Dastardly

by Lorraine Ray

I consume six amazing and precious Scorpions and afterwards Rodney and I blunder safely to Rod’s apartment again. I collapse on Rod’s couch but I’ve had so much booze I can’t sleep, which is a problem I sometimes have now, and while I lie awake a scene from my past with Marsha comes back to haunt him.

  “What garbage to be thinking of” was what Marsha had said about me writing horror in a conversation a few months ago. She claimed I was wasting my talent on writing these awful tomes, she called them, simply because they were popular which was no reason to give people what they wanted when “what they want is so incredibly sickening”, according to her, the authority on sickening. Of course, I pointed out I found romantic books sickening and they are as popular, truthfully. After all, you can’t expect people to know what is good for them, but I always point out Shakespeare’s early plays were horror stories as that dude knew what would interest the public and he cut out someone’s tongue in one of his early plays and made the poor woman, or a man dressed as a woman, I guess, walk onto the stage with fake blood oozing out of his/her mouth and a blood-stained tunic; it was some sort of fake classical deal.

  “Yeah, but Shakespeare got away from horror quickly because he realized it was not the finest way to enlighten the world about real human drama or anything and he regretted it,” Marsha pointed out immediately.

  “Oh, but he put in witches in some of his most famous plays,” I claimed right back.

  “I think they know another writer put those in. And the bubble, toil and trouble crap was for fun. And the Queen liked it.”

  “How can you prove that?”

  “It’s well researched, Vig. Read some books about his plays and what went on in the theaters of the time.”

  “All I know is the public loves horror.”

  “These horror stories are only a sign of temporary insanity in the reading public,” Marsha claimed “and that is all and eventually they’ll shake it off like a bad dream and they’ll prefer romance. Chalk up their interest in horror to the general lack of horror in their own lives, the lack of significant challenges,” said Marsha, waxing all psychological and professorial and all that crap. “If they were threatened in their daily life they wouldn’t want horror. They only crave it when there is a lack of it around them.”

  “I disagree. Everything in America is horrid. Everything in the American West is horrid. One must accept that as fundamental and go forward accordingly.” I proclaim that in my head, imaging the speech I would give as I accept an award for brilliant writing. “Tarantulas. Scorpions. Think of it. Take advantage of it to create—Western Horror, a new genre in which to make millions!” I extoll the cheering crowd.

  The next day I write in undisturbed bliss all day in the museum. I lock up the museum and drive home where I shower and leave my laptop hidden under the bed in a secret spot in case my apartment gets robbed. I head out to the February meeting of the writers’ workshop. Promises to be another fiasco and include lots of drinking and arguing. Marsha is always there.