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Shorts
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| The death of a critic | |
| By Leo | ||||||||||||
| 16 May 2006 | ||||||||||||
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i promise i don't have a problem with critics..... There are very few people in this world that I dislike, but there is one that I hate. Nigel Napier. Media personality. Critic. Failed writer. Wrecker of dreams. The good news is I have him in my sights, and he won’t have a clue who I am. I’m just a faceless victim. Wait, he’s setting down his pint glass, I think he’s making his way to the toilet…. “Mr Napier? Nigel Napier?” He turned from the urinal and tried to focus. “Yes?, what!” He even had the capacity to piss with contempt. “I’d just like to congratulate you, your reviews are fantastic reading…” Soon we were back in his flat. I think it was his desire to show me the letter of thanks from a young Alan Bennett that was his downfall. We entered his lair effortlessly. The Balvenie malt came out. And soon went. Was this man ever sober? He who so mercilessly savaged authors out of hand. It was almost time… He came to. I think it was the pain. The end of parker duofold protruded from his large cholesterol saturated breast. That was the third time that I’d stabbed him. Does this man have no feeling? He seemed to realise that escape was futile. The bindings cut at his wrist, he was going nowhere... “Can you feel the pain, Mr Napier?” His eyes widened, he nodded frantically as the sweat streamed over the abundance of packing tape that was wrapped around the lower half of his face. “Can you really feel it?” A pitiful whimper that emanated somewhere near his ice cold hear bubbled out of his nostrils with the snot and blood. “Do you understand now?” I could see it in his eyes. My work was almost finished.. I had an old antiquated typewriter in my hands. It had been sitting in pride of place on a nearby cabinet. During it’s life it had no doubt seen the blood, sweat and tears of many writers. It was now time for Nigel Napier’s. It was surprisingly heavy as I raised it above my head. It’s metal frame was hard and sharp. I brought it crashing down into the top of his greasy scalp with all my might... The discarded newspaper tumbled haphazardly along the dirty, cold pavement. It came to a halt, the wind teasing at the pages. An article was barely visible. A review. The death of a critic in bold type face. “A real character must have at least three dimensions. Napier had less than one, and I’m being charitable there. And dialogue? He shouldn’t have wasted his breath. This is lazy, clichéd writing at it’s worst. It’s surely destined for the very bottom of the bargain bin if it’s lucky. Good riddance to bad rubbish”. The wind picked up, dislodging the paper and taking it away. Gone forever….
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