Raven the Little Rascal Page #6

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Lie down and let me do my job

before you bleed to death.

The son of a b*tch

is gonna kill her today.

So you cut the bullet out

and you patch me up now!

There's a bottle of whiskey

in the kitchen. Bring it here.

- What the hell is that?

- A magnet.

To find the bullet to cut it out.

Soak that pillowcase in the whiskey,

and give him the rest. He'll need it.

The gossamer white of bone

was now visible beneath

the tattered meat of her fingertips,

as Emily clawed madly

at the wooden slats of her coffin,

a desperate, drowning animal.

The din' rose around her,

the inescapable sand of an hourglass,

as her final breath of air

slipped her into the twilight

of consciousness until.

He knew now that all hope was lost.

He had failed his beloved, and

there was one last thing left to do.

One last act.

"A final desperate plea:

one life offered for another."

Oh, Mr. Poe, no... No, you can't!

- Set the print, Ivan.

- But, sir...

Do it!

You can't take it as your fault,

Mr. Poe.

Is there someone else you'd blame?

It's the killer who's to blame, sir.

- Let me read that.

- Sir, I need to...

"Poe could feel the poison

already feeding on his blood,

"as the maggots were soon to do."

Jesus, Edgar...

- Making enough money, Henry?!

- Mr. Poe, don't! Mr. Poe!

Will it sell?!

- Will it?!

- Mr. Poe!

You madman!

I'll have you thrown in jail,

you damned animal!

I'll send you to hell! Huh?! Hell!

Mr. Poe, don't. It's not worth it.

Clements!

I'm sorry, Mr. Poe. I fell asleep

waiting for you and the inspector.

- What time is it?

- Just past six, sir.

The paper's here for you.

Rather remarkable seeing that

people are stealing others' papers.

They can't print enough,

with the election today

and this horrible killing

they keep writing about.

Here's something else for you,

Mr. Poe.

"It is a masterpiece, Mr. Poe.

An epitaph worthy of your gifts."

- When did this come?

- I don't know, but before the paper.

- How do you know that?

- It was under the paper.

Impossible.

Look at the streaks in the ink.

- I don't understand.

- It's been rained on.

- It rained last night before dawn.

- But the newspaper is bone dry.

I'm not sure what...

The paper was delivered later,

after it stopped raining.

This note was written in response

to what I wrote in this newspaper.

He delivered the note

before the paper.

So he knew the story in advance.

He'd already read it.

Where's my gun?!

Damn it.

The ink.

It's printing ink.

The "Patriot".

Henry, you're gonna tell me

where she is.

Henry!

Tell me, where is sh...?

Van

Surprised?

Where is she?

Dying.

More quickly than I expected.

So I had to speed things along

and deliver the morning edition

so you could finally realise

it had to be...

none other than your humble

typesetter and biggest fan.

A drink?

You don't know how I've looked

forward to this moment, sir.

To sit here like this,

no more masks,

artist to artist.

Artist to artist.

Though I admit,

as I read your final chapter,

I felt more muse than artist.

You're mad.

Really, Mr. Poe?

You're one to talk.

Where is Emily?

Just like that?

No probing the devious twists

and turns of man's darkest motives?

No prying into the mysteries

of his conscience?

So very unlike you, Mr. Poe.

Where is she?!

Ow!

A rather disappointing denouement,

I have to say.

But that's life, isn't it?

So much less satisfying than fiction.

It's time this story comes to an end.

Very well.

Give me the gun.

You've come this far, Mr. Poe.

Are you really gonna back out now?

You know what happens next.

You wrote it, after all.

You either pull that trigger

and kill me and young Miss Emily

or you give me the gun.

She will live.

That was your solution, right?

I have to admit, I don't cry easily,

but you had me bawling like a baby.

And I've always had a fancy

for poisons.

That's how I done my dad.

The idea of drinking something

that will kill you

but having time to carry on

a conversation

is, as they say, fraught

with dramatic possibilities, right?

Listen to me.

talking about dramatic possibilities

with one of the greatest writers

of our time.

I must say, it has been a profound

honor working with you, sir.

Working with me?

I know they're your ideas.

I'm just borrowing.

Except for Valdemar's tongue.

That was me.

- Quite a subtle metaphor, I thought.

- Subtle?

It made no sense at all.

Even in the end,

I'm confronted by a plagiarist

without even the originality

to invent themselves.

I've concocted you.

I couldn't agree more.

I am your crowning achievement.

Your masterpiece.

In whose world do we each exist

right now, Edgar'?

Mine, or yours?

I don't really know the answer.

It's quite brilliant.

Well... go on, sir.

Bottoms up.

I need a carriage now!

- Inspector!

- I need a carriage.

And send a messenger

to Charles Hamilton's house.

Tell him to get to

the "Baltimore Patriot". Do it!

I will die today.

A hole of mouldering earth awaits.

It is a just end to a man

consumed by death his entire life.

Emily, take this kiss upon thy brow.

Really good stuff, sir.

A poet to the end.

I suppose this bit

is for Miss Hamilton.

Where is she?

- Where is she?

- I tell you, Mr. Poe,

I used to live for your stories,

just live for them.

When you stopped writing...

I guess I went a little nuts.

But I kept on believing,

even when you closed me out.

I still believed in your vision,

in a future where people

would stand in lines

to see the kind of things that

only people like you and I could see.

I knew you had one more in you, sir.

No one will ever forget you.

Have you ever been to France?

There's a young writer over there -

Jules Verne.

- You heard of him?

- What?

Paris...

He really reminds me of you, sir.

Where is she? You owe me!

Where is she?!

"Anything was better than this agony.

"Anything was more tolerable

than this derision.

"I could bear those hypocritical

smiles no longer."

"The Tell-Tale Heart."

She's here... She's here.

Carriage for Mr. Reynolds!

On my way in just a moment!

Goodbye, Mr. Poe.

I've enjoyed our time together.

Reynolds...

Almost...

Emily!

Emily?

Answer me.

Emily! Please, answer me!

Oh, my God.

Em"?

Emily... Emily...

Emily.

Open your eyes.

Emily, open your eyes.

Yeah.

Oh, yeah.

Is it really you?

- I love you.

- I love you.

I'm here.

I came for you.

Okay,

Stay awake.

I have you, always.

We're going home.

- You did mean it?

- Mean what?

When you said you would marry me.

In this life and the next.

Clear the way! Clear the way!

What's wrong with you? Make way!

- Where's Poe?

- He was here a moment ago.

Poe!

Hurry!

Where is Edgar? Where is Edgar?

Now, be careful.

Go, go, go!

Sir?

You are Edgar Poe, correct?

I am.

For a few more minutes, anyway.

Are you all right?

You look a little the worse for wear.

Is there someone I can call for you?

- Reynolds.

- You want me to find Reynolds?

Does he have a first name?

No.

Tell Fields...

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