This rewrite is focused on a possible one-on-one confrontation between Gatsby and his would-be murderer, Wilson. It starts from the point when Gatsby enters the garage. Special thanks to my dad for the idea that sparked the story. It is made specifically for comic relief (at least, I hope it's funny).

Gatsby entered the garage to retrieve an inflatable pool chair. After pumping it up, he walked into the library to get a book to read. He then proceeded to the patio doors where he disappeared among the lush shade trees.

Gatsby placed the chair in the water, sat down with his book, and pushed away from the edge, gliding gently toward the center of the pool.

As he enjoyed the tranquility of the moment, a rustle from some nearby bushes caught his attention. A blond, older man slowly emerged. He had a gun in his hand.

"Ah, Gatsby," the man sneered. "We finally meet."

"Do I know you, old sport?" Gatsby asked, cautiously looking at the gun, which was pointing right at him.

"The name's Wilson. You don't know me, but I'm sure you knew my wife," he growled, pulling back the hammer on his gun.

"Sorry, but I never knew her," Gatsby responded. "Why is this man accusing me? I didn't do anything," he wondered. Then it struck him.

"Oh, so the woman that was killed was—"

"My wife," the assailant finished. "She ran out to talk to you and you brutally ran her over!" He screamed like a wild animal.

Gatsby knew that if he was to survive, he must keep him talking.

"Well, I don't know how you got to this conclusion, old sport, but I assure you, you have the wrong man," Gatsby said calmly. Quietly, he reached into a secret compartment in his pool chair and pulled out a snub-nose .38 revolver, taking care to conceal it behind his book. Still hiding the gun, he aimed it in the general direction of where Wilson stood. "Well, it's now or never," Gatsby thought.

"Stop playing games with me," Wilson, now in a state of intense frustration, yelled. "I know that you've been having an affair with my wife, and to keep her quiet, you killed her. So now, to avenge both her and myself, I'm going to kill you," he raised the gun and aimed at Gatsby.

Gatsby, who by this time realized that he had run out of options, fired three times. The book he was reading erupted into a ball of confetti as the bullets ripped through it. They hit their target.

Wilson stumbled backward and fired one shot, which punctured Gatsby's inflatable chair. He crashed through the patio furniture and collapsed with a loud thump onto the ground. Sitting in his slowly sinking chair, Gatsby kept his gun trained on Wilson, who laid motionless in the grass. He eventually swam out of the pool and took another look at him. The man was dead. He telephoned the police a minute later.

CHAPTER IX

Gatsby called me at the office at 2:40. He didn't talk long, but he instructed me to come to his house as soon as possible. I got there a few minutes later.

The front door was left unlocked for me, and I walked through the house toward the back to Gatsby's pool. The water was littered with small bits of paper and a deflated pool chair lay at the bottom of the pool. Gatsby waved me over from the garden, holding the telephone.

As I approached, he pointed to the far corner of the yard, where a body lay among a pile of strewn patio furniture. I went over to examine the body; it was Wilson. I leaned down to check his pulse and, finding none, I called over to Gatsby.

"Yep, he's dead all right," I shouted.

"That's what I thought," Gatsby yelled back, still holding the receiver.

"He's deader than a cold mackerel," I said. Gatsby nodded.

"He's dead as a doornail." Again, he nodded.

"Yeah, he bought the farm, alright—"

"I get the point!" Gatsby barked firmly. I clammed up.

While he hung up the phone, I went back over to him.

"So, what happened here?" I inquired, pointing at the confetti and deflated chair.

"It's a long story," he started. "I was just reading a novel, minding my own business, when that man—" he pointed at Wilson. "—popped out of the bushes. He accused me of having an affair with his wife and, to keep her quiet, I ran her over. Can you believe that, old sport?"

"Yes," I blurted without thinking. Gatsby glanced at me, shocked. "I mean, I can believe that Wilson would go berserk like that, after his wife got killed." I felt like I had jammed both of my feet in my mouth.

"Well, anyway, he gave me no choice, so I shot him. I had to keep my gun hidden behind my book, so when I fired, it exploded into the fragments which you see floating in my swimming pool," he finished. Then he asked, "Who or what could have put him up to this? Surely not Daisy."

I pondered on Gatsby's thought for several minutes, and I came up with only one person.

"Tom," I suggested.

"Mr. Buchanan?" he repeated. "Why would he want Wilson to kill me?"

Sometimes Gatsby was so naive he annoyed me. "Isn't it obvious? He wanted Daisy all to himself, but at the same time he was having an affair with Myrtle. When he found out that she was hit by your car, he assumed that you were behind the wheel, and figured that he could achieve both his goals by telling Wilson that it was your car that killed her. And to top it all off, he must have given him your address."

We sat in silence at one of the few remaining tables near the pool that had not been overturned. Unfortunately, even if I was right about Tom plotting to kill Gatsby, neither of us had enough evidence to prove it.

The authorities showed up soon after, and the preliminary investigation concluded that it was self-defense. Gatsby was in the clear. I heard a sigh of relief escape his lips when they removed the body from the premises.

"You know, old sport," Gatsby said when the police and the coroner left, "After what happened here, I think it's time to move away and start a fresh, new life."

I nodded silently. I could sense that he had given up his old dream, especially since it caused so much trouble. Even after he had risked his life to protect Daisy, she didn't seem to notice. He did attempt to call her multiple times as we waited for the police to arrive, but all he got was a busy signal. I later found out that she and Tom had left New York completely. Now, all he wanted was to begin again, to find a brand new dream.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Gatsby," I said.

Ahh... Isn't it refreshing to see three happy endings in a row? ;) Let me know what you think! Write a review and favorite this if you enjoyed it! :)