusing service. Smith could feel thugs’ eyes on him as he walked down the street, holding his breath and hurrying past dark alleyways. Accidents seemed to explode all around him, missing him by fractions. He’s playing with me, Smith would think. Lansing held him on a thread. He was the puppeteer; he could cut off his strings at leisure, a marionette in his hands. Smith carried a gun, nowadays. A semi-automatic in his vest pocket provided comfort every time he brushed his hand against it. He’d never fired it.
But Smith felt protected, somewhat. He had a guardian angel. Fielding. He’d do anything to throw a wrench into Lansing’s plans, and, obviously, he wanted Smith to survive, in his quest of destroying Lansing’s empire. Bit by bit, gnawing deeper in and out of the dirt and grime, Smith was working on publicizing the wrongdoings of Fielding’s nemesis, under Fielding’s vigilant watch.
Smith walked right into a cab’s way, forcing it to a screeching halt. He was going to be run over. Catching his breath, Smith was excusing himself and moving along, when he saw the driver.
It was Lansing.
“Watch where you tread, Mr. Smith.” He said, smiling. “Your next step might get you killed.” The point driven home, he drove off, leaving Smith standing transfixed on the asphalt.
He walked on, in a stupor. He was living on the edge, now. A walking bullseye for every criminal on the street. But he never expected Lansing to come after him personally. He felt the gun again. He walked on, heart racing. No one else dared write against Lansing, Smith alone possessed that strength, which made him alone incur the supervillain’s wrath. A hit was out on him, the taker was the world. He felt like a Daredevil whose secret identity was discovered by the Kingpin.
He was hungry. On realizing that, he started for a fast food joint a couple blocks away. Arriving a moment later, he reached for the doorknob.
Lansing walked by him, wearing a red tracksuit. He jogged by, without sparing Smith a glance.
Never looking up, Smith stood a long time, hand frozen on the doorknob. Half a minute later, Smith breathed, turned around to look at the departing figure of Lansing. He was still jogging down the street.
Stay calm. Deep breaths. He ordered himself. Pulse racing, palms sweaty, he entered. The place was surprisingly empty for the time of the day. Smith walked in, ordered, and sat at a table.
Lansing entered. He took a table opposite Smith and sat down. Ordering fries and burgers – same as Smith – he smiled slightly, meeting his stare, and dug into his food.
Smith continued eating. The bastard’s following me. Why? And the answer was already there. Word of his visit with the publisher had gotten out. He knows I’m coming through with the book! He had eyes, ears everywhere. He had a fly on every wall. He was following him. I’m not gonna back out now. He got up, having finished his meal. He paid at the counter, not even bothering to look at the attendant. He feared seeing Lansing again. How absurd would that be. Lansing thought with chagrin. He wasn’t hallucinating, obviously. All this wasn’t a figment of his imagination. Every bit of it was true. Real. Tangible. However farfetched and fictionlike it might seem. The attendant couldn’t magically turn into Lansing. Smith shook his head to get his bearings. Lansing was getting under his skin. Can’t let him do that.
Smith wasn’t feeling like it, but he knew he had to go to work. He took a cab there. He didn’t see Lansing in the lobby, the elevator, or even the hallway or the row of cubicles. He breather heavily, glad to be somewhere safe, somewhere away from Lansing.
He had made himself comfortable at his cubicle, when he was called by the boss ; and found himself without a job inside seven minutes. Three minutes later, he came out of the main doors, his belongings in that ever clichéd cardboard box. He didn’t say a word to anyone. Not to the undersympathetic boss, not to his sympathetic colleagues, nor to the oversympathetic receptionist. He hailed a cab, returned home, stowed the boxes neatly away in the corner, made himself a cup of coffee, and then hurled it at the window. It broke, glass flew. He stood amidst the wreckage or a moment, reflecting. He got a broom and swept the floor clean. Strike one. That’s all. I still have the fight in me, he told himself repeatedly. Lansing would never break him this way. He would always get up, pick himself up, move on, nail that superbastard. Jaws set, Smith replaced the broom, set the curtains down on the broken window, locked the front door, and went out. Lansing was reading the newspaper, sipping tea, in the lawn next door, dressed in a gown. He smiled at Smith, who didn’t return it.
