Struck by Inspiration

Ah, I thought. The perfect beginning.

"If I'd known he was going to kill me I'd have killed him first."

Somewhere up above a door banged open. Impressive. I've developed an appreciation for strong doors lately, and that one's a beaut. A voice rang out imperiously. "Don't write another–", followed by lots of hasty footsteps.

I stayed at my desk, focused on my page, typing away.

"Don't write another word!"

Here we go again. "Why not and–who the hell are you?"

He struck a pose before my desk and asked, "Don't you recognize me?" As if I should.

I looked him over. "Sidney Stratton? Dr. Horrible?"

"Who?"

I sighed. "Never mind."

The stranger tucked his cane under his arm, pulled a card wallet from his pocket, and extracted a card. As he handed it to me he said, "Mort D'Artur, Creative Muse." Sure enough, that's exactly what the card said too, in black type on a white surface. Oh dear.

"Of course I did," I lied. "You and your firm are notorious–I mean famous throughout the realms of creative artistry."

"Of course we are," he smirked. Try smirking while talking some day, it's no easy feat. "Why, just the other day I was awarded for my services, the ownership of the properties of Beenthere and Donethat." He tugged off his gloves and, not seeing any of the usual glove-putting amenities in the ballroom I currently called a studio, shoved them into his pocket.

"What a surprise." I'm pretty good at deadpan, I think.

"Yes, it was. I was convinced the previous owner despised me. He was quite fractious during our time together. Lad even went so far as to throw me out! Then in his dedication, he thanks me for teaching him all he needed to know about writing. Ah, youth. One wonders if anything one says makes it past their hair." He sat primly one of my chairs.

"I think it did this time," I agreed blandly. "So what are these estates like? I've never heard of them." Dumb. Now he'll think I want him here! I turned back to my screen and re-read my last lines.

"Neither have I," my unwelcome guest admitted. "I'm told that they're not very broad, but make up for it with a remarkable depth. Much like myself."

I laughed<<--omit> I coughed. "A depth of what, pray tell?" Oops, punctuation error.

"I'm sure I don't know."

I bet the last owner did. "Perhaps you should go there and find out." Tap. There, all gone.

"Oh, pish-tush, my dear boy," he began, sounding more like Pooh-Bah. "Your publisher, virtuous to his core, has retained my services to ensure that your next work will continue to bring in those awards and accolades which it will ever be his study to enjoy."

"Then you should be leaving immediately."

Mort stood. Unfortunately he didn't go anywhere. "What on Earth for? I saw no dark and stormy nights on my way in."

"So you can get your fee and go elsewhere. I've already started my next piece. It's going to be a mystery. I think."

"What?" He came over to my desk and looked at my screen, where the title of my new mystery story, 'New Mystery Story', blazed out at him. "You don't do mystery."

"I'm giving it a try. My hero–"

WHAM! said my door up above. It wasn't even closed yet. I swear, next time I'm doing this in a bank vault. See how much Wham they get out of that door!

A voice rang out imperiously, "Have at thee–!" followed by lots of hasty footsteps to the middle of my balcony.