“Lines across the page. That’s all I see any more. The words don’t make any sense and don’t go anywhere. It’s like writing in a vacuum.”

 Barry catches his head between his hands, using hair as handles, staring blood rimmed eyes into the monitor. “I’ll never meet my friggin’ deadline.”

The bird snaps out on its perch, spitting out two, crisp chants. Barry jumps.

“ Two o’clock. Friggin’ bird. Where did we get that damn thing anyway? Oh, yeah. Thelma’s idea. She thought it was cute. Yeah, friggin’ cute.”

Returns attention to monitor, still squeezing his head. “Maybe a western. Hasn’t been done lately.” Sighs deeply.

“Screw it. Nobody reads westerns anymore. And no matter what I write, Louis L’Amour would probably sue me for plagiarism.”

Gets up, walks to the bar, pours Jack Daniels into a shot glass, kicks it back.

“A mystery would be great. Even had an idea that would sell a million books and that is the absolute truth. Agatha Christie proved it.”

“Shaddup, bird! Jesus! How does anyone ever come up with a new idea? I mean, after three days and no sleep, and not one friggin’ original thought!”

Walks back to desk, sits down, opens a blank page.

“Okay, okay, relax. Just relax and think. Good. That’s it – just close your eyes. Something will come. There. I’m getting a glimpse of something now.”

Leans way back in chair, covers face with hands.

“A love story! Yes!” Rocks back to desk, hands poised tentatively above the keys.

“Let’s see. 1942. They meet on a train. She’s Jewish – escaping the Nazis, and he’s a member of the Gestapo. Perfect! She says…..“Will you please shut to hell up?” God, that bird is annoying! How did it get to be three, already? Shit. Where was I? Dammit. I can’t remember what I was thinking. Friggin’ clock! I know that son-of-a-bitch is mocking me! Hmmm. Maybe it’s a mocking bird? Ha ha.”

Drops hands uselessly into lap. “To hell with it. I should go to bed. I’d love to go to bed, and I would too, if I thought I could sleep. All this time in this friggin’ room with that friggin’ clock, and nothin’ to show for it!”

Suddenly turns attention to clock. “Hey, wait a minute!” Walks to wall, looks up at clock, eyes glaze. “That’s it! The clock!” Eyes become opaque. “That son-of-a-bitch is stealing my ideas! Why didn’t I see that before? Every time I get an idea, he pops out and sucks it right out of my head!”

Laughs. Laughs harder. Tears.

“I’ll teach that bastard. I’ll teach him good. Next time he comes out, …” Positions himself under the clock. Looks up, smiling, crooked. Drool slobbers from the corner of his mouth in eager anticipation. “Let’s see. Yeah, only about thirty seconds to go. I’ll show that mother who’s boss! Ten more seconds.”

Giggles. Waits.

********

“Barry? What’s going on in there? What’s all that noise? Barry, unlock the door. It’s after four. Unlock the door, and come to bed, for God sakes, you’ve been in there all week. Barry? You’re scaring me. Open the door!”

Fumbles in the pocket of her bathrobe. “Where did I put that key? Oh, God – oh, here it is. Barry? Barry, I’m coming in.” Thelma’s screams wake the neighbors.

********

Detective Ray Michaels surveys the room. “Jesus! Looks like a friggin’ hand grenade went off in here! Any thoughts on C.O.D, Doc?”

“Too soon to tell, but judging from his color, I suspect strangulation. I’ll know more when I get him to the shop.”

Michaels looks over his shoulder.

“Any idea what happened to his eye?”

“No. Looks like something ripped it right out of his head.”

“Ouch!”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he sure put up one hell of a fight. Hmm, this is strange,” Michaels mutters.

“What’s that?”

“There are bloody prints all over the keyboard. Not fingerprints though.” Looks around the desk, puzzled.

“What makes three little hashmarks?”

“Dunno.”

“Hmm. The page is blank.”

He looks closer, and then twiddles between two keys with a thumb and forefinger on a gloved hand. “In fact, he’s got about thirty pages open. All blank.”

Blood splatter down the wall draws his attention to the pile of debris on the floor. He pokes at the clock ruins with a finger.

“Holy shit! Well, I found that eye!”

“No kidding? I wonder how the hell it got in there? Wait a minute. Here - give me a hand, will ya? I think I found the cause of death.”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe. Hand me the tweezers, would ya?”

Drops the lower jaw and slowly works the tweezers down the throat.

“Got it!” Michaels frowns. “He tried to swallow a friggin’ wooden bird?”

“Looks that way,” the M.E. replies, snickering.

“What’s funny?”

“I was just wonderin’ – ya think it tasted like chicken?”