My name is Henry Fields. I am a reporter, a journalist, a husband, a father, and a novelist. I have traveled to actively war-torn countries to report on the inhumane horrors that took the lives of many of my colleagues. I have interviewed some of the most influential figures of our time, including, but not limited to, Elon Musk, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Drew Weissman, and Sydney Sweeney. I have written three novels, the most recent of which has sold over 900,000 copies and earned me a Hugo Award. But what you are about to read, right here, right now, may be my magnum opus.
He is not comfortable in his own skin. He avoids eye contact like the plague and takes a moment trying to remember his own name. His forehead is glazed in sweat, his lips dry and cracking. His nose comprises most of his face: long, swooping, convex. He has downturned green eyes and sparse brows that maintain a furrowed position, as if everything he looks at hurts him. His handshake is firm, long-lasting, sticky. He’s tall, buff—much bigger than anticipated. His stance is wide and his gait heavy—the room feels like an arena with him in it, as if we are about to fight to the death, and I’m his unworthy competitor. The man I’m talking about is the terribly elusive and frankly ingenious author of To Bleed Quietly, Gordon Abel Mortimer-Randell the Second. We meet in a hotel on 77th—I bring my assistant, my equipment; he brings no one and nothing. Not even a phone. He says he can only travel if “untethered.” After perfunctory niceties, he excuses himself to the bathroom. He stays in there for forty-five minutes. We hear puking sounds—lots of gurgling, flushing, some vague barking noises. My assistant, Harper Daly, checks on him several times throughout. I use this as an opportunity to jot down my thoughts on him so far, to look over my questions, to test my recorder. When he returns, his jeans carry a dark splotch over his crotch area. His right eyelid is twitching. He smells of vinegar and Febreze.
HF: Gordon. What a pleasure—an honor, to be here with you today. Truly. I’ve started recording—is that okay?
GAMRTS: Yes. Well—yes. Um—why is she here?
Gordon points to Harper with a shaking pinky.
HF: Oh, Harper? Just to take notes and whatnot.
Gordon repeatedly slaps his face with both hands, possibly an attempt to wake himself up.
HF: Are you comfortable? Is that chair fine?
GAMRTS: …
HF: Right, yes. I have to begin with the question that will, without a doubt, be on everyone’s minds: Why are you here today? You are famously untraceable. You have rejected interviews and public appearances for decades now. You have nothing but contempt for the media—I mean, you’ve been arrested five times for physically assaulting paparazzi, some of whom weren’t even photographing you, so why the change of heart? Why now? And, selfishly, I must ask: Why me?
Gordon begins fingering his right ear with his left pointer finger.
GAMRTS: Um—let’s see. You’re… good.
HF: I’m good?
GAMRTS: You’re good. You’re a good writer.
Gordon grimaces and wheezes a high-pitched whistling sound, as if his finger is hurting his ear, yet he continues digging anyway.
HF: Well… thank you.
GAMRTS: You’ve done very well for yourself. Very successful, across multiple sectors of the literary world. You’re a… real trailblazer. Many people love you—my son loved you.
HF: Oh, past tense, huh?
Henry laughs. Gordon does not.
HF: Um, but surely other successful writers have reached out to you, no?
It is worth pointing out that Gordon’s pointer is now knuckle-deep in his ear canal.
GAMRTS: …
HF: S-Secondly, I want to emphasize once again how grateful I am to speak to you today. I’m sure many others are vying for this position, but I feel confident in claiming myself as your number one fan. Or at least one of your number one fans—ha. I read To Bleed Quietly at twenty-two years old, and it obliterated me in the best way. Completely changed my life, and that is no exaggeration. I mean, I even named the protagonist in my latest book after you—Gordon, I named him.
Gordon sneezes into his hand. He wipes the snot on the chair’s armrest.
HF: Well… let’s get on to the questions, why don’t we?
GAMRTS: Yes, good idea.
HF: I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask about the novel first. The people want to know—how much is fiction and how much is truth drawn from your own life? Do you relate to the character Troy? Is Troy’s childhood based loosely on your own—your time being swapped around different foster homes?
Gordon stands up and heads to the minibar. He chugs one shooter of vodka. Then a second, and then a third.
GAMRTS: You didn’t ask me about my upbringing.
