case of the Last Muse

       
I was on a case, in unfamiliar territory. not the type involving the murder        
of a rich man by his cheating wife, or a heist at a ritzy art museum. the        
only thing missing in this caper was poetry. yeah, poetry.        
       
my first call was from the owner of the Blue Angel Art Café. he told me the place        
was dead silent these days; no poets reading new work to clientele, which meant        
no business. it was the same all over town: no poets, no poems, no customers.        
       
like I said, unfamiliar territory. I satisfy my literary appetite with rags like VaVoom        
and Busty&Lusty. I made the rounds, visiting several known poets. they were dried        
up; they couldn’t rhyme true with shoe in this meltdown. one poetess said ‘I think        
someone stole my muse.’ that struck a note.        
       
after a few weeks, we caught a break. the Blue Angel guy called & said a dame just        
walked in with a notebook full of poems. she was about to take center stage, & I        
should rush over. the joint was packed when I arrived. I elbowed my way to stage        
front. she looked like Rita Hayworth, but her real beauty was in the words she recited;        
love poems so gorgeous I nearly swooned. she called herself the Last Muse.        
       
then a murmur went thru the crowd. someone said he’d read that poem online, by        
another writer. someone else confirmed that all of her poems had been written by        
other poets. then the dirtiest word rang out: Plagiarist!        
       
the crowd advanced toward her like a lynch mob, so I jumped on the stage & shouted        
that I was a detective & I was taking her into custody. we made for the back exit &        
ran down the alley to my car, then drove to her place.        
       
at her cottage in the woods, I began my interrogating. ‘what’s your story, lady?’ she        
said that henceforth, all of the poetry composed would be hers. people would come        
from around the world to attend her readings. she’d make millions! ‘don’t defy me, Johnny,’        
she said in a seductive tone. ‘we could be good together. you’ve never had a woman like me.’        
       
‘I never wanted a woman like you, you crazy bitch!’ she screamed & came at me with        
her claws, so I slugged her good. she stood there frozen, so I slugged her again & she        
hit the floor hard. I pulled out my Dick Tracy handcuffs (all the PI’s carry em) & secured        
her wrists behind her back. then I heard a humming sound coming from the basement        
& went to investigate.        
       
when I flipped on the lights, my eyes popped. on a low platform in the room, a group of        
odd creatures was assembled. half of them had wings like angels, the other half had horns &        
serpentine tails. all around the stage were a number of vials, with long thin necks & low round      
bellies. steam swirled out of each one, & formed a circle of fog around the platform.        
as I approached, an angel with golden hair & azure eyes spoke. ‘we are muses. we seek out      
humans with a skill for composition & bestow upon them the gift of poetry. the witch tricked us    
into coming to her, then imprisoned us with her venomous potions.’        
       
since the magic didn’t affect humans, I gathered the vials, took them to the bathroom, & flushed    
the evil stuff. when I returned, the muses were heading toward the back wall & walked thru it as if  
it wasn’t there. the golden angel turned toward me. ‘thank you, stranger. you have made poetry  
safe for humanity.’ then she was gone.        
       
I thought about her words; profound, but perplexing.        
was it really that easy?...