There once was a man who got mugged one morning on the way to
work. The mugger forced the man at knifepoint to hand over all
of his money even though the good man didn't have a cent on him.
In a struggle the man evaded the deadly attack by the skin of
Then he almost got run over by a car as the 3079th traffic casualty
of the year. And as some teenage punk tripped the man, he almost
banged his head on a sharp rock.
Going home in the evening he was glad he survived the day. He
got home and saw his wife scrub the balcony so he went there to
greet her. He slipped on the soapy concrete and fell over the
balcony down into the garden. He died immediately.
The above story can be compared to my books. You have endured all of my books and stories so far (the stories can be compared to the attacks on the man's life) and survived - just like the man - but you are still going to die from one of my upcoming stories. Will I be a murderer because of that?