HF: No, well, my team and I did a bit of research—
GAMRTS: You see how that’s degrading in a way, don’t you? If you had asked about my upbringing, I would have told you. But your knowledge carries arrogance. A good interviewer assumes he knows very little.
Gordon sits back down and belches. Spittle sprays onto Henry’s face, which both men ignore.
HF: Well, I wanted to be prepared and, I mean, there are public records available, a-and—
GAMRTS: I empathize with Troy a great deal. Existing devoid of parental love is a unique kind of terror. It makes you less of a person and more of a thing waiting to be killed. I see his dysfunctional relationship with sex as a search for a mother—search for warmth, for bodily validation. I see his homicidal tendencies as a search for a father—search for blood, for a mission, for legacy. But I’m sure you’ve already ascertained all of this.
HF: Wow, um—wow. And just going back a bit, I’d like to extend my sincerest apologies. I would never want to offend you with misinformation or what you feel is an obstruction of privacy. I would like this to be a safe space that preserves open and honest communication.
Gordon rolls his shirt sleeves up. Then, he cuffs his jeans. Then, he knocks three times on the roof of both of his shoes.
HF: So, back to the book: much of the controversy surrounds the supposed stereotyping it instills of orphans growing up to become murderers. Some have found it an ugly stigma that perpetuates the idea that those without living parents are mentally ill or violent.
Gordon makes a noise that sounds like a hiccup.
GAMRTS: Yes. Where’s the question?
HF: Well, how would you respond to that? Do you agree that the book feeds into this disparaging narrative?
GAMRTS: I’d respond by saying that those people are lacking, fundamentally, spiritually, in empathy. I think some of them are not even capable of empathy. They say they understand the trauma Troy goes through, but those are only words. If they truly understood, then there would be no confusion, no controversy. Each and every one of Troy’s actions would make perfect sense.
HF: Right… interesting. But something can “make sense” per se and still be immoral, no? Still dangerous?
Gordon coughs up a substantial amount of phlegm, holds it in his mouth for a few seconds, then swallows it back.
GAMRTS: There is no danger in truth. There is only danger in those who try to take that truth away. Let’s move on.
HF: Yes, let’s. Um, so, this book was written over four decades ago now, and there was a lot of vivid imagery of gay sex, that is, sex scenes between Troy and the male prostitutes.
GAMRTS: Yes.
HF: What was it like receiving the homophobic backlash at the time, especially as an eighteen-year-old? I mean, what was it like as an eighteen-year-old in general, writing such a masterpiece and being constantly bombarded with so much… conflicting attention?
GAMRTS: They were not empowering. The sex scenes were not empowering.
HF: Right—no, I never said they were—
GAMRTS: They were not empowering, nor were they nefarious. They were a product of a lonely man who didn’t know how to like people—he was never taught. Homophobia seemed completely irrelevant. He liked having sex with men because he only knew of himself—no more than that. Nor were they even sexual. They involved bodily insertion and ejaculation, but an itch that is scratched does not carry sociopolitical connotations, so why should that?
HF: Right. Right. Well—
GAMRTS: I’m not trying to be vague. I’m answering the questions the only way I know how.
HF: No, it’s great—you’re doing great. And I have to say: I loved the ending. Suicide can be such a cliché. Some writers employ this trope out of laziness—easy shock value. Yet Troy’s death felt deeply original. It felt fated, as if what he went through was not a suicide at all. It felt like a different inevitable state of human condition: a third, nameless thing, sitting next to life and death.
Gordon scrunches his nose and looks into space for a while, thinking.
GAMRTS: No—it was just lazy. Fearful, really.
HF: Right, yes. Um, well, here’s something I’m dying to know: have you written anything over the last few decades? Should we expect a new book any time soon?
Gordon slowly wipes his face with his hands. Henry begins to, possibly subconsciously, copy him. He then catches himself and stops. Gordon laughs.
GAMRTS: I have written, yes. I wrote a great deal in my thirties when I first moved to Texas with my boyfriend. I also wrote a lot a couple of years ago, when I lost my son. I got quite into poetry. I’ll publish some poems in literary mags under different pseudonyms. That’s about all I’m going to give you.
