The old storyteller takes off his black beret in the black of the night. The Drone Warrior Writers have all but vanished into the 0th Dimension or somewhere else unpronounceable... He says, "Thank you, Keefieboy, for your support and your words of wisdom to one such as I. I can only fall to my scabbed and bleeding anthropomorphic knees again and again in joy."
The final transformation is almost done. The sound of a chainsaw splits the air molecules like thunder. Invisible lightening or visible darkening? The old man is confused.
He thinks, "Surely not now. Not after all I've said and done in the service of telling tales. Not after years and years of soaking up the ink and spitting it back out onto the page. Surely not!"