Murder Into Art

"I give up! It's all shit!" 

"Pardon?"

"I said that out loud, didn't I?" The burly, bearded man knocks back the last slug of the cheap whiskey, motions at the bartender for another, and swivels on the bar stool, eyes bleary. 

"Of what do you speak?" The small man with the fantastic mustaches wears dove-grey gloves on his small hands, both hands palms-down on the bar top, a small glass of an emerald green liquid on a cocktail napkin placed at the exact midpoint between his two hands.   

"Publishing."

"Oh, you are engaged in the publishing?" The small man speaks in a French accent.

"I'm engaged in getting published. Aspiring writer."

"But, as of now, no luck?"

"No luck."

"If I may ask ... " The small man lifts the glass to his lips and takes a very small sip of the thick, green liquid, placing the glass back precisely in the center of the cocktail napkin. "Of what do you aspire to write?" 

"Crime fiction."

"Ah, crime, for me this is also a favorite."

"Yeah." The bearded man sighs. "But it seems I'm no good at it. At least not according to the gatekeepers in the publishing industry. I’ve tried. I’m done trying. I just decided right now, when I finally said it out loud. I quit!”

"Crime, this is something of which you know much?"

There is a twinkle, a green glitter, in the small man's dark-brown eyes. 

"What do you mean?"

"You have the experience of crime?"

"I read crime novels and short stories, obsessively, watch crime shows on TV, crime films are my favorite genre. So, yeah, you can say I know crime.”

"Ah, fiction, yes. But do you have the experience of actual crime? Have you, for example, solved a crime?"

The bearded man shakes his head. The bartender brings another glass of cheap whiskey. The bearded man swivels back to the bar, takes a slug, shoulders hunched.

"If you permit," the small man says. "In order to write authentically — I mean to write in such a way that no-one can deny the power and truth of your words — it must come from true experience, no? To write crime, you need to know crime, first hand, not in your head, but in your heart, in your blood, in your gut, in your hands."

"I need to solve a crime?"

"Solve, yes, that is one possibility." The small man cocks his egg-shaped head to one side and his eyes once again twinkle green in the reflected light from the thick, emerald liquid in his glass. "Solve a crime, or commit a crime. Of the two, the latter is, of course, the easiest. To solve a crime takes work, time, and, if I may say so, a certain talent, and of course you must have an unsolved crime to solve. To commit a crime, that only takes one thing: the will. If you have the will to do it, committing a crime is easy. What type of crime fiction do you write?"

"Murder mysteries."

"So, then, you must commit a murder."

The bearded man laughs out loud, knocks back another slug of whiskey.

The small man says nothing. The bearded man swivels to face him. 

"You're serious?"

"I am always serious about murder. Are you serious about your writing?"

"Dead serious."

"Good. So, you have the will to write. Then find the will to kill."

"Who are you?"

"Ah." The small man smiles, runs a grey-gloved finger over his fantastic mustaches. "I am, as one say, your Muse. I have taken this form as an aMUSEment of my own. Do you not recognize me? Behold the mustaches, the egg-shaped head, my Belgian accent, who am I?"

"Poirot!" The bearded man laughs out loud. "Can't believe I didn't see that until now, but you're the spitting image, aren't you."

"Pleased to meet you. Glad you guessed my name."

"You're my … muse?"

"Oui."

"Well, I've had enough booze," the bearded man holds up his whiskey glass, brown liquid swirling, "to almost believe you."

"It is not important that you believe in me. Just believe what I tell you, for you know in your heart I speak the truth. You are dead serious, you say? Then there must be death. So, let us now decide, together, you and I, mon ami. Who will you kill?"

 *** 

THREE YEARS LATER

The once-burly, once-bearded man is now sleek, trim, clean-shaven. He seems out of place in this dive-bar, dressed in his expensive shirt, slacks, and shoes, with his expensive haircut and his expensive watch. 

He sits down in his old favorite spot, the barstool to the far left at the bar, and orders his now-favorite expensive single malt scotch, which the bartender (the same one from three years ago, hairline receded by an inch, more grey salted into the pepper) informs him they do not stock. 

Not enough demand. The bartender smiles, eyes tired.

The clean-shaven man orders his old standby, the cheap whiskey, instead. 

"Mon ami," says the small man. "I am pleased to see you again."

The small man was not there a moment ago when the clean-shaven man sat down. 

"I thought I might find you here." The clean-shaven man raises his cheap whiskey in a toast, downs a slug, grimaces. "Can't believe I used to drink this stuff."

"That is why I bring my own." A small glass filled with a thick, green liquid appears between the small man's grey-gloved hands. He lifts the glass and returns the toast, sipping delicately. "To your great success, mon ami."

"Thank you. It has been quite a ride these last few years."

"In many ways."

"True."

"Forty-two weeks on the bestseller list. And allow me to congratulate you on the TV series deal." The small man's eyes twinkle.

"The TV series, yes. Other than my agent, you're the only one who knows."

"Oh, I knew before your agent did. I have been following you closely."

"I just signed the paperwork on the deal, sent it to my agent, and decided to go back to my old watering hole to celebrate, hoping, in fact, to meet you here."

"And so, you did. Your wish, it is my command."

"My wish? Are you a muse or a genie?"

"Ah, genies, those troublemakers, with the gifts that always turn out to be curses. You and I know the difference. As a muse, I give you no gifts, I provide only the inspiration, the spark. You do the work."

"About that."

"The inspiration?"

"The work."

"Of what work do you speak? You have not been working on a new novel, this I know."

"That's the thing." The clean-shaven man sighs. "I seem to have ... lost interest."

"Lost interest in the writing?"

"Yes."

"And so, you have come to see me. But not, perhaps, for inspiration? Instead, you wish permission. Yes, you wish permission to stop writing, for writing no longer is your passion, no longer your obsession, and you have enough fame and fortune to last your lifetime, so writing no longer is what stirs your soul, no longer what makes your heart beat faster, not what makes your blood flow hot, and so you feel writing is no longer the work of your hands."

"You know?"

"I know. As I say, I follow you closely. Just as I was there when you wrote your novel, and I was there when you signed your TV deal, I was also there when you committed your first murder, three years ago, and I was there for your next kill, and the next, and the next."

"Oh."

"I have a confession," the small man says. "Sometimes my clients, such as yourself, they do not know their true passions, their true form of art. And so, I have engaged with you in a small ruse. When we met here three years ago, I said I am your muse. This is true. But I committed a sin of omission. You assume that I am a muse for writers. I am not."

"No?"

"No. I am the Muse of Murder."