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“Fag cuck shit.” That’s all I type. If readers don’t move onto another story, they’re as fucked up as the authors. I hate posting anonymous reviews behind a proxy. By court order, I don’t have an account. My Linthrax virus took down a lot of servers, including Homeland Security. They’re embarrassed how weak their spy system was. I got a job out of it.
Cheating wife stories are like monster movies. You explore your subconscious fears, then kick their ass. But someone has to warn about stories where the bitch cuts off the guy’s balls. If it weren’t for BTB (Burn The Bitch) authors like BurnerBill I’d feel a lot more polluted. Not one of his cheating bitches gets away with it. I get a text from him.
TrevorBTB. Got your message. Central Park. Fountain near the bandshell. 18:30. Wear running gear.
We’re running like hell. A black limo stops. Bill dives in. So do I. The leaf blower sound stops when the doors close. A loud, rapid hammering fills the car as we burn rubber taking off. It’s not hammering. It’s bullets. It’s not s leaf blower. It’s a drone.
“You were happy bitching about made-up stories on the internet, but you had to contact me. Now we’ve met, they want you dead. Of all the dumb luck. Welcome to the afterlife. You’re a ghost. My agency doesn’t exist. And now, neither do you.”