Over at InFuze they've run a competition to provide a new ending to Matt Bronleewe's story, The Vicious Circle. He has gracioulsy given me permission to repost the original story here. My new ending is in the next post (above, given Blogger's ordering!) Enjoy.
Really, you should go on to InFuze, and sign up. Its free, and is a wonderful mix of arts: interviews, reviews, writing, poetry, art. The only thing its missing is a music section! ;-) (Then again, I might be biased...)
"Everyone," said F.R. Tillenbaum, chairman of the
Vicious Circle, New York City's most notable collection of fiction writers, "I'm happy to announce we have a new member."
A man stood, his red flannel shirt standing in sharp contrast to the wash of autumnal browns and grays of the other twelve people in the room. "My name is Hank Henegarde," he said, scrubbing the spit from his glasses with his fingers and the tip of his untucked shirt. "I'm from Montana. And I'm very excited to be here."
"What's your pseudonym?" asked P.R. Remmington, a sullen, young wisp of a girl that had just managed to land the Man Booker Prize for her debut novel: All's the Trouble that's Trouble with Trouble.
"I'm sorry, miss, do you mean a pen name?"
"Yes."
"I don't use one. I want people to know that it's me, that I'm a normal person, just like them."
"Well, you're going to want one now," said P.R., gazing at her colleagues for support. They nodded, concurred. "Manhattan is best enjoyed under the gauze of anonymity," she concluded. The Circle smiled in unison, hundreds of teeth glowing white in the dimness of the SoHo coffeehouse they had abducted for the evening.
F.R. rushed to Hank's aid, not wanting their newest and biggest-selling author to leave after only his first night. "There, there, P.R. I doubt we need to give advice to Hank. After all, his last ten novels have collectively sold over twenty million copies." He turned to Hank. "Is that right? Twenty million? Good golly, man! Why bother coming to New York? You could have built your own city right there in Montana!"
Hank took his seat again, hoping the initiation would end soon. "I'm here because I want to take my career in a new direction. I'm writing the eleventh and final book in my series, and... " he trailed off, a tension-artist at work.
"And what?" asked T.L. Blakely, a stately chap whose love for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had influence both his writing and his fanciful, if anachronistic, attire.
"And..." Hank held the note like a soprano. "I'm killing Sid Little."
Everyone gasped.
"You can't possibly mean that," said P.R., masking her glee in having a front row seat to Hank's career destruction. "I've never read one of your thrillers," she said, giving the word 'thrillers' as much disdain as she could muster. "But even I have heard of Sid Little. You know that killing him off is suicide, right?"
Hank felt for a minute that P.R. was actually beginning to like him. "Yes," he said. "It's exactly that. It's my way out. Sid dies and I'm done. El finito. Off to greener pastures."
A shaved-head Philip K. Dick apostle named P.K. Richards leaned forward into the light. "Does this 'greener pasture' have a name?" he asked.
Hank unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and rolled it up. There, tattooed across his bicep, were two words: AMBULANCE BREAD.
"Ambulance Bread? Is that a book title? Is that your 'greener pasture', as you put it?" postulated T.L., in a brilliant stroke of deductive reasoning, if he didn't say so himself.
"Bingo! Ambulance Bread is a complete departure from anything I've done in the past! It's not a thriller. No one gets shot or beheaded or pistol-whipped," said Hank, who held a certain penchant for doing all three in the course of a single paragraph. "There will, however, be a horse that falls out of a second-story window and breaks all of its legs," he added parenthetically.
"Well, that sounds just great, Hank!" chortled F.R., not remembering ever witnessing an author in both the glorious zenith and twilight of their career. "I bet you'll have a lot more to tell us in the months ahead. Now, on to some unfinished business from last week..."
The meeting lasted another two hours, a mixture of caffeine and apathy. Hank left after shaking everyone's hand, the expressions on their faces bearing the same likeness as the mourners at his father's funeral. He wondered on the way to his dime-sized apartment whether or not he was making the right choice to kill Sid Little. Stripping down in front of his bathroom mirror, seeing the tattoo on his arm, he realized that the choice had already been made; he simply had to follow through.
The month that followed was grueling. Sid Little stood like a barrier between Hank and the Canaan-land of Ambulance Bread. To get there, Sid had to be slaughtered, burnt like an offering. The pages of Book Eleven: Deathwish Granted! slid by at glacier speed, Hank relishing the moment when he could finally vanquish Sid from the literary world forever. And then, to his utter amazement and joy, it happened, on page 287:
Sid reached to open the door, knowing that the person waiting on the other side was THE ONE: the person responsible for ruining the last decade of his life. It could end. Tonight. Sid opened the door. "It's you!" he cried.
BANG! The shot rang out like a cannon.
Sid fell to the ground. Dead.
The typewriter felt like a dagger in Hank's hands. It was complete. The next hundred pages practically wrote themselves, a mishmash of familiar faces from the ten previous adventures, all huddled over the mounded dirt of Sid Little's grave.