He went to a bar. He wanted to down a few, to shake out the cobwebs. For an instant, he thought he saw Lansing as the bartender, sweeping down a hardball glass, grinning pompously down at him. He took a few tentative steps forward, to see he was mistaken. It was the usual bartender, Bob. Breathing relief, he went and sat at his usual seat. He ordered Gin and Tonic, and it must’ve been a half-dozen shots later that Lansing came and sat down beside him, ordering the same drink as him.
Smith ignored him until he spoke directly to him. “Alcohol.” He said, examining his own glass as if it were the Kohinoor diamond. “It’s a slow way to die, don’t you think, Mr. Smith?” Smith felt a simmering anger under his skin. “I’m not in a hurry. I still need to destroy you, you bastard. “ he said, as calmly as he could, his heart doing overtime all the while. Lansing chuckled in reply. “Such confidence!” He emptied his third shot. “You do know, Mr. Smith.” He said as he ordered for another. “ That I do not need to kill you, necessarily, to stop your meddling.” Smith froze.
“What the hell do you mean?” He growled.
“Whatever do I mean, I wonder. “ Lansing sipped his fourth. “I wish I was lucky enough to have a lovely wife, like you do, Mr. Smith.” He said, his tone almost innocent.
Smith felt his hands balling into a fist. “I’ll kill you. If you as much as- “ He was cut off by Lansing’s dry laughter. “What did I say to upset you, Mr. Smith? I merely commented upon my - admittedly - hopeless and unhappy romantic life.” Lansing said, fixing Smith in a cold, icy stare. “ I envy you.” He finished. “ I must congratulate you on your luck, Mr. Smith.” He resumed. “A woman with intellect as well as a perfect- “
Smith had had enough. He cut off Lansing, stood up, and grabbed hold of his collar. Raising his hand for a slug, he was stopped by someone. He looked behind to see who it was.
It was John Fielding.
“Save it.” He just said.
“Ah, the guardian angel. “ Lansing chuckled, adjusting his expensive collar. “I was wondering when he’d show up. “
“You got three seconds to beat it.”
“Before…?”
“Before you’re a casualty, you thug.”
”Violence in your heart. Ah. Youth…I remember, when I was your age..” He got up from his seat, downing his last shot. “ I’d have stayed away from a millionaire who considered me a miserable, annoying, brat.” He set down his shot with a thump, tossed some bills onto the table, and walked off.
Smith never let Lansing leave his sights as he walked out of the door. Then he turned to Fielding, gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks a lot, John.” Fielding patted him on the shoulder. “It’s nothing. Least I could do. You keep an eye out from now on.” Smith just grunted in response. He’d been keeping his eyes open for about five months. But he had to agree ; now that the book was coming out, he was in more danger.
Fielding hung around, having a few drinks with Smith. He needed that, a little pep talk to get his spirits up. Everything seemed to be going downhill for him ; he only hoped the book would turn his fortunes around. Unless Lansing went out of his way to mess it up somehow. Nonetheless, the drink with Fielding seemed to calm Smith down somewhat. Although he could’ve done better without Fielding’s constant reminders for him to keep writing, never give up, and keep an eye open. Chrissakes! He was fairly irritated. What does he think; I’m the guy from Memento or something? I can remember, goddamnit! Anyway, with a relatively better morale than what he had, when he’d walked in the bar, he left, bidding Fielding goodbye.
He took a bus, getting off at Landon Street. From there, it was a short walk to his house. Walking up the street to his house, he saw Lansing, walk in through the front door.
He must’ve stood a full second without breathing. Then, like a dead man shocked to life, he awkwardly whipped out his semi automatic, and ran across the street. He tried the door. Surprisingly, it was locked. The devil breaks into my house, and locks the door?! Working as fast as he could, he unlocked the door with his spare key, and barged in.
Empty. He checked the hallways, rushed through the living room, the kitchen, gun at the ready. Nothing again.
Upstairs!
Emily’s upstairs.
He ran maniacally up the steps, his throat closing in on him, drowning out his shouts to a muted whisper.
The bedroom.
He smashed in.
And immediately wished he’d died before seeing this.
Emily was sitting in front of the mirror, going through her nightly routine, dressed in her nightgown.
Lansing was there, behind her. He held her in a passionate embrace, face buried in her lush flowing hair, he was raining kisses down her throat and neck.
