Choking on foetid air, I traversed the entryway

Choking on foetid air, I traversed the entryway to the blasted tomb, within which a teeming brood of pestilent vermin had fed upon my forebears for millennia. I, P. H. Craftlove,

sought to eradicate the metallic chamber of my fridge from which bodes ill portent & daemoniac confusion. I love Kraft products, hence my name. Charnal mold decayed luncheonmeat,

pickled eggs, extra hot English mustard and crunchy lettuce combined in a toasted turkish bread were served to my guests. The Filth's were my new neighbours

who enjoyed the meal very much. It wasn't rubbish or too posh. It made them feel at home. After the meal, I invited my new neighbors up stairs where we played poker, and then later

wreak havoc with my... Clearing my throat, I muttered, "Sorry...gotta go!" and sprang from the bed. Alcohol + Prozac = Nada. I wasn't important to anyone anymore, only impotent.

I went home to my dingy apartment, and I proceeded to go to the washroom. I ran my fingers through my hair and saw wispy strands fall off clump by clump. I smiled.

Chemotherapy. Well, if I lose the hair, I could win the life. Now that I have cancer, maybe my wife will not leave me. Maybe we can work it out. Maybe she will love me again.

I had my hopes up, even though I was sick, bald, and impotent. But then the worst possible thing happened. My wife fell in love with my oncologist. Then it occured to me that maybe

the key to happiness WAS to be the final folder. As I wasted away from malnutrition, I hunted down every nine-liner, ensuring an obscure legacy of infamy. But a legacy nonetheless.