A writer's death

''Well done Mr.bell! or should i say Mr.assassin? Mr.Killer? Mr.Hitman?''

Only that whisper was heard in his car. He was shocked, he remebered that there was no one on the rooftop. Yet, he knew it. he turned around to take a look at the backseat. Only a young thing was there, wearing enormous heels, an oversized shirt and, probably, the shortest skirt you ever seen. She had long hair spreading like a fire in that red tint, with green eyes to compliment the looks.

''who are you!? and how do you know my name!?''

she smiled at him, like if talking about a murder was easy and fun.

''I am the writer, and i write the story mister!''

the man looked confused, the writer of the story? but this was real life not a fantasy world, he worked everyday, gave his family food, cheating his wife. This was no fake. Yet, he played along.

''I don't follow!''

The woman kept on smilling, seeing her character act of the sort.

''i write in complex ways every one of your moves! Thinking about the next moments, planning on what to do next like you going to your daughter's school for a show, you will be late and your wife will not let you have fun for the next weeks because of that.''

The man on the other side of the bench starting to freak out, knowing his wife, its most likely probable to happen. Maybe she was right? that she is the writer. He tried to kept his cool and kept the conversation running.

''if you know that i killed a man and you are the writer, then, tell me why did i ended his life?''

She chuckled, for her, it was like asking what 2 plus 2 equaled.

''It's simple, you hated your boss. I made him as horrible as i can, making it like mine's, alot of things that happened to me happenned to you! Well.. aside the... sexual favors...''

Mr.Bell started to really freak out, she knew too much, writer or not, he had to kill her, if he did, he would never have to worry about that affair again. He opened the glovebox and pulled out his gun and, with lighting speed, he pointed it at the writer.

''What are you doing!?''

the man looked at the innoncent woman once more.

''I'm sorry.... but the story ends here...''

only a violent sound came out off the car and a body dropped. He had to leave, pretend like nothing happened but.... at the same time, a nuclear bomb dropped, destroying everything in his path, even Mr.bell, leaving no one alive.

Years after, the book murder of a writer was published, even if the story was halfway done. It sold over 50 millions copies and the company took it all, laughing of a writer's death