Bill had finished it. His manuscript. He didn’t know what else to do with it so he contacted his editor. His editor, a humble man, always living on the right side of the law. Always attempting to do the best for other people. And Bill, well Bill was proud with the fruits of his labour. Five hundred pages, five hundred pages! It had taken him years to complete.

He had lived in poverty, recklessly abandoning all that he had once known as the idea of comfortable living. Traded it all in for the chance of glory. That one shot in a million. Among many of the other millions of people who thought that they could write the next bestseller. Their golden ticket to the pathways of heaven.

He had strived for this moment, yearned for this moment to be read and when it was complete. Well, when it was complete he knew that he had bought the winning ticket. The winning ticket, of course, was just a metaphor. There was some degree of esteem within his words. He had shoveled the shit. Done all the hard work. All attempts to cover the piece that would launch him into superstardom.

A million other people had tried. But he was sure, yes, he was sure that his novel would be a best seller. And not because he thought that other people were bad writers necessarily. No, it wasn’t that at all. It was because he thought he had something unique. Some sort of reworked jewel encrusted item that would put all other pieces to shame.

The heaving mass of writers who had all proclaimed the same thing. Made the same arguments time and time again. Well, not this man, not this boy. This boy was going to make it.

It was about five in the morning. He had just spent the entire previous night awake putting the finishing touches on his piece of work. His baby.

He drove to his editor’s home. His editor was just awaking to the daylight hours and so when Bill arrived, he would have to wait. He sat outside the man’s home with a great joy in his heart. For the deliverance and completion of his work.

The time came to seven in the morning. Bill knocked on the door.

His editor, still weary eyed, opened the door. Brushing the sleep from his eyes, he saw the man standing there. That was Bill, Bill clutching the five hundred pages of gibberish. “Yes… Bill, what are you doing here? It’s very early.”

“I’ve completed it. The piece. This one will be the piece. Surely, this one will be the piece that will put food on my table and help me afford some better living standards and help for me and mine.”

“What is it exactly? What is the piece?”

“Five hundred pages of unedited bitching about the world.”

His editor looked at him for a moment, then brought his hands together and twiddled his fingers, “Ooo… pristine. Who do you think would want to read that?”

“I don’t know. But surely, someone would…”

“I see. Well, I know what to do about this one.”

The editor took the five hundred pages of unedited bitching about the world from Bill’s hands. Bill followed his editor as he walked down the hallways of his home. He came to the bathroom. Bill followed idly. He shoved the five hundred pages of unedited bitching into the toilet and began flushing. Flushing once, flushing twice until the toilet blocked up and began to flood. His editor looked at Bill, “Was that the only copy?”

“I have another…”

“Bring it to me.”

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