HF: Oh, I had no idea you had a son, I’m so—
GAMRTS: Tate was my boyfriend. Tate Pugliese. And my son, Gordon The Third, although most call him by his middle name, Milo. They’re both gone now. I’m sure you know this.
HF: Um, no, I-I didn’t actually—
GAMRTS: Oh, where did that cache of knowledge go? I thought you were prepared?
Henry leans back in his chair. Gordon leans forward.
HF: Um—I don’t exactly get—
GAMRTS: Of course, I am even more disappointed, seeing as though Milo should be a name you remember as well. Ha! And I thought my memory was going.
HF: …
GAMRTS: But they’re the only reason it’s not. I only keep my mind sharp so I can hold onto those memories—really. Of Tate spelling words on my back with his finger as I’m trying to fall asleep. I was never able to guess what he was writing. But I remember the pressure of his touch. Light and calloused. Slow and shaky—especially near the end.
HF: …
GAMRTS: And, of course, Milo’s laugh. Having a happy child is all I had ever wished for, and it’s exactly what I got. He’d get into these laughing fits as a kid, to the point of tears and wheezing, and all I did was imitate a fart noise with my mouth, o-or put a sock over my hand and talk. Sometimes, I caught glimpses of that laugh in his teens, in his early twenties, even. Of course, not near the end—no.
HF: …
GAMRTS: Creating a family—a world—out of two people is a beautiful thing. Especially when it’s two people not given to you, but earned. Because it is all truth. But truth is delicate. Truth, remember, can be taken away.
Henry rubs his hands together, anxiously, and repeatedly looks to Harper.
HF: I’m sorry, Gordon, I don’t—
GAMRTS: No, I’m sorry, I’m being vague again, aren’t I? Cryptic? It’s not easy for me to be clear, but let me try. You write about real things and fake things—you write about genocide, and you write about minotaurs. My boyfriend was interested in reading the former, my son in the latter. They were both big readers, of course—I could never surround myself with anything less. They both found you, loved you. In very different ways, for very different reasons. I found you just okay. None of us was all that interested in your interviews.
HF: Gordon, I don’t—we may have to wrap up—
GAMRTS: So—let me finish, Henry, let me finish—so, they went to one of your events, the kind where you talk about yourself on a stage and hundreds of people pay to listen. There was one nearby, you were in Austin. They wanted to hear you speak, see your face in person—greedy that desire is. Perverted. The fascination they had with you reminded me of the way much of the public saw me when I was a teenager, so naturally, I was disturbed by it. Disgusted. I never said this to them. I needed them to realize on their own just how harmful these parasocial relationships could be.
Henry uncrosses his legs. Then he crosses them. Then he uncrosses them. He’s now sweating profusely.
HD: Oh, God, what did he do?
HF: Harper, stay the fuck out of this!
GAMRTS: Milo had always been a nervous boy with an uneasy stomach. But his excitement to meet you outweighed his anxiety. Of course, the anxiety was still there. While standing in line to ask you a question, he felt quite ill, but he didn’t want to lose his place in line. So… my son shit his pants.
HF: Oh, um. Well, that doesn’t—
GAMRTS: And someone had taken a video and posted it on Twitter.
Henry and Harper gasp.
GAMRTS: He only left once people started laughing and pointing. A video of Milo running with soiled jeans and shit-stained footprints to the nearest bathroom got four million views. I’m just glad Tate was there for him when I couldn’t be.
Henry uncomfortably shifts in his chair. He covers his mouth, which is now holding down laughter.
GAMRTS: “Shitmeister,” they called him. The hashtag “MuddyMilo” was trending for months—people found out who he was, where he lived. He received death threats. He couldn’t go outside without a group of prepubescent boys calling him a string of slurs and creating flatulence sound effects with their armpits. He killed himself because of the amount of bullying. He ingested crushed apple seeds—we found the pitted apples under his bed. It was the same way Gordon died in your book. He idolized you to the end. He always felt like you were writing about him. As if writers in this day and age are even capable of such compassion.
Henry's face twitches into an uncomfortable frown.
GAMRTS: Of course, that didn’t work—he had nowhere near enough seeds, so he immediately ran into oncoming traffic. My nosy neighbor told me this.
HF: Oh, my… my condol—
GAMRTS: That didn’t work either—three people died, two were seriously injured, but Milo came away unscathed. No one knows exactly how he went, but police found his body in a dumpster six miles away. Forensics couldn’t figure it out. I don’t even get the pleasure of knowing the answers.
