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1-443 - SkipFron
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1-443 [Frook 1, chapter 4.4, brick 3]

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It was just a moment after the decievingly final conclusion of the most stressful 171 minute writer's brick crisis in the history of writing, and Skip Friter of Flutonia was even more proud of his final creation than he was of his accomplishment of dropping his caffeine addiction. He was wide awake, as awake as any artist of any Age of the known universe could ever be. His memory and life path had progressed from sudden amnesia on the day he was to hand in the greatest frwoa of all time, to its re-writing through the adventurous first-time experiences that pretty much wrote the same damn thing anyway. He had become so awake and clear minded by now--and had solved the crisis of the Great First Frwoa of Flutonia by writing it so thoroughly--that an inexorable last-page plot twist upheaving everything that had happened to him about to befall him was as outside the realm of possibility as it could possibly be and still be a fathomable concept outside the realm of total Nonbeing. It wasn't that such a cliffhanger was so impossible as to ominously necesitate the foreshadowing of its own destruction via the blissful ignorance of the moment, it was simply completely and utterly outside the realm of tangibility altogether, where even the infinitesimal possibility of a 180 end-to-not-even-getting-started-yet turnaround--exponentially multiplied by the interlaced irony of such a tragedy happening in the story of the first writer to write anything (which would pack the most punch its first use anyway, never mind in this situation)--would have dwelled eternally in the deepest black hole any physicist was capable of documenting if it even existed to be fathomed, and in no way threatened to explode and be released in the way about to happen to Skip Friter. For, surely enough, as Skip and ?????? were practically skipping away from the Publishico skyscraper on Writer's block where the ominously-only manuscript of the First Frwoa Ever Written was now located--finished in conveniently half the time until its non-writing would have imploded the known universe in a fiery doom--the most astrocious Age-echoing explosion sounded for milas throughout the streets of Writer's Squiare, as the skyscraper holding the First Frwoa Ever Written imploded into a fiery primal collapsing pile of rubble and ash as the flowa space around it decided the evolution of the art of storytelling demanded no less.
 There was nothing to say as the First Publishing Agency of Okuaka collapsed to a pile of unoriginal raw un-brainstormed rubble caused solely by the classic-state-puff-marshmallow-man-destruction-of-New-York-Crisis at the end of
"Oops."

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