Eighteen (Much explosion about nothing.)
Vulvacia’s brain was frying. All that was left of Boston was his plaid boots, still smelling of freshly baked salmon. That was it. He was gone. Exploded. How his boots remained while everything else was gone she had no idea. But all there was was boots. She could sense his exploded particles all throughout the Pastrami of Developmentalism. But she could not find any way to communicate with these bits. What had caused this explosion? Who could have done this to such a gentle soul?
The darkness of the situation began to envelop the entirety of Vulvacia’s synapses. A black haired lady began to form in the eye of Vulvacia’s mind. A piercing sensation filled her body. Boston was no more. Boston was no more. What was the point of anything now? Everything had been for him. Well, the world, but for him as well. Because she loved him. She fought for him and for those who could not fight. The dark haired lady formed ever the more.
The hyper television that Boston had left on rattled in the background about more and more explosions happening to characters important to this novel. Vulvacia shook her hand towards the Author-of-this-Novel. Surely he himself would not explode, right? What was the point of all these explosions? Surely there was some point. This was not all some random warblings of a mad-man, was it? There was plot and structure to be had, was there not?
The lady opened her mouth and began to scream.