The Horns of the Dilemma
The night wasn’t young, but if I kept drinking, I might be able to pretend she was still pretty.
I’d just written the perfect opening line for a hardboiled mystery novel. The story’d follow; even having never read the stuff, I was sure of it. It’d be perfect; it’d sell a million copies; it’d revive the genre.
And yet, I’d be trapped there forever.
And it was a nasty trap, because if I didn’t do it, and never succeeded, I’d always know that I’d left behind my chance for success.
Only one chance. I pull the revolver from my desk...
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