"Writers Winter"
Jerry sat at his writing desk and stared out the window at his bleak, bleak lawn with the white, white snow on it.
Larry sat on his lap, feeding him green, green beans.
Bleu? Blue? Blah! A quick snap of the wrist and Larry was done with it. The neck rolled at an odd angle, the face, devoid.
He was tired of this human. He'd need to get another one soon, but for now, the fridge and its bananas and raisins and almond milk beckoned. Pure simian joy.
He sat on the floor, indulging idle indolence. Minutes ticked by. He blinked. He blinked again. Killing was fun, but blinking was its own reward. Larry ambled over to the fridge and fed himself. Then he came back to the desk and pushed Jerry aside. He began reading the story that Jerry had been working on. Wait a minute! This was good!
Larry called his friend Mary, a wide-eyed hungry editor of 'Filthy Rich' magazine. Then he realized he was already dead. He stared as Larry ambled around his remains. So its like this, then, was all he could think.
It's like this. A monkey ices you out of spite and you've written brilliance and you can't even send it. There must be some benefit to being an aware but noncorporeal being. He could flicker lights, maybe. Or turn radio dials. No one would ever listen to anything but NPR again.
The SWAT team arrived, right on schedule. He sighed and flickered the desk lamp as they swarmed into the house, checking the pulse on his dead body. In vain Jerry tried to shut the door left open, snow blowing in as the SWAT team searched. No Larry. No manuscript. Larry had left Jerry's on his way to Mary with the opus, leaving simian tracks in the new snow.
