I am sorry, but really, I had to do it. I know, you’re unlikely to pardon me soon. For a writer to kill one of his most cherished characters, is, well, close to a crime, even if not uncommon. Think of Conan Doyle, having poor Sherlock fall off the cliff, for example.
We lived together a long time, more than five years, I think: and of course, longer than this, if one recalls the antecedents, the sketches, the short flash fiction, and some early tries. I highjacked your Facebook page, for the sake of literature, you understand, but still, it was not a friendly move! Then I lusted after your wife, I admit, even considered something worse, but dropped the idea in favour of turning her into a seductive, beautiful lesbian – and such an attractive one at that, that none of my female characters could resist her charm. So, you had reasons to be a little annoyed at me, even before the final outrage.
What made me do it? I think the reasons are deep in the psyche of this apprentice writer. First, I grew a little tired of all the attention you were getting, even when your actions did not warranty it. A kind of mellow jealousy perhaps, as from a father, getting agitated at the number of gorgeous girls his son keeps bringing home? We will not delve in this analogy. Second, to be honest with you, I needed a change: you were centrepiece for far too long. Every attempt at diversity, in the literary sense, was thwarted by your resistance, your obstinacy at being in the centre of everything. Egotism, that is what it was: you became cumbersome, obstructive, calamitous.
There is a third reason, one which relates more to the writer than the character. I wanted to do something different, and in order to succeed, I needed a blank sheet, a new face, in one word, a different life to play with. So, I apologise for a harsh decision. Who knows, I may have to come back to you, sometime. I am already aware of a plot, by some of your female partners, to make you indispensable, again. Perish the thought.
Image: Samurai by Baron Raimund von Stillfried, 1875 (source: Wikipedia)