The Fan

“I really like your stuff,” the email started.  “I just want you to know that you’re incredibly talented.  Not only that, but you’re beautiful.  You are the sort of person I could see myself marrying.  We would look good together.  Ever since I saw you, I feel like it’s meant to be, just me and you.  We can make love together on my yacht, and I can take you to the most remote island and we can just stay there.  Forever.  I think about you,” the email continued, “every day.  I’m planning to get a tattoo.  It’s going to be your name.  What do you think?  I also enclosed a picture of me.  Let’s be friends at least.  I think you owe me that.  Did you know that I’ve been promoting your work online?  All those likes are because of me.  You should be grateful.  Why ignore me?  Why are you ignoring me?  We could have something special, but you’re just spitting on me like everyone else.  Just spitting on my corpse.  You’ll be sorry.  One day you’ll be sorry.  And they’ll find you in different places, cut up into chunks.”

He read back over it.  Too angry?  Chubby finger shaking.  Click SEND.

Later, when the police arrived at his apartment, they found him strung up from the beam in his ceiling.


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