botulism smith

the faint tang of scrotal sweat assailed him as he entered the room and he knew that botulism smith had been working on revisions of what they were hoping was going to prove to be one of his masterpieces.
until you visited the ramshackle abode of this most eccentric of intellects you might be forgiven for thinking that his world, that described in his fictions, was one which could never truly exist in reality – that its tenuous cobweb intricasies of coincidence and odd magic were too fragile to survive in the workaday world.
botulism did not possess that delicacy himself though – he was like a slab of raw meat planted uncooked and bloody in the centre of the most ornate of doilies. carol often chuckled when he was reminded of these inconsistencies. the call for reworking the last few chapters of this latest book had provoked the usual prolonged outbursts of vitriol that tied up the office phonelines for days at a time – well, one specific phoneline which, based upon the experience last time, was assigned to botulism.
botulism was a genius and what did these lowly cockroaches scuttling in the shadow of his greatness think they could possibly offer him as suggestions that might be worthy of his notice? still, he did what was asked of him and made the cuts and additions that would turn this from a mildly successful book to the toast of the literati.
botulism swore that he never gave two shits whether or not some hoity-toity pretentious bloomsbury fanclub member liked his work or not, but he definitely appreciated the trappings that his fame and wealth brought him. copious magazines of victorian erotica were stacked six foot high around the room – ankles and wrist fortnightly being his favourite.
‘so,’ offered carol ‘do you have the final manuscript ready for me to take?’
‘of course i do you insufferable little pipsqueak. and do you have the requisite amount of cash which i requested in my last missive? for if you do not i will wipe my arse upon this fine piece of literature, and damn the papercuts!’
‘i have it, mr smith.’
‘good – take this; give me that; leave.’
‘of course.’
carol thumbed through the stained pages and knew, once more, that this strange reclusive specimen of humanity had cast his omniscient gaze into the heart and heads of so many.


One Response

  1. his name is botulism? lol

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