Welcome Back to Stockton, USA

“I've never been to your town. I come from the same small town in Maine.”

- Hawkeye, M*A*S*H

The absurdity hit him in the doorway. How many tired, re-used tropes were gathered in the same room?

They were all here. The cheerleader captain, who peaked in high school. The nerd, the girl next door, the class clown, the jock, the squad of loners, the more goth than thou, the rebel without a cause.

The same characters, as old and stale as the champagne in his plastic flute. No stops left unstoppered for this twentieth reunion, eh?

Including himself, The Guy Who Left and Became Wildly Successful.

He'd made his money writing crime thrillers about people just like them. Might as well come back and get more material for the next book?

He still wasn't sure if this was a good idea.

Of course the toady was the first to greet him. “Heeeeeyyyyy, Gerry, looking good!”

“George to you, Carl. I remember you sucker punching me in the hallways, and laughing when you drew blood. You don't get to be all chummy and familiar now that I'm famous.”

Carl actually pouted. It looked pathetic on an adult face, and he immediately filed the observation to go in the next book. “Aww, c'mon, no sympathy for the ones you left behind?”

“Only the ones that deserve it. Bullies don't, and you just proved you haven't changed by not apologizing.” He swept by the stammering idiot to join his friends.

Because he had them. Friends, that is. Oh, yes, especially to get through this event. Sure, he was getting an honorarium, but it was paltry compared to his usual price. He knew these people, grew up with these people. They tried to stick him at the head table with the worst schlocks, the ones who thought they were still big fish. The clause about vetoing the seating was a godsend, and he slid into his chair at a much smaller Not the Head Table for Pete's Sake with a heavy sigh.

Charlie and Brian were waiting with lopsided smirks, like old times. Charlie spoke first, also like always. Much quicker on the uptake than the boys she ran with. “Well, that didn't take you long. I lost the bet. I thought it would take you a good ten minutes to get here. I guess you slapped Carl down hard?”

“Yep. One thing being in the biz taught me, is to cut to the quick. And there's also the unspoken rule, and I invoke it repeatedly, and even write about it: don't mess with me, or I will put you into my next book as the sleaziest character I can write. Carl's pushing for a record in appearances, not that I'd tell him. He'd demand a cut of the profits.”

Brian pushed all three wobbly flutes of bubbly swill to the side, and pulled out tumblers and a thick cut-glass bottle. “I saved this one from the last time you came to visit. Care for a snort?”

“Oh, yes, please!” The smooth, single-malt whiskey went down well with the appetizers that magically appeared at the tables. At least the food was a better quality than the “booze,” but it's hard to mess with hors d'oeuvres in a small town where everyone knows everyone's business. The caterer, Andie, was a classmate's older sister, and she didn't put up with petty shenanigans. She'd hired most of the waitresses from the cheerleading set, and taught them real manners before releasing them on unsuspecting guests. George had put her as a character in a few books, too.

“Gerry! Gerry!” Ah, here comes the fan club....

He was quietly amused as he signed books and chatted. Superficial, all of it. He was more personable at his book signings – at least his real fans loved his books. These were the same people who wouldn't give him a break back in the day. The best of them completely ignored his existence; the worst made his life a living hell. Now, suddenly, he's a long-lost favorite son? Yeah, sure. He was polite and distant. But he noticed Brian magically made the whiskey bottle vanish before the crowd descended. His friend was no fool.

Well, maybe only a little bit of a fool. All three of them had made plans to leave town together, till Brian and Charlie got pregnant. They didn't mind staying, really, they had family support and weren't above scrapping with the jerkwads when things got tough. George, though? Kicked out of his home, dysfunctional abusive parents. Yeah, he left as soon as the diploma was in his hand, promised he wouldn't ever look back. Well, he'd broken that promise to himself repeatedly. His friends were worth it. Gerry'd faithfully return for holidays and birthdays - just not with his “parents.” Never with his “family.” But for Brian, and Charlie, and their cute little girl, followed later by the twins...

