A decade and a half ago, Cecilia Servatius was born. Since then, she's spent a good deal of her time growing up. She continues to do so now, and hopes to for some time yet. In the meantime, she does whatever she can, wherever she is, with whatever she has.

Whatever she has, it’s working. Last issue, she griped about her coffee in "I Drown My Sorrows in Caffeine". This time around, she went all the way, winning our “Let’s Get Criminal” contest with her…

“C.O.C.”
by Cecilia Servatius

It is cold, and the office chairs are uncomfortable as always. I tap my fingers impatiently as my interviewee squirms in his chair. I smile to myself and take a sip of coffee. His eyes follow my every movement. He's nervous. Good.

I wait. I never let them make me start. They must make the first move. Let them writhe and wriggle uncomfortably, until they capitulate and ask me a question, blurt out something inane, or give up.

Finally, it happens. "Why my?" he asks.

Not good enough. He has to give me more to work with. I raise an eyebrow, enough to let him know that he needs to elaborate. He tries again.

"I don't understand. You don't know me at all. Why have you chosen me for this job? I... I don't think I’m up to it."

Now, this is interesting. Normally, they will offer me anything for a chance to work with me. I grimace. This might prove to be more work than I bargained for. "And why," I ask as acidly as I can, "aren't you... up to it?"

He makes a desperate motion with his hands. "I can't- I can't just kill people."

Here we go again. Three in a row have already turned down the job. At this rate, I might just end up doing it myself. After all, it's just the Crime of the Century.

"Why?" I asked. "A little poison, or a shot to the head. That's all. You don't even know him. Nothing to worry about."

He blanches and hugs himself, eyes darting towards the door. "I- I don't understand," he says again. "Why do you want to kill him?"

That does it. My temper snaps and I bang a fist on the table. "Damn it, you fool!" I scream at him. "I don't want to kill him. I want you to kill him."

"Why?" he asks, again.

Idly, I wonder whether hair that blond grew naturally. Or just why he's wearing that ridiculous blue trench coat. Come to think of it, where does one get a blue trench coat? His hands are amazing, long fingered, with incredibly clean nails. Hands to play the cello with. Hands to sculpt marble with. Hands to kill with.

I sigh. "The Squid wants a story about crime. About criminals. Murder is crime. Deal."

He sighs. "Does it have to be murder?" he whines. "Can't I just steal Aunt Martha's silver? Besides, it says right there in the guidelines, don't 'jump on the murder bandwagon’.”

I sigh in turn. "Look," I say, "I'm in charge here. I'm the author. You're my character. As far as you are concerned, I'm God."

"Blasphemy!" he shrieks, scrabbling away from me. "That's a crime!"

"No it's not," I protest. "What state are we in, anyhow?"

"Not the state of the art, that's for sure," he says, continuing to inch away from me.

"It has to be murder," I say sitting down. "If you're going to commit a crime, you might as well do the best you can at it. This has to be the C.O.C! The Crime of the Century!"

"I don't want to commit a crime!" he protests again.

"Look," I say grabbing him by the elbows, "a crime has to be committed. Comprende? You are going to do it, so help me, or I'll have you locked up until you do!"

"Blackmail," he shouts. He pushes me off and scrambles away. "Kidnapping! Criminal!"

I sigh, reaching for my coffee. It will be a long day if they keep on behaving like this. "Listen," I say, "I don't have time for this. In fact, the deadline is nearly upon us. Somebody has got to commit something in time for me to finish the story."

He frowns and sits back down. Ah, here it is. The desperation. He needs a job and he's not going to get one anywhere else. "What's in it for me?"

Wants pay, does he? "Immortality," I say. "Posterity will look upon you with envy."

"What good is that?" he asks. "I don't care what posterity thinks. I want some sort of benefit now. Sheesh, if I wanted life insurance...."

"It's not life insurance," I shout. "It's a Get Out of Death Free card! You'll never die! Ever! You'll always remain, as you are, twenty something, incredibly blond, with gorgeous hands – hands to kill with."

"I don't want to remain this way forever," he snaps. "In fact, I hope I don't remain this way forever. I came here because I wanted a job. I wanted a job so that I could make money. And I wanted to make money because I wanted to change."

"You will change," I say. "A little, anyway. You'll be a murderer, for one. For another you’ll be famous throughout the literary world."

"You get a heck of a lot more than I do," he grumbles. "You get fame, glory, honor and all that baloney. You get thirty buckaroonies."

I sigh. "That's the way life is. Some people have it, some people don't. I have it. I can only give you so much."

He grimaces and I know I have work to do. He'll have to. Everything depends on it.
"See," I say, handing him the folder. "I have it all written. Every last page. All you have to do is agree. It's already been done."

"It has not been done," he says, turning slightly green as he reads some of the more juicy bits. "I didn't do that!"

"Not yet, dear," I sooth. "It's a story. You’re a fictional character. As soon as you agree, you will have done it."

"I have not," he insists. "And I will not. It's libel that's what it is. Pure, unadulterated libel. What a crime."

I take it back from him. "It's not libel," I say, "or, at least, it won't be as soon as you agree. Come on. What's a little murder between pages, hmm?"

Suddenly, he grabs the folder and stands towering over me. For an instant I am struck with the thought that perhaps, just perhaps, I have made him too strong.
"I'm afraid I don't like your terms," he hisses, advancing on me. "I’ll make my own terms."

I gulp, remembering that he is armed. I wrote it myself. "And your terms are?"

"I take this story," he says. "I publish it. A little find and replace takes care of whodunnit. You will have done it. You get immortality. I get the money, the fame, and the laud."

"No," I whisper in horror. "You couldn't! Plagiarism is a crime!"

"No one will ever know," he whispers dangerously, fingers flexing and crushing the spine of the folder.

"I'll sue you!" I screech desperately, wondering what happened to my panic button. "I'll turn you in! Prosecute you!"

"I have good lawyers," he smiles. "I can plead not guilty."

"That – that would be perjury!" I yell at him. "Obstruction of justice! How could you?"

"How?" he asks silkily. "Simple – you conveniently forgot to give me a conscience."

"You'll never get away with it," I whisper angrily.

"Of course I will," he says, drawing his 44. "No one will ever know."

He shoots twice and leaves the room, the precious folder cradled under his arm.
I fall against the desk, prepared to boldly go into the next life. As I die, I think I hear the voice of my English teacher protesting, "Splitting an infinitive! How dare you? That's a crime!"

END