“Shut up. I’m trying to write. Just stay in your place.”

“You’re trying to write? You’re just sitting there. All I did was ask where all the pain goes. Think of it. The pain in the world. Not only the pain humans suffer but what about all the animals?  A buffalo being eaten by lions. Now that’s pain. Where does all of it go?”

“Damn it, you’re a fictional character in my Nick Bancroft novels.. I created you to be a freelance reporter and half-ass private dick. Not a philosopher who interrupts my thoughts as I create another exciting scene.

“Yeah, like the time, in DEATH STING, you left me in a ditch, beaten half to death. Thanks a lot, pal. There was plenty of pain there. It finally went away. Where did it go?”

“I don’t know. Now shut up while I think of some way to keep you alive in this novel. If you shut up I’ll write you out of this mess and get you back with Maggie. Maybe that’s where all the pain goes. When you’re making love to Maggie the pain goes away, right?”