Death Of A Plumber

Danny Felts, contributor 


RE: “Death Of A Plumber” rewrites


To Whom It May Concern:


After considering the notes sent in from your editors I’ve gone ahead and “cloaked the character in darkness” per your edit requests. Personally, I don’t see the point, considering how it bucks the genre so ridiculously, but I understand society’s obsession with a good tragedy and am willing to play ball. Let me know what you think. Toodles.






As he stood atop the rusted IKEA chair, the noose tightened firmly around the fat of his neck, his glance fell across a broken mirror that had fallen years ago in an errant corner. The plumber had long ago attempted to remove every and any reflective surface from the dilapidated studio apartment years ago, and yet there it was: a single triangle of glass angled perfectly towards his person. He gazed into it for what seemed like an eternity. His face was older, heavier. The once-proud mustache that sprung joyfully from his upper lip — perfectly symmetrical in every way — had now become frazzled and disfigured. His face bulged around the neckline, a bulbous double chin oozing out from his face. A pair of man tits drooped out of his overalls, like stalactites descending from a cavern. He had never been the picture of good health, always sporting a more rubenesque frame, and yet this was something completely different from the old days, the better days.


He sighed a deep sigh as a single tear descended over his chubby cheek, and before once and for all kicking out the chair separating him from a vast oblivion of utter nothingness, he looked into his reflection and said, “It’sa me… Mario…”


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