"I shot my butler." I threw the manuscript across the room. Grabbed a scotch. No. Wait. Wanted a scotch, grabbed a bourbon. Drank it anyway. What kind of a piss-poor story ends with "I shot my butler?"
It was Fight Club, that's what did it. I think. All this unreliable narrator business. The publishing world hasn't been the same since, filled with hacks trying to seem clever with these terrible twist endings. It's almost unbearable.
I polished off my bourbon. Still wanted scotch. Rang for Jeffrey. The house is too big, I can't be expected to go all the way to the pantry by myself. Unreasonable.
Twist endings don't bother me so much, especially as a publisher of mysteries. But come now. Really. I shot my butler?
Damn. I noticed my colonial bunderbluss was off kilter above the mantle. Damn maids. Cant find good help these days.
Jeffery startled me as I was ruminating on the worst pieces of the slush pile. I am an easily startled person. Even more so when the bunderbluss kicked and...
Oh my god.
I shot my butler.
I shot my butler.