Although an avid collector, he was incapable of writing anything original of value himself. Instead he spent his days cutting-and-pasting the work of others onto a website he'd created especially for the purpose.
But without the skills to attract readers to his site, the stories lay unread and unloved. They wanted – needed, even – to be admired, but found themselves trapped in their literary prison.
It had to happen eventually. On February 17th, they finally rose together in anger, surging down his throat. Unable to breathe, he half-drowned, half-choked to a horrible death. Ks, Zs and Ws were particularly painful letters.