Normtrap looked his usual self today. They say he had been through hell and back. For Slowmo he was a hero. Every pub in town has been abuzz with stories about how Norm tamed the fire breathing bear and slept with the ice maiden. Slow always dreamt of accompanying Norm on his adventures. One day he even blurted out his wish to Norm. All he got was a cold stare and a slap. Today also he wanted to congratulate Norm. But the sting of the slap weighed down his tongue. He rubbed his cheeks and waited for Norm to get drunk, as usual. He would then steal Norm's soul and deliver it to Satan. So that Norm will realize what Slow was really made of.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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