Uncle Gerry was their favorite, of course. And if he got Brian addicted to good whiskey, and Charlie addicted to high-end Belgian chocolate, and spoiled the kids rotten, and padded their trust funds when no one was looking, well, what else was he was going to spend his hard-earned royalties on? His publisher already paid for his around-the-world soirees, and book signings, and travel expenses. His condo was long paid for, the reward for his first best-seller.

Ah, there's the hand cramp. That twinge was his signal, and he always listened to it: time to excuse himself to the men's room to unwind. And off he went, leaving disappointed sycophants in his wake. And two thoroughly-entertained best friends, who were used to his stories on this exact topic, now seeing it in person.

That “un-drinking” break was just what he needed to get his breath back.

Until the screaming started.

At least he'd washed his hands before racing back to the source...

...at his own table.

Brian was dead, and a “S.A.H.S. 20th Reunion” silverplate letter opener was sticking out of his chest. Everyone had gotten one at their seat. He'd seen enough corpses in his research to know there was no saving him.

Andie was standing nearby, the platter of canapés shaking in nerveless fingers. “Andie, quick! Grab some plastic bags from your supplies! We need to preserve evidence!” She was fast, he'd have to put that in a future book for her. When she'd returned with them, he quick-snapped them over the murder weapon and both of Brian's hands.

Time to mourn later. His cursed brain was still filing away expressions – shock, grief, despair, horror – on each face as he turned to finally comfort Charlie. She collapsed in his arms, but one hand still gripped Brian's arm.

Gerry heard sirens approaching. He knew they didn't have much time to figure this out.

Gerry also knew a biological oddity, and he'd promised himself long ago that he'd take full advantage if the opportunity arose. He was angry that this was the opportunity given, but he wouldn't waste it. It was too important. He leaned in close, with tears beginning to leak down his face: “Brian, I'm so sorry. I'll get the bastard, and I'll take care of Charlie and the kids for you. But damn, I'm going to miss you, I wanted the three of us to grow old together. You owe me some good stuff when we join you, but go on, we'll muddle along somehow. Damn, brother, I'll miss you so much.”

Charlie heard him. She gulped. “Is he still alive?”

“No, sweetheart, he'd dead, but the mind sticks around for a few minutes. Say goodbye, he's still there for a few more moments.” Damn, his besties were amazing. Charlie let go of Gerry to whisper in her husband's ear, and Gerry stood up to give her some privacy – and look around.

He surveyed the room. There it was. Wow, that didn't take long. Really? Was he that stupid? Did he carry a grudge that long?

Privately he wondered if this reunion and his particular invite weren't all an elaborate revenge, to frame Gerry for his best friend's murder. This was so trite, so pat, it was almost unbelievable.

In plain sight? Really?

The paramedics rushed in, and Gerry got out of the way. Charlie threw him a panicked glance, but he shook his head. “Gotta stay here and nail the bastard, I'll meet you at the hospital later, okay?” She nodded, but she was not okay. Nothing was okay.

The bustling ambulance sounds faded away, to be replaced by the local sheriff. Officer Townsend – younger brother to classmate David, who was being his useless self, sitting there staring in sick fascination at the pool of blood that didn't seem real in the glaring high school lighting – shook his head at the scene. “Geez, George, you come back to town, and this is what happens? This had better not be some stupid promo stunt, or so help me-” He stopped, really looking at faces. “Oh. Sorry Gerry, yeah, that was stupid. I should know better. I'm sorry. What the hell?”

“I was in the bathroom. I came back when people screamed, just in time to watch my best friend die.”

Townsend raised his voice. “So, who saw it happen?”

Silence.

“Really? A room full of people, and no one saw a thing? You can do better than that, folks. Or do I have to talk to the wife in the morgue?”

Cheerleader captain spoke up. “She doesn't know anything either, Doug. I went with her to the bathroom.”

George smiled. “Thank you, Brandi, that's enough for a conspiracy charge. Because I know full well Charlie hates your guts, and the feeling's mutual. So she wouldn't go anywhere willingly with you. Doug, nail her. Oh, and that piece of shit she married, sitting over there with the smoking gun.”

