Fiction is dead. It dies and resurfaces, dies and resurfaces. It is Jason from Friday the 13th. It is an unwelcome call from your mother-in-law nagging you about bringing the quesadillas to the family picnic. It is that dentist who says, “This won’t hurt a bit,” when of course it hurts more than a bit.

Fiction! You bastard! Die fiction die! Why won’t you die? Why won’t you transform into a corporeal form like a piñata so that we can all beat you senseless and watch your innards spill onto the floor? Why can’t we wipe the lino clean with your blood? Why can’t we eat you for breakfast?

I want to ignore the fact that humanity thrives on stories for a moment and remind you that fiction is dead DEAD dead. If fiction will not die, then I will make it die. I am on a mission from God. If I catch you reading a novel, I will snatch it from your hands and tell you that you are wrong and that you too will die. And then I will beat you senseless and watch you die. I will laugh at you, foolish fiction reader, you who cannot acknowledge inevitability. I will use Astroglide and a cudgel, if necessary.

I will quote you troubling statistics about John Updike and ignore the 100,000 copies that Terrorist sold.

Fiction, I will bust your chops. Fiction, you are nothing. You emobdy entropy. And I will tell you again that you are dead, even when you pounce on my shoulders and perform an exuberant tap dance.