A man with so much to offer but so little to show for it is a man who casts a small shadow. Johnny Sweet was such a man. His claim to fame was writing cheap romance novels. He was a good writer. He sold a few books, but the small percentage offered by publishers and the significant competition in the genre left him with little, if any real wealth.
Johnny lived in a small, one bedroom flat in the western suburbs of Sydney. He delicately skated across the thin ice that kept him above the poverty line. Every aspect of his existence was a struggle. He struggled to pay his bills, struggled to put food on his table and struggled to sell his writing. His world gradually squeezed in on him. The bills piled up relentlessly, especially his rent.
If a cheque didn’t arrive soon, Johnny would be in deep trouble. He’d already contemplated life on the streets among the many other desperadoes in his neighbourhood. It was not a pretty picture. His real estate agent was well and truly over his lame excuses, assuring Johnny he was on his last legs.
There were three calls in three days. Three polite yet pushy messages were left on Johnny’s answering machine demanding the rent. Those messages were all ignored in the hope they would go away. Of course, they didn’t, and the phone rang again. This time the call came from the owner of the real estate business. He was an angry man with a well-tried talent for stand-over tactics. It was Mr Tony Black himself.
“Blah, blah, blah!” cried the angry voice screaming abuse at the answering machine. The phone trembled at the ferocity of the tirade. Tony Black, the big man around town, laid down the law in no uncertain terms. “Blah, blah, blah, and if you don’t blah, blah, blah, them I’ll blah, blah, blah, you worthless little blah, blah, blah!”
Tony Black’s message was exceedingly offensive, too offensive for Johnny. He was livid. It felt like hail falling from the sky destroying what was left of his depleted crops. He’d been late paying bills before, but never insulted like that. Tony Black – the rich man, the greedy man, the selfish man, the rude man, had gone too far this time. Johnny fought the emotion, but the feeling of anger hit him like a tidal wave. He simply snapped.
The drinks were doubles and the cigarettes were lighted one after another. Johnny paced up and down. His anger flowed like a raging torrent. He struggled to understand how this man with so much could have such little respect or sympathy for a fellow man with so little.
Previously never a violent man, but now filled with murderous intent, Johnny Sweet wanted Tony Black dead. The drinking, the smoking and the pacing continued well into the night. Many grand plans for murder were devised before Johnny eventually fell asleep on the lounge, drunk as a skunk.
Two days later, a cheque arrived from his publisher. It was by no means a large amount, but enough to pay the rent and get by for a while. The world released its grip on him just a little. After a few more days, Johnny’s murderous intent subsided, although he still felt well and truly hard done by.
In a calmer state, Johnny thought back to his old writing teacher, Mrs Wetherby. She was an inspiring woman who always had a grand tale of her childhood to tell. “Always write down your experiences, my boy. You will profit from them someday,” old Mrs Wetherby would tell him.”
Johnny then realised what he had to do. To settle the score, instead of using violence, he would vent his anger against Tony Black through the written word. Romance novels were his forte, but he now found himself with an exciting new interest in writing a horror story. It would be a short story about greed, revenge and murder. “The Tenant’s Revenge” by Johnny Sweet. No, by Johnny Evil. His pen would be mightier than his sword, he thought.
Johnny spent weeks getting the story just right. It became his pride and joy. When completed, he was so pleased with his work he entered it in a short story competition. First prize was ten thousand dollars and a publishing deal, two things he desperately needed in his life.
Sure enough, the endless hours of editing and the real life experience of wanting to kill someone paid off. His story was convincing and truly horrifying. He won first prize. The story was printed in a leading magazine, receiving rave reviews. Johnny Evil became an overnight success.
The intense anger Johnny felt several weeks earlier was now a distant memory. In fact, he was so happy with his achievement, he decided to drop in to his real estate office and visit the man responsible for his killer perspective and inspired writing. He could wave a wad of cash in one hand and his manuscript in the other as he thanked Tony Black, the man himself, for his contribution.
The wad of cash was not really an option, but Johnny did enter the real estate office of Tony Black armed with his manuscript and the intention to embarrass and humiliate him in front of his subordinates.
“Where’s Tony Black? I want to see him,” yelled Johnny as he confidently strolled to the counter. “His insults inspired me to write this story. I was paid ten thousand dollars for it. Where is he? I want to rub it in his ugly face. He deserves it.”
“Excuse me, Mr Sweet,” began the girl behind the counter.
“No, my name is Johnny Evil, and this is my story. Your boss inspired me. He should read it.”
“I’m sorry, but it appears a lot of people have read your story. It’s very provocative, and apparently very influential. You see, ” she continued, ” an angry tenant came in here yesterday waving your story in one hand and a gun in the other. Tony Black was shot dead.”