A room full of witnesses turned, just in time to see the former football captain slugging back a shot of whiskey. In a tumbler. With the cut-crystal decanter in plain sight, on the table in front of him. “I bought that for Brian, and he doesn't share. Especially not with that washed-up has-been. Brian would say often that you'd have to pry that whiskey out of his cold, dead fingers. I never thought I'd live to see that hackneyed phrase come true.”

The irony of his phrasing was not lost on the writer. George filed it away for future use. Now he was planning to write about them specifically, about all of them, every secret, every lie, every stupid little piece of childish crap they'd ever pulled. Make them pay, excoriate them specifically, over and over again in future books...

Doug was fast. So were his deputies. They'd come in quietly, but they moved quickly to place handcuffs on the named parties. It was dawning on many, the enormity of this crime, and how this would blow up. Famous crime writer finally comes home, best friend killed at the reunion, do the tropes never stop?

Luckily Travis was too drunk to resist. He tried, struggled a little, and his coat buttons popped open. Figures, he'd put on weight over the years, but pride kept him in a too-small suit. The blood stains were obvious on his shirt. “Screw you, Mister High and Mighty! You deserve it for getting me kicked off the team, ruining my chances of a career! Come back to lord it over us at our reunion, not so successful now, are ya? Hunh?”

“Daddy won't protect you this time, Travis, just like he couldn't then. You just screwed yourself out of the rest of your life. Over what, a twenty-year-old grudge? Really? You decided I was the perfect punching bag, when my bio-sperm thrashed me for liking guys. Brian took me in when I was kicked out, and you couldn't handle it. People like me shouldn't exist, isn't that what you told me? You killed Brian because you had no other way to hurt me. But you couldn't resist the good booze, could you? I bought it for Brian, the best guy here, not you, you sickening douche.”

“Fuck you! You should have never come back! You should have never written me into your novels! Brandi reads them to me all the time, she loooves them, you've killed me over and over, all of us! You stink, man! Rake in the cash and girls, that should have been me!”

“Boys, Travis. Well, men, really. That's the difference between you and me - I went for maturity. You, you screwed your own career, going for young girls who didn't know you for the fuckboy you are. And, just so you know, I didn't put you in any story. I didn't have to, moron. Do you know how many letters I get, from people all over the country, the world? Asking me when I was in their small town? To tell their stories? I was never there. You're all the same two-bit characters, found over and over, endlessly duplicated, re-named and folded into another small-town murder. I didn't have to come back. All I have to do is read the police blotters, and the stories write themselves. You killed Brian for no other reason than raw jealousy, for a situation that didn't exist outside your own head. You did all this to yourself. I didn't care enough about you to even write about you.” But I will now, you stinking bastard...

Travis was silent. His face was red with anger and drunkenness, and the reality of what he'd just done hitting him hard.

George turned to Brandi. “Did he put you up to this?”

She shook her head, slowly. “I thought he wanted to confront you, make you look like a jerk at the reunion. Show you up, prove to himself he was worth something. Me planning this was the first thing that got him excited about anything outside a bottle in a long, long time. But.. this? No. Even if you deserved this, Brian didn't. Even Charlie didn't. He asked me to get Charlie out of the way to talk to Brian alone. I didn't – I didn't know...”

“You disgust me. All of you. None of you were worth Brian's life.” Gerry glanced at Officer Townsend. “Can I go? You have your people, and I have one best friend to comfort, and another best friend to bury.” At Doug's nod, he turned on his heel and got out.

George, the author, was already plotting. George was seeing the structure of the novel that would blow his previous success out of the water.

Gerry, the friend, was crying and not even bothering to hide it. Gerry was mourning the price he and Charlie had to pay for this “success.” Gerry was already planning to give all the money from this book to Charlie. Get her out of this toxic dump, her family too, set her up somewhere else where the specter of this small town wouldn't haunt her.

Another small town. Somewhere. Anywhere.

With different stock characters.

And a plot that wasn't as stale as the high school reunion revenge.