A little piece of papyrus had settled over the man's table, unknown it was a message from HUAC. If he would stay out for an hour more it could collect dust and the authorities would know about it. Suppose he'll come back, hunch back on his Persian-style recliner, enjoy a cup of warm earl grey tea. Everything will be well, because he would be reading the daily headlines and doing the crossword. He knew how to bend words, twist them backwards, forwards, upside down. Though he wasn't the type to engage in colloquial speak like his radio and television, he'd always been a natural at decoding the human demeanor. He would've made a fine foreign policy aide, if he had been good to the law. Instead he left it to fester in the dirt, hanging around some red haired woman who'd loved her joint more than him. He didn't care. As long as he could employ those crossword vocabulary outside the home and nature, he would be happy.

The page, you ask, what was written on it? If he had returned home, he would have left this horrible woman.

A terrible smell drifted from a cinnamon candle the man had lit five hours before. It was evident whatever endeavor he had originally planned- buying eggs, books, or hiking up the mountain... that woman interrupted him. How could he let a visor fall over his eyes? The man, this Pulitzer winning writer, a breaker of the word of the land? How can this be the man to commit the most heinous crime, you ask?

An ancient myth goes as follows: A magnificent artist, Daedalus, once forged beautiful wax wings, sheer cut to perfection, and gave it to his son Icarus. Icarus, so in love with the wings' powers, flew so close to the sun, wax melted, and tumbled into the sea. What if this man was so in love with the sun, this red haired woman, he had no idea a sea was below him? Was he so foolish to wield a red book under his coat? Adept writers may be profound liars, but can it be enough to save hi from the government's wrath?

How absurd they decide to investigate this man instead of the woman, the real Red.