Hank sat back in his chair and breathed the air of a free man. The flowing milk and honey of Ambulance Bread was close at hand. He would begin in three months, after a brief sabbatical to study up on ambulances and bread.
The next meeting of the Vicious Circle met in an inner sanctum of MoMA, home to some of the most beloved specimens of creativity in the world. The chairs -- which numbered thirteen -- were again set in-the-round, though B.Z. Quain, the group's resident fictional-science-as-social-commentary writer, reminded them it was actually a triskaidecagon.
"And thanks again for that dazzling insight, B.Z.," began F.R. "Now, why don't we begin with Hank telling us how things are going for Sid Little?"
Hank beamed. "He's dead."
The room was flooded in a lush sangria of applause and bravos: everyone was elated at the news. It was as if the very notion of the thriller novel had been extinguished in that instant, its replacement the heady tomes of oblique metalinguistics.
"So on to, what was it? Ambulance Bread?" asked P.R. coyly. She was beginning to become enamored with Hank, a man who was willing to throw everything away for the sake of higher art.
"Yes, yes, Hank. Tell us how Ambulance Bread is coming along," said P.K., rubbing his stubbled head like a man who'd just been shaved for lice.
"Oh," said Hank, sorry to disappoint, "I haven't started yet. I'm taking a short break to do some research."
"On what?" inquired T.L., who appeared to be wearing a monocle.
"On ambulances and bread, of course."
"Very funny!" said F.R., slapping Hank's leg. "Good one! Best be getting on to other things. But keep us updated, Hank."
The meeting slogged on until midnight. The MoMA nightwatchman walked them out, locking the door behind them. Hank said his goodbyes and hailed a cab. He stepped inside to disembark when B.Z. popped into view.
"Care to share the ride?"
"You're the triskaidecagon guy, right?" Hank said with a grin. "Sure. Couldn't hurt to save a few dollars."
The taxi bolted from its position, causing both men in the back seat to grab at the handles above the door.
"There's something I need to tell you," said B.Z. "It's about Sid Little."
Hank looked puzzled. "What about Sid?"
"He's... I'm not sure how to say this... he's in my book."
"I don't understand."
"Nor do I," said B.Z. "Let me backtrack: I've been working on a new story for the better part of the last five years. It's about the seminal data that spills out from distant black holes, but it's really about moral ambiguity. Anyway, my main character is a MIT grad named Bob Zamber."
"I'm guessing that's what B.Z. stands for?"
"No. The B.Z. doesn't stand for anything."
"Really?"
"Really. But here's the problem," said B.Z., "this morning when I turned on my computer to do some revising, my story had a new chapter. With Sid."
"And you didn't write it?" Hank asked, already mentally dialing the number for his attorney. "Sid Little is my intellectual property, you know."
"Yes! Of course I know!" B.Z. said, becoming quite animated. "It gets worse. Sid wasn't as nice as he was in your novels."
"You've read my novels?"
"Everyone in the group has. Though they would never admit it," B.Z. said, flushed. "Hank, listen to me. Sid did something very bad in my book."
"What?"
"He killed my main character. He killed Bob Zamber."
Hank leaned up through the plastic barrier running through the middle of the taxi. "This is my stop," he told the cabbie. He settled back into the seat, gathering his things. "B.Z., I'm not like the rest of you guys. I'm plainspoken. Normal. I say it how it is. So, if you want Sid to be in your book, I suggest you take it up with my agent. Or my lawyer."
"Hank, you don't understand. I didn't write him in, he just appeared!"
Stepping out of the vehicle, Hank hesitated for one final suggestion. "Then why don't you do what I did? Kill him."
"I'll try that," Hank heard him say as the door slammed shut.
The month that followed exceeded Hank's greatest expectations: mornings were spent in a Guggenheim-designed bread factory located in New Jersey, afternoons were spent in an ambulance that wove like a jetfighter through the bombfield of New York traffic. Hank scribbled notes furiously, each detail providing a new steel girder for the colossal story he was erecting. He'd never been happier, and to that end, as a mental buffer, to ward off any sense of guilt in his newfound pleasure-monging, he imagined that he hadn't killed Sid Little, he'd simply left him behind to wander the wilds of Montana for eternity.
The Vicious Circle chose a meat packing plant as its next meeting place. The floors had been scrubbed spotless, the remaining carcasses hung in neat rows against the back wall. Hank remembered hearing the myriad examples of the significance, none of which came to mind as he entered the room to the pungent odor of cow's blood. He was the last to arrive, and seeing the forlorn visages of the other members, he got the distinct impression there was a reason as to why.
"Hank," began F.R., "we've all been talking, and I've got some bad news."
"What is it?" Hank asked, running the possibilities through his mind, wondering if he'd forgotten to pay the club's quarterly dues.
F.R. hung his head low. "You can't be a part of the Circle anymore."
