P.J. Whiskerhausen

"They called it the fountain of life because those who drank from it tended not to die."

Mr. P.J. Whiskerhausen sat, observing the first line of his short story. He slowly crafted an eloquent tale, one that he quickly recognized was horrifically incomplete, even audacious, but couldn't resist. Sentences were added here and there, a patchwork of paragraphs, then pages pieced together; then volumes.

He went mad gradually, over a period of years, and began regularly mumbling incoherent nonsense. He became consumed with his work, and kept it hidden in an impenetrable safe which featured a horrendously complex combination. The safe was locked when he electrocuted himself in the bathtub. The cover page was left loose on his desk. It read "These are only words. They cannot hurt you."