h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Though we haven't spoken in a while, I thought you might like to read this very short story.


A Bit of Fiction


"You know what's funny about fiction writing?" asked Bob.

Margarette said noting in response. She was on the last page of a short story in her Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and really wished Bob would let her alone for a few more minutes. Bob continued unfettered.

"Every so often, not every day at least, something comes true."

Bob had just finished reading a story in The Post about woman who poisoned her husband after getting the idea from a novel she had read. The newspaper, smudged with jelly, was open and taking up most of the café table.

Margarette honestly did not care if the stories were true or not; she just liked reading them. This feature was about a cook stabbed with a steak knife, and she was certain the killer was the tennis coach. She was slightly annoyed at having to hold the small magazine in her hands, as the table was full of plates and Bob's newspaper.

"Take murders, for instance. Now everyone likes a good murder. Well, everyone except the person murdered of course, and their families and loves ones... Oh, never mind that. Let me rephrase: Everyone loves a good mystery and murders are the best kind. There can only be so many stolen necklaces and lost Wills before that gets boring. But murder! No, murder is never boring. Just think of all the amazingly different ways for a person to die."

Once again, Margarette did not want to think about all the "amazingly different ways for a person to die." She wanted to read that last five paragraphs and be verified in her accusation of the tennis coach.

"Poisons are fine and can be administered a great number of ways. Then there are guns, but everyone in the news today uses guns and there really aren't that many alternate uses for the average projectile firearm. It's so impersonal, and I think murder should be a personal experience."

Margarette was unhappy. Bob had distracted her enough that she had to reread the page. Worse than that, the killer was identified not as the tennis coach, but as that damned gardener who only showed up in the last three pages. She hated rushed endings like that.

"Take this knife, for instance." Bob leaned back in his chair and snatched a steak knife from a dirty plate on a neighboring table. "This knife could be extremely deadly. I mean it could be jabbed in anywhere. Or it could be used to cut arteries and veins and such. Here," he handed the knife smugly to Margarette, "Now you could kill me."

And so she killed him.