HF: I’m really, truly—
GAMRTS: Things with Tate got messy. I was no longer a good partner—I didn’t know how to be after losing everything that was mine. The breakup was long, tumultuous—painful. I remember—and I hate myself for it—creating a Twitter account months later to stalk him. I saw that he still followed you, still regularly engaged with your posts, even after everything that happened. That was a knife to the heart, it was.
Henry habitually kneads a handful of thigh fat.
GAMRTS: You seem curious as to why I reject the media, but it seems so painfully obvious. Because of this. If I let fame into my life, I would’ve likely turned into some diluted version of you. A version of a person that should never exist.
HF: Gordon, I am so sorry… but I also don’t see how I can be blamed for this.
GAMRTS: You were laughing. In the background of the “viral” video, you were laughing into your microphone and pointing—pointing at my baby. This prompted more people to record. You were no doubt high on multiple substances; I did my research on you as well. You seem sober enough today, though, which is good. Yes, that’s good.
HF: …
Gordon stands up. His joints crack. His eye is still twitching.
GAMRTS: Oh, and you retweeted the video with the caption “My work brings out the best in people, it seems” with a laughing-face emoji. And a praying-hands emoji. And the turd emoji.
Henry stands up and backs away.
GAMRTS: This is not revenge, by the way. This is fueled by logic, not emotion. I don’t want you to think for a moment that you’re going out based on a madman’s whim.
Gordon pulls a Swiss Army knife from his jeans pocket. His stomach grumbles. A thick, wet fart slips out.
HF: Okay, Harper, grab him or something!
Gordon runs and grabs Henry. He stabs him in the chest three times. Then twice in the stomach. Blood sprays like a rotating sprinkler. Henry’s right fist clenches, but does not fight.
HF: No! Stop! I—Grrrggeellgleg, grrgle, glugg, grr
Gordon cleans off the blade with his sleeve and slashes his own throat, falling atop Henry. It all happens faster than eyes can acknowledge. Gordon belches blood into Henry’s open mouth.
GAMRTS: Blrbbr, bleerrrg, blurg, blurghh, bler
This concludes the interview. Harper Daly is the sole survivor and continues to tell her story today.1
Cover art: Malcolm T. Liepke, Man in Blue Suit (1999)
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Hello, my name is Harper Daly. I am Henry Fields' assistant, and I was present for his death. Henry wrote the first couple of paragraphs, and I transcribed the interview. Gordon didn’t want to be filmed, which is why I was asked to take notes. I added details about Gordon’s and Henry’s idiosyncratic physical mannerisms, as well. It felt significant since this interview turned into more of a recorded murder. I thought it important to still get this out there under Henry’s name, since he did so much preparation, and was obviously very excited about meeting Gordon. Many are unhappy with me for not stepping in, but those people have never witnessed a murder themselves. They don’t know the shock involved. The paralysis and the dissociation. The pure hope that what you’re seeing is not reality. But I understand the desire to blame the last living thing.
Every time I checked on Gordon in the bathroom, he would be hunched over the toilet, cradling the seat, with this string of vomit hanging from his lower lip, and he’d say “Don’t look, dear. Just don’t look.” I, of course, assumed he meant in that moment. I’m not exactly sure why Gordon didn’t kill Henry from the get-go. Maybe there was a part of him that did want to do the interview. I think he did want to be seen, did want the fame. He just wanted it under the pretense of dignity.
Henry’s wife and daughter deny knowing anything about the #MuddyMilo Twitter discourse and ask for privacy during this period of bereavement—they specifically request that people stop commenting certain gleeful GIFs under their memorial posts on Instagram, such as Rachel and Phoebe from Friends happily jumping, or even the one of Shaquille O’Neal shimmying.
This interview will be loosely adapted into a limited series called To Kill Loudly: An Author’s Revenge; The Story of Gordon Abel Mortimer-Randell the Second, Told By Harper Daly, set to stream exclusively on Netflix in February 2026, with me, Harper Daly, serving as executive producer/writer/director.
The footnotes are the cherry on top of this bizarre shitcake. Dope work
This is O. Henry Collection or Best American Short Stories-worthy.