Stan noticed, too, and said, “I think you’re having an allergic reaction. Like anaphylactic shock. Did you eat something that you’re allergic to?”
Jack managed to croak, “You… bastard…”
Stan stood and retrieved the can of nutritional supplement and read the ingredients. “Vitamins… minerals… uh-oh… ground oyster shells.” He looked at Jack and asked, “Aren’t you allergic to shellfish? Deathly allergic?” He put the can down and gave Jack a look of contrite concern. “Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. I put this stuff in the omelet, too. Oh, my God, Jack, I think you’re going to die.” Then he suddenly smiled as though just realizing something and said, “But it’s not all bad news. The good news is that I’m going to make five million dollars. That’s the best deal we’ve ever done together.”
Jack managed to stand and stagger to a kitchen drawer. He opened it and withdrew an EpiPen filled with adrenaline, the antidote to the deadly allergic reaction.
Stan snatched the device out of Jack’s hand and said, “You don’t need that. I’ll call an ambulance. Right after you stop breathing.”
Jack felt his knees buckling and slumped against the counter. His eyes were so swollen he could barely see, but he did see the chopping board that Stan had used to cut the chives, and on the board was a knife. With all the strength that remained in him, he grabbed the knife with his swollen purple hands and plunged it into Stan’s chest.
Stan looked at the knife in disbelief, then staggered back, blood spreading over his yellow silk pajama top.
Jack Henry and Stan Wykoff stood staring at each other; then Jack slumped to the floor, followed by Stan.
They lay side by side on their backs, each of them in respiratory distress-though for different reasons-and each on the verge of cardiac arrest. Jack felt his airway closing and the room was getting dark. Stan’s chest wound was bubbling frothy blood, and wheezing sounds came from his mouth.
Jack drew a final gulp of air through his constricting windpipe and got a single word out of his mouth. “Bastard.”
Stan felt himself drowning in his own blood but managed to reply, “Has-been.”
Both men lay on the cool terra-cotta floor, staring up at the rotating ceiling fan.
Jack’s last thought was of a silly cartoon he’d stuck over his desk-horned demons with pitchforks driving a crowd of people through the gates of hell, and there was a sign over the gate that said, “Authors Must Be with Their Agents.”
