All you ever wanted to do was sit in your quiet studio apartment and write a best selling novel. To go down in history, as one of the greatest literary innovators of your generation.
Then, *HE* showed up. Yes, *HIM*.
The man who broke the quiet serenity of you creative sanctuary.
Constantly keeping you up with his late night partying, jazz, rock and roll swing dancing, and unconservative late-night canoodling.
It was because of *HIM*, that you had to type away at your typewriter so late into the night, after *HE* had ceased his debonair debauchery.
Oh, you tried to live and let live. To let bygones be bygones. So long as you had some sliver of time in which to produce your work, everything was dandy.
Then, one night, *HE* had the nerve.
The Audacity!
To tell you not to type so late in the night.
He said that the **click**, **clack**, **click**, **clack**, **click**, **clack**, and **DING!** of your typewriter kept *HIM* awake, while *HE* was trying to sleep off his blossoming hangover.
You'd had enough of this driveling buffoon's poppycock.
You:
[[ Whacked *HIM* upside the head with your Louisville Slugger right there in the hallway->Whacked him in the hallway]]
[[Invited *HIM* into your apartment->Invited him into your apartment]]With a **WHACK**, *HE* fell to the floor, where *HIS* head made a **SPLAT!**
*HIS* blood stained the oak finish on your Louisville Slugger, and the white carpet on the hall floor.
As you looked down at *HIS* lifeless body, you felt a sense of peace and tranquility.
Then you heard a scream.
You shifted your gaze in the direction the scream came from to see the witness to your macrabe misdeeds.
*Oh no!*, Miss Pendergast from down the hall saw the whole thing.
She frantically called the police, and informed them that there had been a murder in the apartment building.
Your body was in a catatonic state, as you went back to staring at *HIS* body. *HIS* grey glazed eyes looked at you, but didn't speak to you. They looked like the eyes of a dead fish, minus the flies.
When the police officers arrived, guns drawn, they saw you standing over *HIS* body; posed to strike. They shouted, "Freeze! Drop your weapon!"
You:
[[Forgot to drop your weapon, and turned to face them. Slowly, you moved towards the officers.->Forgot to drop your weapon]]
[[Dropped your weapon and went peacefully.->Dropped your weapon.]]
And thus, your life ended, as abruptly as it began.
Since you forgot to drop your weapon, the officers open fired.
Several .38 Special +P bullets found their way into your heart, and your lungs.
Do not fret though. For in your death, you became far more famous, and popular, as a writer, than you ever could have hoped to achieve, whilst living.
Your manuscripts were seized by the police in the investigation, and were then subsequently leaked to the media.
The publicity produced sprouted a considerably large fanbase for your works.
*The New York Times*, *The New Yorker*, and *Time Magazine* all raved at the literary brilliance of a duranged lunatic. The one who snapped, and bludgeoned their neighbor with a Louisville Slugger.
All those years of clicking and clacking on your type writer, and all it took for your work to become recognized was one **WHACK!**
The trial was a quick one. Your public defender managed to convince the jury that you were temporarily insane, when you bludgeoned that badgering bufoon. So you were sentenced to spend the next ten years in federal prison.
During the investigation, the police seized your manuscripts, and after they were returned to you, you were approached by several media outlets, and publishing houses interested in publishing, reviewing, and/or reporting on your works.
To you, this came as no surprise. America and society in general seem to be obsessed with violent murder; more so, when it is found out that the murderer is a creative type.
They can't get enough of not being able to rack their brains around how someone so talented, could be compelled to commit such horrid autracities.
The fact that they were able to commit such autracities only made some readers more eager to read their works.
The serenity of your solitary cell provided the perfect place for you to let your creativity flow.
Ten years of solid work-flow.
When you got out of prison, the first thing you did was use your royalties to buy a cabin; not far from where the inciting incedent of your fame began.
However, *HIS* family had not forgiven you.
In truth many others were praying for your karmatic death, or making threats to kill you themselves.
At times, you were unsure whether the fan mail outnumbered the hate mail and death threats.
Until the day of your death, you lived in constant fear, whilst at the same time basking in a glow of admiration.
And where did you die? In the solitude of your own work space.
As technology advanced you eventually took to writing on a computer, but the typewriter that you had used for all those years, the same one that kept *HIM* up with its click, clack, click, clack, click, clack, rested on a loosely hung shelf above your desk.
One day, when you were working it just sort of... fell. Right on top of your head. Keep in mind it weighed about twenty pounds.
No click. No clack. Just as *HIS* life had ended abruptly with a *WHACK!*, so did yours end with a **WHACK!**, and a **DING!**The moment you shut the door to your apartment, you whacked *HIM* in the head with your Louisville Slugger.
*HE* fell onto the hardwood floor, and you were pretty sure *HE* was dead.
All that was left to do was get rid of the body.
You:
[[Buried the body in the desert->Buried the Body]]
[[Burned the body in the desert->Burned the Body]]
You loaded the body into the back of your truck, covering it with a tarp, and brought a shovel to dig this D-bag his shallow grave.
You also brought the Louisville Slugger, which you would bury in a seperate location.
After retreiving the shovel, you started digging.
Hours of digging left you exhausted. The hard desert dirt was very hard to break, so it had taken you considerably longer to dig a five foot hole. Your body was drenched with sweat, and you felt your hands starting to bleed.
That's why you never saw it coming.
**WHACK!**
*HE* didn't die. *He* had merely fell unconscious from the blow of your Louiseville Slugger. But, *HE* made sure not to make the same mistake you had made.
**WHACK!**
**WHACK!**
**WHACK!**
After finishing you off, *HE* called the police.
Following a brief investigation, and a trial by jury, *HE* was announced innocent of all charges.
The police auctioned off all of your belongings. Not that there were many belongings you had to be auctioned off to begin with.
The landlord owned almost all of your furniture, including the bed bug ridden Murphy bed.
The only things in that apartment that belonged to you were the few sets of clothes you owned, including one suit, your desk, your typewriter, your manuscripts, and the boxes they sat in.
So, what was the worst part of all of this?
Certainly not being dead.
No. The worst part off all of this, was that *HE* bought your manuscripts, and burned them all. *HE* bought your beloved Underwood Champion typewriter, and smashed it with a sledgehammer.
With a flash of fire and smoke, and a **WHACK!**, so ended any small sliver of hope for you to leave behind any sort of literary legacy.
After digging the grave, you placed *HIS* body in it, then covered it with some brush to help fuel the fire that would cover up your heinous crime.
You made sure to soak both the body, and the murder weapon in kerosine; the same kerosine you use to heat your shitty apartment.
You thought to yourself, *I may freeze for a week, but at least I won't be in prison.*
Your body shivered in the cold desert temperatures as you lit a match, and tossed it onto the body.
Or so you thought.
The match had landed on your pants leg, which had accidentally gotten soaked in kerosine.
Your body roasted like a pine tree covered in pitch before you fell into the grave.
You flailed, and wriggled, until inhalation of the flesh scented smoke suffocated your lungs.
You'd packed your few belongings into the back of your truck, thinking you'd have to skip town.
That sort of planning ahead was what would lead to the destruction of your lifes work.
Embers from the fire had found their way to your manuscripts in the bed of the truck, and set them ablaze.
That one **WHACK!** was the first action that started the Rube Goldberg Machine that cemented the decimation of any chance you had at becoming a respected, reputed, and regally regarded writer.