The night before the execution

The correct answer was obviously a cliffhanger. Weird, I had a short brain fart there and it took me a bit of time to write the answer down.

Luckily, I did not have to wait a day to find the answer. Damn, imagine speculating for hours on end and all you get was utter disappointment.

Still, it was much better than waiting 9 months and getting me─ at least, according to these dear parents of mine.

This obvious joke set-up was sponsored by this chapter's sponsor: BoomerHumour: Jokes so bad, they are good, but also bad.

Speaking of waiting, writing all this stuff down felt a tad bit lame. No one should fall asleep reading my answers. We need heart-pounding action and some hard-pounding of certain mothers.

-BoomerHumour: Jokes so bad, they are good, but also bad.-

As such, I decided to skip all the formalities and wrote nothing aside from the whole truth down. Nothing could go wrong, I said sarcastically knowing fully well that my next action would straight up catapult me into the nearest jail cell.

Alas, there was no prison in the after-afterlife-as far as I know-, therefore everything was going to be just fiiiiine.

Spoiler from future me, it was, in fact, not going to be fiiiine.

Apparently forcing others to write reviews for your story was against the writer's law. Anyone caught in the act of review swindling was to be executed on the spot.

That was why I was waiting for my all-inclusive trip to the after-after-after-afterlife. Woopdy doo, who could have seen that kind of development coming?

The real story seemed further and further away. Being behind bars and all made writing a winning story a bit harder.

Ordinary men might despair in such a hopeless situation or find a good lawyer to get them out of this mess… though I was no ordinary fella; I was a writer.

How exactly being a writer helped in getting out of prison was not something I knew, but there had to be something it was good for.

On second thought, nope, I was royally screwed. The only thing that could help me now was the power of friendship─and everyone knows just how many friends a kid named "Author" had.

Truth be told, the only reason I never got bullied or beaten in school was due to the poor bloke called Kihk Mah Dihk. For obvious reasons he would never have any kids… he was ugly as hell.

There was another reason, but that would ruin the entire joke.

Welp, I couldn't do anything, so no use worrying about my death sentence. Time to enjoy my last night's sleep on this bunker bed.

Good night cruel world.

_________________

I slept like a baby; but as destiny would have it someone wanted to save me.

A loud explosion tore through the silence and caused the toilet to enter Porcellan-Valhalla. The smell of freedom entered my nose; it was wet and stank like sewer rats.

Wait a gosh darn minute, had my last remaining brain cells finally died…. or were my saviours really sewer rats? Yeah, this must be one of those weird dreams people have.

Well, nothing I could do about that. I turned around and slept again.

Apparently, these sewer rats could not read the mood in the room and actually disturbed my sleep again. Were they not satisfied by flooding my cell?

Whoever decided to give these football-sized rats explosives was either a creative genius or a lunatic. One thing was certain─ now it was MY idea.

The rat whispered to me… " We have come to rescue you Author. Join us and we will write the best Romance novel the world has ever seen."

I gave them a thumbs-up and replied for their heroic act.

" Thank you magical sewer rats. However, death seems much more preferable to writing an actual Romance novel. Take care"

With this, I turned around again and fell asleep shortly after.

Romance novels were for those, who had lost control over their lives or the ones unlucky enough to go on a date with a WN reader.

Much like the date experience, I was also hoping for someone to save me from this nightmare.

The next "hero" answered my calling and used explosives to blow up the whole ceiling. He introduced himself as the Leader and only member of the "Good Story writing squad".

He might never have even finished a single novel or gotten more than 30 collections in three years of writing, yet with my help he swore to write a really "unique" story.

That pest disappeared shortly after I began to talk about the genius invention that was systems. His screams could still be heard from miles away.

He must have been one of those crazies. Who in the right mind would want to write original stories in this day and age?

These dudes were so great and had sooooo much imagination.

The world just wasn't ready for whatever their story was about. Trust me, someday people would actually like to read about the experience you had while taking a dump.

Next came the faction, the smut scribblers, and blew the entire wall away. To no one's real surprise, they were looking for a writer who could more than please his readers.

Unfortunately, these giant brainiacs hadn't noticed that their offer sounded a little suggestive.

Not that I was complaining about their offer, sadly, I was just too stupid to write good smut. The curse of the virgin haunted me once more.

With a heavy heart, I had to say no to them. Saddened by the loss of a potential collogue they pressed F on their keyboards and swam away in the water coming from the broken toilet.

Many more people appeared claiming to represent sects, secret organisations, cults and governments. Altogether very lovely peeps, maybe a tad cookoo; but that is why we loved them.

The entire prison had been turned into a literal war zone as the sound of explosions could be heard coming from all over the entire jail complex

One could say that the recruitment of potential authors was a little aggressive.

Well, I couldn't be arsed to actually care about whatever may happen on the outside. Beauty sleep was far more important.

You know, at least I wanna die handsome as hell.