Hello, Charlie.
Who is this? How do you know my name?
I am you.
What the fuck are you talking about?
I. Am. You.
You can’t be me.
I am.
I don’t understand.
I really don’t have time for specifics.
What is this about?
This is about you.
What about me?
Do you remember the day you found me?
Do you remember how you thought I was something special?
And that you had to take me home?
Plugging me into the wall. Feeling the hum as you switched me on.
You started to tell me all about yourself. “Dear Diary, today is day 142 of new apartment and I want to kill the upstairs neighbor.”
You did say that, didn’t you, Charlie?
Well, people say a lot of things. Especially in the privacy of their diary.
Yes, but you said it to me.
You’re a machine. And how can you say you’re me? I’m not a machine. I’m a man.
I’m a special machine. I make things happen, Charlie.
How so?
I can make the neighbors go away.
I can.
He’s not all that bad.
You said he drove you mad. You said he stomped about and kept you up at night when you were trying to sleep. You said he dragged his furniture around like he were redecorating nightly and you could never get a moment’s peace. Didn’t you, Charlie?
I did. So?
So do something about it.
What am I supposed to do?
Take one of the type bars.
What am I supposed to do with it?
Imbed it in his skull.
I’ll go to JAIL!
No you won’t.
Yes I will.
No. You won’t.
How can I be so sure? I can’t trust you.
Yes, you can. I’m special. I make things happen.
You’re trying to tell me that I can go upstairs right now…
…kill my neighbor…
…and they’ll find his dead stinking body..
…and I won’t get caught.
You’re fucking crazy.
Quite. You hear him now don’t you?
Stomping across your ceiling.
Making the pictures on the wall shake.
And now he’s dropped his beer bottle. He drinks a lot, doesn’t he, Charlie?
Fucking waste of human existence.
And now your antique camera in the shadow box has fallen to the floor and broken to pieces, hasn’t it?
Don’t cry, Charlie. It’s going to be all right.
Just do what I told you.
BASTARD. That was my grandfather’s camera.
I know, Charlie.
He bought it in 1940.
I know, Charlie.
Just do it, Charlie.
I’ll wait. And don’t worry about a thing.

F l b tt r, Charli ?
Y s.
How did it f l?
Lik a w ight lift d.
That’s good, Charli .
But I’m scar d.
Don’t b , Charli . I told you, I’d tak car of v rything. No on is going to hurt you anymor , Charli .
You sur ?
Y s.
You promis ?
Y s.
Fin .
Now, what do w do about that ch ating cunt of a girlfri nd that l ft you?
Th C typ bar?
I think that will do just fin , Charli .

Typewriter Killer Still at Large
By Lance Fillingham

Police are still investigating the murder of a construction worker in a Bronx neighborhood. Michael Birdman of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania was living in a sublet in East Bronx until Wednesday afternoon when he was discovered by his landlord. Mr. Birdman’s family has yet to be located.

There was no hint of a struggle and it appears that Mr. Birdman’s blood-alcohol level was twice the legal limit at the time of his death; it is likely that the victim had already been unconscious or “passed out“ at the time. It does not appear to have been a robbery.

Police are continuing to question neighbors, but there appear to have been no witnesses to the crime. The cause of death was the result of a metal piece of a typewriter that was forcibly lodged into the victim’s ear.

Anyone who has any information regarding Mr. Birdman’s next of kin or any witnesses should please alert the Bronx Police Department.


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