Second to None
by Neil Weiner
Chad sank into his easy chair and drifted into a deep reverie.
In this dreamlike state, he found himself lurking in the shadowy corner of a dingy warehouse, the air thick with machine dust and acrid chemicals. At the center of the room, his four secondary characters huddled around a metal table, plotting like conspirators in a bad crime flick.
Jay, the two-bit informant, slammed his fist on the wobbly table. “Man, I’m sick of Amy, that damn bleach blonde D.A. always getting the gold. She solves every case like she got some fairy-magic luck. And that boyfriend of hers? Detective Adam, Mr. Smooth-Talkin’ Tough Guy? Pfft. Ain’t nothin’ but a badge with a pretty face.”
Minerva, his strung-out girlfriend, scratched at her arm. “And what about Carlos? Another cartel boss? Real original. Plus, he don’t even speak Spanish—what kinda weak-ass villain is that?” She shot Jay a glare. “And why I gotta be beggin’ for dope every other scene? Like, c’mon, I got layers, man.”
Jay pointed at her. “That’s what I’m sayin’! We stuck in these third-rate roles while Amy and Adam act like they God’s gift to crime-fightin’.”
Preston Brightham III, a British Rolls-Royce sales associate, sighed. "Having spent a fortnight in this narrative with you two, it's clear you are anything but low-life Americans. And let us not forget Detective Rachel. She plays second-fiddle to her incompetent supervisor, Adam. Doesn't our author realize women are the heroes these days?"
Rachel ranted, "Thanks, Preston. I do all the legwork, cozy up to Carlos, record our chats in an easily spotted brooch, and that phony Adam takes the credit. Someone needs to tell our hack author Chad that he's behind the times."
She added. “Next time Chad writes, we drop him into a trance and kill off those clichéd characters. That’ll give this book some authenticity.”
In this dreamlike state, he found himself lurking in the shadowy corner of a dingy warehouse, the air thick with machine dust and acrid chemicals. At the center of the room, his four secondary characters huddled around a metal table, plotting like conspirators in a bad crime flick.
Jay, the two-bit informant, slammed his fist on the wobbly table. “Man, I’m sick of Amy, that damn bleach blonde D.A. always getting the gold. She solves every case like she got some fairy-magic luck. And that boyfriend of hers? Detective Adam, Mr. Smooth-Talkin’ Tough Guy? Pfft. Ain’t nothin’ but a badge with a pretty face.”
Minerva, his strung-out girlfriend, scratched at her arm. “And what about Carlos? Another cartel boss? Real original. Plus, he don’t even speak Spanish—what kinda weak-ass villain is that?” She shot Jay a glare. “And why I gotta be beggin’ for dope every other scene? Like, c’mon, I got layers, man.”
Jay pointed at her. “That’s what I’m sayin’! We stuck in these third-rate roles while Amy and Adam act like they God’s gift to crime-fightin’.”
Preston Brightham III, a British Rolls-Royce sales associate, sighed. "Having spent a fortnight in this narrative with you two, it's clear you are anything but low-life Americans. And let us not forget Detective Rachel. She plays second-fiddle to her incompetent supervisor, Adam. Doesn't our author realize women are the heroes these days?"
Rachel ranted, "Thanks, Preston. I do all the legwork, cozy up to Carlos, record our chats in an easily spotted brooch, and that phony Adam takes the credit. Someone needs to tell our hack author Chad that he's behind the times."
She added. “Next time Chad writes, we drop him into a trance and kill off those clichéd characters. That’ll give this book some authenticity.”
When Chad stirred, he dismissed his daydream as mental static from working too hard. But when he opened his laptop, two full pages had been added to his manuscript.
Weird. He rubbed his eyes. I must’ve been in the zone before crashing.
As he skimmed the text, disbelief struck.
Detective Adam had led a botched raid against Carlos. In a disastrous ambush, Adam and his squad had been slaughtered. But undercover detective Rachel had gone full-blown Rambo, planting hidden explosives, leveling the cartel's headquarters and mowing down gangsters in a hail of bullets.
Chad turned the page.
Rachel, the last cop standing, had tumbled into the arms of Preston III that night. Their chemistry, fueled by danger and adrenaline, erupted into a feverish love scene, so vividly written that Chad flushed with embarrassment at his own audacity.
Chad muttered, “Well, damn. Looks like I outdid myself.”
That night as he slept, his secondary characters reconvened in the warehouse. They distracted Chad with a sweaty, sexual dream.
A sated Rachel lounged on Preston’s lap, stroking his leg.
Jay protested, “A’ight, you two got your rocks off. Now it’s time for me and Minerva to get some action.”
Minerva grinned. “Hell yeah. And while we’re at it, we expose that namby-pamby D.A., Amy. I swear, them blonde heroines should’ve died out with Marilyn Monroe.”
Rachel responded, “Okay, okay, fine. Instead of you being inconsequential characters, let’s make you and Jay superheroes.”
Weird. He rubbed his eyes. I must’ve been in the zone before crashing.
As he skimmed the text, disbelief struck.
Detective Adam had led a botched raid against Carlos. In a disastrous ambush, Adam and his squad had been slaughtered. But undercover detective Rachel had gone full-blown Rambo, planting hidden explosives, leveling the cartel's headquarters and mowing down gangsters in a hail of bullets.
Chad turned the page.
