He’s sick to death of reading about people who spend all their time reading about werewolves and zombies. He tries to spend at least an hour every day in the bookstore café, writing about whatever else comes into his mind, but—no matter how hard he tries—his fans come in to stand behind him and prod him to wake the sleeping dead, outfit the living with glowing eyes and fangs.
“There must be something more,” he thinks, knowing full well that there isn’t. He turns to confront them, but it’s clear that resistance is futile.
They unzip his skull and feast on his brain.