Alfonzo painted.
Everything Alfonzo painted came to life.
In no uncertain terms this scared the shit out of Alfonzo. Two nights prior Alfonzo slept with a woman named Maroon. Alfonzo had painted her. When she stepped out of the painting she was naked. Alfonzo liked to paint naked. They were both naked. He couldn’t stop the inevitable from happening.
Last night Alfonzo painted a samurai. Alfonzo hated samurais. That’s not why he painted one. He wanted to see if it, too, would come alive. It did. The samurai chased Alfonzo around his studio. Katana unsheathed, and in hand, the samurai cornered Alfonzo and stabbed him through his middle. As Alfonzo died he thought, I should have painted a woman named Purple, or money that filled my accounts.
Alfonzo lay dead. His wife found him the next morning.
Alfonzo’s wife studied Alfonzo’s final painting. It was a samurai. Red paint smeared the blade of his katana.
Nothing that Alfonzo painted ever lived again.
