Slaughter writer

All my guilt and vanity stemmed from my infiltration into literary circles.

Writing an article is not too difficult for others, but it is difficult for someone like me who is greedy for a false name and has no writing.

He was the first editor I knew.

I remember very clearly that when I first saw him, he was like a chicken just learning to croak. He taught me a lesson with his unique enthusiasm, and he threw the manuscript on the desk without looking at it. Tiredly, he said to me: “Put it here, I will read it. Maybe a few days, maybe a few months, I will give you an answer. You can also see that the manuscripts on my desk are piled up.” On the wall The old-fashioned wall clock struck a few times, as if the death knell had sounded in my heart, and the evil thoughts had arisen from that time, and I gave him a disgusting look.

I slammed out the door, determined to become famous even by unscrupulous means.

So, I got to know “Votoleng”. Of course, “Futuo Leng” is what others call him behind his back. He doesn’t seem to care that others call him that. He is a famous writer in the provincial capital.

“Votoleng” makes me wonder, his tone is still mild, let me think of Calvino, Chekhov, Balzac, do you want to be immortal like them? In the future the statue can also be erected in a small square.

This is the dream. I paid him a thousand dollars for the first time.

“Futuo Leng” sneered, and said coldly: “Balzac is worth so much money? It is a comedy on earth to be known by others. With this amount of money, at most one can be a modern poet.”

modern poet?

What a joke, I don’t want to be a modern poet, “Votron” should know that I don’t want to be a modern poet.

“Futuo Leng” stroked Hu Qi, took me to his study, and handed me a booklet with a sense of ceremony. I looked at it, and every great writer has a price clearly marked behind it. “Futuo Leng” said to me, his sense of smell is more sensitive, and whoever holds it will become popular.

I said to him, let me be Kafka. I put all the money in his pocket, almost ten thousand dollars.

The result is disappointing. “Votron” is still “Votlon”. He is not Kafka himself, and I can’t be Kafka. He suddenly got rhinitis and his nose is no longer functioning. He deceived me not to mention, what I did was a catastrophic slaughter.

You can only rely on yourself, no one can rely on you.

That’s when the massacre began. I hired the killer Jiang Yang, from June 20th to the end of July.

Of course, there is also “Voltellan”. The literary world was in an uproar.

“Votlon” was killed early in the morning while walking in the park. Jiang Yang walked towards him, and gave him a stick, strong enough to kill a cow.

Pretty decent.

Literary luminaries are dead. I am the only one left, and all I need to do is to climb the throne of the scholar as soon as possible. But I was no longer in the mood to write any articles. Every day, people who were greedy for a false name came to visit me with gifts, begging me to show them a bright path. I held “XX Anthology” in one hand, and beside me sat a beauty who loved literature and art, and she fed me coffee.

There is still a road. I wiped my nose and sniffed the literary cells on his body. He put a golden card in my hand, which was a bank card. “It tastes pretty good, like Kafka.”

May God bless him.

Who is he?

A young man who loves literature? A literary lover who has reached his twilight years?

In short, our brothers and sisters.

It seems that the killing is far from over, but to me, what does it matter? With the sentimental sound of a wall clock on a certain wall, I was in the dark, searching for the happiness I wanted, ding! when! when! The bell rang, as if there were three firm knocks on the door leading to the tomb.