"What do you think?"

The words hung in the air. Indeed, the writer's future lay in their response. The publisher looked over from the rim of his half-circle glasses with a look that might have been intending to kill. There was a chill in the air, not due to any weather.

"Fine, but..."

But what? Fine but what, you fucking corporate pig?

"... The whole thing just felt a little off."

The author attempted to compose himself which manifested itself as a face of sheenful plastic. His smile was frozen, locked in place in the center of his face. His skin appeared as white and smooth as his freshly ironed office shirt. He waited with frustration for the publisher to continue.

"It's not that you don't have some good ideas in here, but..."

But. That fucking word again. I show you my life's work, my magnum opus, and you dare to shove your buts in my face.

"I just think the execution needs work. Perhaps you need to rethink some things and get back to us. It's not that we don't see some potential here."

Sweat was running down the author's brow. He felt it dripping but dared not to wipe it, lest it ruin his visage of pristine polymer. His whole body felt rigid and, truth be told, he felt much like a deer would as a few tonnes of metal raced towards it.

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"Are there any specific parts you'd like me to redo?" he asked through a clenched jaw.

"Well," fired back the publisher, "I'd just rewrite it from the ground up. Take a few more chances in some places and not so many in others. Also, think about the end a little bit more. Editing isn’t exactly my forte, but just follow your instincts and you'll get it."

My instincts are what got us here in the first place, you fat piece of shit.

"Hey, just keep your chin up."

My chin is not the fucking issue here. It's morons like you who can't appreciate genius when it's right in front of your stupid little nose.

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today."

No. Not like this. I didn't work so hard just for a pig in a suit to point me out of his office with his ridiculous sausage fingers.

"Have a good day," said the publisher finally, before giving the author a small nod and a smile just as plastic as the one fixed on his own face.

The author got up and stiffly made his way to the door. He stopped, thinking of one final thing he had yet to mention.

"I do have one more idea for the end."

The publisher didn't seem to hear him. His reply was the equivalent of swatting away a mosquito. "I'll be glad to hear it at our next meeting," he answered flatly.

Silently and swiftly, and still wearing his plastic mask, the author pulled out a handgun from his jacket pocket and took aim at the publisher, whose head was still buried in his notes.

“Was there something else you-”

The publisher had started to speak but would not be given the chance to complete that sentence. The author quickly and relentlessly fired half the magazine right into the publisher's chest. He fell back and his immense weight crashed to the floor. The author then walked up to the man, who was now lying on his back and bleeding profusely, his blood beginning to stain the beige carpet beneath him. The author then raised the gun once more and emptied the remainder of the magazine into him. 4 in the back and 2 in the head.

"How's that for an ending?" asked the author to the corpse with an unchanging smirk.