At the sound of the crash, both of them turned and looked at him in unison. Emily horrified and confused, Lansing with a smug grin. “Hello, Smith. “ He cooed, as Smith stood there, fixated in horror. “Sorry for missing the courtesy of shaking hands. As you can see,” Lansing smiled, taking a look at Emily, “I have my hands full.”
Smith screamed his lungs out, raised his gun, and fired.
Lansing fell with a neat hole between his eyes.
Smith was horrified, exhausted, and too shocked to comprehend anything but one. The obvious truth.
“What’s the matter!!?” Emily screamed, “What’re you doing? Where’d you get the gun? Why’d you fire at me! WHATS WRONG WITH YOU!?”
Just then, Smith, horror in his eyes amplified, saw a second figure rising from the bed.
John Fielding.
“What’s wrong, honey? “ With the identically smug grin Lansing once wore, Fielding spoke, having risen. He was naked, save for the sheets he was lying under.
“Oh hello, John. Finally figured everything out, have you? “ His smile never faltered.
A bomb went off inside John Smith’s head.
“GOD! “ He screamed, again and again.
“GOD!!” He fired at Fielding, shooting him again and again until he fell off the bed, chest ridden with bullet holes.
“GOD!!!” He fired at Emily, missing the head several times. He ditched the plan and shot her through the chest and stomach. He fired wildly until Emily was a bloody heap on the floor, bloodshot eyes horrified, looking up at Smith in mute agony.
“Help me…” He collapsed, down on his knees. Crying uncontrollably, he placed the cold hard steel against his temple and pulled the trigger.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
THE NEW YORK BANNER
19th JULY, 1997
MURDER-SUICIDE AT LANDON STREET
Staff Reporter
In a tragic incident last night, Mr. John Smith, 37, and his wife Mrs. Emily Berners-Smith, 39, perished in - what is believed to be, after preliminary investigations - a murder-suicide. Reportedly, Mr. Smith shot his wife, before turning the gun, a Benneli semi-automatic, on himself. The two bodies were recovered from the bedroom of the couple’s residence. A total of nine shots were fired, three of which killed Mrs. Smith, and one which did the same for Mr. John Smith. The rest of the five shots missed, apparently. They were recovered, lodged in the bedroom wall.
Quite peculiar, as to why so many shots were fired, and missed. “The guy must’ve lost his nerve. They’d been married for almost twelve years…It’s a shame, really.” Officer Edward Martins, NYPD, was quoted as saying so, later. Neighbors and acquaintances of the deceased couple report the marriage to be a happy and peaceful one, the love shared between them flawless. Thus, the plausible cause and/or motives for this tragedy have the authorities baffled. Although some attribute it to Mr. Smith losing his job, and his recent financial problems. “The intense emotional strain could probably have driven him over the edge”, a noted psychologist commented, “The recent downsurge of economy has hit us pretty hard ; and this tragedy can certainly be credited to it.”
The case remains open, and a formal investigation will be carried out by the NYPD, in this regard.
Author's Note (IMPORTANT. PLEASE READ)
-----------------------------------------------------
Ugh. It seems no one "got" the story. -_- Anyway, here's the real explanation. I think I was too subtle with it, for anyone to understand.
*BOTH FIELDING AND LANSING, their existence, their biography, their qualities, their actions in this story, were SIMPLY PRODUCTS OF SMITH'S IMAGINATION. They were in NO WAY real. Smith had this psychological condition where he TRULY BELIEVES his created characters(in his novel) are REAL. So whatever Lansing/Fielding do in this story are ILLUSIONS/HALLUCINATIONS of Smith's troubled and disturbed psyche.
That explains why :-
1> Lansing could be omnipresent - everywhere, everytime - threatening Smith (doing all dirty work HIMSELF,despite being a supervillain)
2>Only *TWO* bodies were recovered in the end (Read the last para again, carefully. I clearly wrote "the two bodies".) Lansing/Fielding were NOT REAL, and hence there were NO BODIES to be recovered. Smith discovering their 3-way adultery with Emily, as well as Smith's murder of the two, were again, HALLUCINATIONS. The only people REALLY, physically dead that night, were Smith and his wife.
Therein lies the twist + tragedy of the tale!! -_-
