The cuntard knew I had cash.

The only part of the manuscript he paid attention to was a reference to my savings.

He knew exactly how much I had.

And that's when he decided to sting me.

He knew I couldn't say I was broke. 

He had read the figure that I had nearly 40 k.

It worked like a charm.

He begged and I gave.

Now I owned him.

Thirty thousand words later, I had a book I'd be proud of.

Let's Get Fucked Up On Gropamine.

The book kind of wrote itself.

It's a book about a writer preying on another writer. 

But in the end, the predator becomes the prey. 

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