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.