Is the Villain Dead?

Flaminga hated getting up to the alarm. Previously, she had known how to wake up before it rang, but recently it diligently hammered into her sleepy brain. Dring! Dring! Dring! Flaminga hoped that the person who invented this hellish machine was suffering in some hell. Otherwise, life is unfair.

She brewed herself a cup of coffee and drained it in one gulp. She knew, of course, that you shouldn't drink coffee on an empty stomach, but there was nothing she could do about it.

There were so many things she couldn't do anything about!

Every morning started with the ringing of the alarm clock. Then a cup of disgustingly bitter coffee. Then her job. Then a lunch of a sandwich or nothing, thoughts about imminent gastritis and again work. Then home, and again work, which she did not have time to finish in the afternoon, and then thoughts about Force.

Shit! I hadn't planned on falling in love with the walking piece of bacon! What normal woman could love that? That endlessly awkward jelly roll instead of a body, a damn manatee instead of a man, a vile monster from the third circle of hell!

Why the fuck am I suffering for him so much?

And most importantly, it is unclear whether he abandoned me. He had just left, the brute! And he had said nothing! So what? A period or an ellipsis? Or perhaps even a comma? Oh, be a man, tell me something!

She understood it was her fault, her nasty journalistic habit of using people to get what she needed. Her game was up! Her using was up! But now she didn't have the courage to admit to herself, to him, to the entire world that she was a bitch, a bastard, a mean creature, and in the end, just wrong!

Okay. I'll call him tonight. I'll have a little drink and then call. And everything will be clear and maybe even good.

***

Thanks to her articles about the Villain, the journal "Women's Secrets" had experienced an incredible rise in readership, and after the February article summing up what had happened, it smoothly returned to its previous indicators. But Flaminga liked it even better. Writing about women's nonsense was easier and more pleasant, though perhaps it did not promise big profits.

Today the editorial office was unusually lively. Journalists and editors ran back and forth as if stung in the ass. What is going on?

One journalist, noticing her, stopped.

"Flaminga!" he snapped. "Quickly! Go to the editor-in-chief's office!"

"Is it really urgent?" she asked lazily, putting the bag on her table.

"Take a damn guess!"

***

Oh shit.

"Here she is! The culprit of our triumph!"

Flaminga shrank inwardly, but outwardly did not show it. Next to the editor-in-chief, a tiny woman in her forties, stood the CEO of their publishing house. Flaminga's magazine was just one of twenty-five and by no means the most significant.

"Flaminga, my dear, sit down." The CEO politely smiled, but it only served to hide a barely suppressed rage.

Flaminga sat down in a chair by the editor's desk. The editor-in-chief was silent. The CEO continued:

"Tell me, my dear, what happened to you?" he asked smoothly.

"Uh-uh… I don't understand—"

"Oh, then let me ask you differently. WHY THE FUCK ARE YOUR INDICATORS GO TO HELL?!"

"Well, you know—"

"Don't mumble!"

Flaminga took a deep breath and gathered her strength.

"We just returned to the past. We still have our core audience, and we have—"

"Since July of last year, your indicators had been growing. Today I am looking at the quarterly report, and what do I see? What did you say there? 'Returned to the Past'? WHERE THE HELL HAVE THE NEW NUMBERS GONE?! AT THE END OF THE YEAR, CIRCULATION GROWTH WAS FOUR TIMES HIGHER! WHERE THE HELL IS IT NOW?!"

"You see—" the editor began, but the CEO barked:

"Silence! I'm asking her!"

"Are you accusing me?" Flaminga was indignant.

"Of course not, how could I? But who's the genius of journalism here, huh? Who found a topic that could be milked, huh? Who had inside information, huh? And where is she now?"

"Don't you know? The Villain is dead; there is no more angle!"

"So come up with one! Are you a journalist or an asshole? If you're an asshole and you can only make shit, you're fired. And you can be sure that I will make sure you find no more work in our field."

The office became quiet. Flaminga swallowed and tried to hold back tears. She could not, and a treacherous tear flowed out of her right eye. The CEO noticed this and relented.

"Okay, so be it. I'll give you an option. Is the Villain really dead? The police say yes. But who knows more about the Villain than its creator? You invented this character! So resurrect him! Right now, it's what…? The twelfth of April. By the ninth issue, you are to write a fresh article about the Villain, and by the end of the quarter, I want the indicators back, at least fifty percent. Okay? Suck everything you can out of the topic, and then come up with a new angle. Find another criminal or a scandal. Anything!"

"And if everyone was wrong? If the Villain isn't really dead?"

"So what? So that's even better!"

"He could kill me for writing about him again!" Flaminga blurted out.

"He won't kill you. He won't kill anybody. He's dead! Period," waved away CEO. "So you understood the task. Do whatever you want, but I need to see growth. If there is no growth, there will be no work. Have I made myself clear?"

***

She could not remember how she got through that day. The working hours passed in an incomprehensible stupor, in unsuccessful attempts to write at least a line. Nothing, and that was it. Complete writer's block.

Returning home, like a robot, she lowered her bag onto the nightstand. Took off her shoes. Undressed and went into the room. Sat down on the sofa. Stared at one point. Shook her head: What is wrong with me? My career is in the balance, my new life is going down in flames, and I can't pull myself together and write some crap? Well, hell. All hands on deck! Forward, march to the typewriter!

She thought about calling Force but decided that it would only aggravate the situation: if he decides she is contacting him only for the sake of new information, the relationship could not be expected to resume, although, perhaps, it was no longer needed…

Throwing unnecessary thoughts out of her mind, Flaminga went to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and pulled out her stash—an unopened bottle of expensive cognac. Not some brandy, but real, from the very provinces! She received it at the New Year's corporate party as the winner of the "Journalist of the Year" nomination.

Flaminga had been keeping it for reconciliation with Force, but since there was now such a force majeure… Ha-ha! I haven't opened the bottle yet, but word games are already climbing into my head!

Pulling the stopper out in one motion, she completely barbarously bypassed the centuries-old traditions of drinking this noble drink—tilted the neck to her mouth, and let the liquid flow straight into her throat.

First sip, second, third… She drank until she coughed. She did not feel the taste, the aroma even less. Exhaling at last, she corked the bottle and carried it with her to the typewriter.

So… Hands on the keyboard, the mind enlightened, the intoxication not yet rolling in. It was time. Let's go!

__________

Is the Villain Really Dead?

My dear readers, I was recently overtaken by an extremely disturbing thought. What if the Villain who killed all those people last year is still alive and at large?