Literary Agent Orson: A Jersey Gherkin

Orson unsheathed his sword. After months of Francine’s humiliating, illiterate taunts down at the Grounde Coffee Shoppe, this would be gratifying. Now she would see. The taunting would cease. She lay defenseless behind him.

Orson heard sounds of the evening outside as Newark revelers strolled by. I should be out there, with them, he thought, but no. He turned and strode to her.

“Oh my God,” she gasped at the sight of his shiny weapon, “it’s so…”

Orson smiled cruelly. Her eyes pleaded.

He impaled her. His sword slid smoothly in and sunk to the hilt. She yelled something, and then the life went out of her.

It was over quickly. A moment of silence followed.

“Is dat all you got speedy,” she shoved Orson off her. “I’da charged double if I’da knew all you was gonna do was tickle me with dat gherkin. Throw me my smokes, and leave the money on the table by the door on your way out. Oh, and dey are gonna hear about dis down at the coffee shop. Dey are gonna hear.”