A Difference of Artistic Opinion

I phoned Brian, rather than going to his office, to save having to get into disguise. I was busy and I had things to do. Like kill Shannon.

Brian answered quickly. [I’m sure he has installed a hidden camera in my apartment, to find out what I look like.]

I explained the interesting new development in my novel.

It quickly became clear that we had a difference of artistic opinion.

“Willow,” Brian shrieked, sounding like a budgerigar trapped in an egg timer with its brother, “You can’t kill Shannon.”

“Why not?” I asked, yawning. This was boring and I had things to do. Like kill Shannon.

“Willow, do you remember that chat we had recently? About the connection between your books selling, and your income?”

I laughed. “You’ve been sniffing correction fluid again, haven’t you? I told you, this supposed connection is just a conspiracy theory.”

“Shannon has to stay alive. She’s going to keep you in the lifestyle to which you are apparently addicted.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She’s your pension.”

“Since when has payment in shops been accepted in the form of short women with Dublin accents?” I demanded.

“Shannon isn’t short.”

I grinned. Compared to Brian, nobody was short.
I went on, “Fiery and feisty she may be, but can I burn her in my fireplace?”

“You don’t have a fireplace,” Brian interrupted, proving that I was right about the hidden camera.

“If I had a fireplace. I couldn’t burn her. The same goes for fuel for my barbeque.” I paused to find out whether he’d fall into the same trap, and let me know that he knew I didn’t have a barbeque either, but he stayed silent. “So, fiery though she is, how she can be my pension is a mystery to me. Goodbye, Brian.”

The conversation had become boring and I had things to do. Like kill Shannon. I hung up the phone.