Rachel, the last cop standing, had tumbled into the arms of Preston III that night. Their chemistry, fueled by danger and adrenaline, erupted into a feverish love scene, so vividly written that Chad flushed with embarrassment at his own audacity.
Chad muttered, “Well, damn. Looks like I outdid myself.”
That night as he slept, his secondary characters reconvened in the warehouse. They distracted Chad with a sweaty, sexual dream.
A sated Rachel lounged on Preston’s lap, stroking his leg.
Jay protested, “A’ight, you two got your rocks off. Now it’s time for me and Minerva to get some action.”
Minerva grinned. “Hell yeah. And while we’re at it, we expose that namby-pamby D.A., Amy. I swear, them blonde heroines should’ve died out with Marilyn Monroe.”
Rachel responded, “Okay, okay, fine. Instead of you being inconsequential characters, let’s make you and Jay superheroes.”
Chad sat at his desk, ready to finish his novel. But the latest pages stopped him cold. The story had transformed again.
Minerva had cleaned up. No more dope fiend. She had checked into rehab, emerged sleek, sophisticated, and drop-dead stunning. She walked into rooms like she owned them, rocking high-end fashion, her hair bouncing.
Jay had gone full legend. He cracked a case so big the feds had tripped over themselves to protect him. He wasn’t just a snitch; he was the snitch. He made Sammy the Bull, who had taken down the mafia, look small-time. Jay had dismantled networks, cartels, and corrupt politicians. The FBI stashed him deep in witness protection.
And Amy? Chad’s golden-haired queen of his youth? She was exterminated.
Turns out, she was dirty, taking cartel bribes, engineering leniency, dismissing charges. Jay and Minerva traced the money, following the stench to her doorstep.
Amy had tried to flee but Jay forced her car off the road. He’d yanked her out by her bleach-blond hair. No trial. No last plea. The sentence had been carried out roadside.
Gasoline. A flick of a lighter.
Amy burned.
Chad recoiled, horrified. Then he recalled her mockery of his clumsy advances in high school. The bitter sting of humiliation crystallized: The bitch deserved it.
His novel became an instant sensation, earning him the prestigious Ellery Queen Award. Chad’s fan-fiction followers turned him into a legend. Readers spun sagas about his characters. Jay, Minerva, Preston III, and Rachel transcended the page.
In reaction to their newfound power, Rachel gathered the crew in a grand study rather than the dingy warehouse where they had schemed.
“We don’t need Chad anymore,” Rachel accused. “Our audience is already here. Why let him hoard the glory?”
They nodded.
Jay asked, “Are we all in? Let’s do away with Chad and become stars in our own right.”
Another round of nods.
Minerva had cleaned up. No more dope fiend. She had checked into rehab, emerged sleek, sophisticated, and drop-dead stunning. She walked into rooms like she owned them, rocking high-end fashion, her hair bouncing.
Jay had gone full legend. He cracked a case so big the feds had tripped over themselves to protect him. He wasn’t just a snitch; he was the snitch. He made Sammy the Bull, who had taken down the mafia, look small-time. Jay had dismantled networks, cartels, and corrupt politicians. The FBI stashed him deep in witness protection.
And Amy? Chad’s golden-haired queen of his youth? She was exterminated.
Turns out, she was dirty, taking cartel bribes, engineering leniency, dismissing charges. Jay and Minerva traced the money, following the stench to her doorstep.
Amy had tried to flee but Jay forced her car off the road. He’d yanked her out by her bleach-blond hair. No trial. No last plea. The sentence had been carried out roadside.
Gasoline. A flick of a lighter.
Amy burned.
Chad recoiled, horrified. Then he recalled her mockery of his clumsy advances in high school. The bitter sting of humiliation crystallized: The bitch deserved it.
His novel became an instant sensation, earning him the prestigious Ellery Queen Award. Chad’s fan-fiction followers turned him into a legend. Readers spun sagas about his characters. Jay, Minerva, Preston III, and Rachel transcended the page.
In reaction to their newfound power, Rachel gathered the crew in a grand study rather than the dingy warehouse where they had schemed.
“We don’t need Chad anymore,” Rachel accused. “Our audience is already here. Why let him hoard the glory?”
They nodded.
Jay asked, “Are we all in? Let’s do away with Chad and become stars in our own right.”
Another round of nods.
Chad relished his long drives between signings. As he drove down a rain-slicked highway, fatigue settled over him. His vision blurred. His grip loosened. His limbs felt detached.
His hands fell away from the wheel. His foot pressed the gas instead of the brake.
The last thing he saw was the trunk of a towering oak tree.
A sickening crunch shattered the night.
The next morning, news of his tragic death flooded social media. His fanbase mourned. Sales skyrocketed.
Deep in the shadows, a different group celebrated.
They had begun penning the next chapter of his legacy. Themselves.
His hands fell away from the wheel. His foot pressed the gas instead of the brake.
The last thing he saw was the trunk of a towering oak tree.
A sickening crunch shattered the night.
The next morning, news of his tragic death flooded social media. His fanbase mourned. Sales skyrocketed.
Deep in the shadows, a different group celebrated.
They had begun penning the next chapter of his legacy. Themselves.
Dr. Neil Weiner has over 40 years of experience as a clinical psychologist. He enjoys using stories to help readers harness their resilience within to aid them on their healing journey. He has been published in a variety of professional journals and in fiction magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and the Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining. He has a monthly advice column in a Portland Newspaper, AskDr.Neil.