"I don't understand," said Hank, addressing the group. "I thought we were all becoming... friends. I love it here." Hank gazed around the room, all hooks and beef. "Actually, I don't love it here. I mean I love being a part of the Circle. Did I do something to offend all of you?"
T.H. Ornasis, an esteemed neo-Norse mythologist, spoke first. "The problem isn't you, per se. The problem is Sid."
"Sid? That's preposterous! Sid is a work of fiction!" said Hank.
"Some have said that we are nothing but the fiction of a higher power." P.K. stated, an armchair sage. "Preposterous as it is, your benevolent hero is wreaking havoc! Two days ago, I discovered that the Big Brother of my latest dystopian distillation was none other than Sid Little."
Tears in her eyes, P.R. made her own confession. "I've been writing romance novels on the side. The money is really good!" she said, a preemptive defense. "Last week, Sid showed up as the third member of a love triangle. My heroine is falling for him! My editor is threatening to stop my advance."
"Everyone has had similar experiences," said F.R., cutting the emotional tirade short.
"Even you?"
"F.R. hasn't written a word since his Pulitzer in '68," whispered C. K. Templeton, an F.R. protege.
"We have no other choice but to ask you to leave," said F.R.
"You're wrong," he said. "There's another choice. But it will require all of us working together." He chose his next words carefully. "We all must leave, right now, and write Sid Little out of our lives forever."
"You mean, slay him?" asked T.H., already mentally sharpening his battleaxe.
"Slay. Exterminate. Kill. Yes."
"I'm writing a fictionalized treatise on my dysfunctional childhood," said I.L. Pinkmouth, who hadn't spoken since the day he'd joined the Vicious Circle five years ago. "Last week, Sid turned up in my book as a fifth grade bully. He's a horrible character, but you can't possibly expect me to kill a ten year old!"
"It's the only way," said B.Z. "I should know. I've done it."
The news that B.Z. had murdered Sid - if only fictionally - stung, a knife in his back. But you told him to do it! Hank reminded himself. His own personal destruction of Sid was treasonous, but reconcilable. Involving others, though, brought a new atmosphere to the situation: they were gods, laying waste to an ill-conforming creation.
F.R. took a quick poll. Everyone agreed, by next month, if Sid wasn't gone, Hank had to go. The party disassembled, wordless, only nods and glances exchanged as they disembarked to carry out their dirty deed.
Over the next seven days, Hank's apartment turned into a command center. Phone calls, faxes, and emails came in from every quadrant. Sid was on the run, but they were finding him, cornering him, cutting him off at all borders. Thus far, Sid had been hanged, quartered, hit by a train, struck by a car, electrocuted, knifed by a mime, and, Hank's personal favorite, flattened like a pancake by the cartooning satirist H.P. Joyce. The war was being won, and its primary constructor, five-star-general Hank Henegarde, could feel in his bones that soon Sid's white flag would rise.
Ten days had passed, and no one had heard from Sid. Hank toyed with the idea of writing him into Ambulance Bread, marginalized as a side character, a bum on the street, a carnival barker, a lone tenor in the church choir, but decided against it: a kindly notion but a lousy idea. Maybe I'll dedicate the book to Sid, he thought, notating such in his journal.
The ordeal had opened the door to a relationship with P.R. Her guilt-ridden admission as a closeted romance writer (penned under her actual name: Tiffany Kimbersoul) softening her to a pillowy pulp of her former self. She'd even been spotted wearing pink while out on a date with Hank.
The New York Public Library seemed a fitting setting for the post-war edition of the Vicious Circle. Hank and P.R. entered as a couple, sparking a murmuring din that swelled until F.R. announced the beginning of the meeting.
"Good evening, everyone," said the chairman. "I have two announcements tonight. The first one is this: after ten years of service, I am stepping down. My replacement will be the man who has done more than anyone else to solidify the image of this assemblage: Hank Henegarde."
Hank was stunned at the statement, as was everyone else, though they could not deny its truth. For the first time ever, the distance between the thirteen seats had been bridged, the circle made unbroken. For better or worse, they needed each other.
A consummate gentleman, Hank rose to meet F.R. at the center of the Circle for a handshake, a passing of the torch. Hank could see in the old man's eyes that the act was not entirely selfless. I'm returning to my typewriter, he thought he heard him whisper.
"Wait!" said Hank. "You haven't made your second announcement. What could it possibly be?"
"My retirement from this illustrious body leaves a void to be filled. We have, and always will have, thirteen members." F.R. raised a hand toward the back of the room. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."
All eyes turned toward a man walking down the dark hallway of books. He stopped at the edge of the Circle, a tiger about to enter the ring. Hank stared at the man. The man stared back. The two of them bore a striking resemblance: it was as if skilled artisan had taken Hank and chipped away all the bad features to create the man.
"What's your name?" asked Hank.
But he already knew the answer.
