Our story ends here: our hero is shot in the face by an angry, disillusioned mob. Emotional progressive rock plays in tribute, but the stereo is switched off by the fingers of envy. All there is left is silence, and his manuscripts. One was thrown on a bonfire, the others were deleted. As always, writing culminates in tragedy. The few left gathered around his corpse and urinated. The irony was, most of his articles were about toilet functions. It was almost as bitter as the aftertaste.
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