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My Writing Dump

This is Hotblack Desiato. The universe’s most famous rock star. He is a member of the band Disaster Area. It is said that Disaster Area’s music is not only the loudest music in the galaxy, but the loudest noise of any kind. Regular concert goers judge that the best sound balance is usually to be heard from within large concrete bunkers some thirty-seven miles from the stage, while the musicians themselves play their instruments by remote control from within a heavily insulated spaceship which stays in orbit around the planet – or more frequently around a completely different planet. Most of Disaster Area’s music follows the now infamous boy meats girl beneath a silvery moon which then explodes for no adequately explored reason. Many worlds have now banned their act altogether, sometimes for artistic reasons, but most commonly because the band’s public address system contravenes local strategic arms limitations treaties. This has not, however, stopped their earnings from pushing back the boundaries of pure hypermathematics.

Hotblack Desiato, contrary to his rock star lifestyle, is a quiet and shy man. He is quiet for two reasons. One, he was very aprensehive about his look, and two, he was dead. Its not that it was a bad kind of dead, no. It was the kind of dead that scientists reserve for rock stars and lawyers, while the latter are usually the ones revived after its all said and done. To make thing easy, i’ll say this. Mr Desiato was taking a year off dead for tax reasons. These tax reasons were, to say, mysterious. So mysterious, in fact, that all of the major tabloid magazines had cought ahold of them, and were now twisting them around so much, that not even the IRS knew what was true anymore.

The story starts just over a year ago.
“Mr Desiato, do you realise that your bank account is over a quarter of a million dollars over drawn?”
“Of course I do.”
“So, how do you expect to actually pay for all of this stuff?”
“With my American Express card.”
“Ah, that explains things.”
You see, Mr Desiato knew that American Express was given exclusivaly to anyone, and that the billing department couldn’t keep up with all of the accounts that they had out. Unfortuanly for him, his was the one that the American Express billing department could keep up with.

One day, after a rather suscessful concert at Starmulva Beta, Hotblack returned to his office only to discover a quite large package waiting his arrival sitting on his desk. It was from the Galactic Government. He opened the package and out fell a video message informing him that every single possestion that he owned would, in fact, be the property of the government if he didn’t pay all of his back taxes on the money he owed. At the end of the message, a little blip tastefully said "Paid for in part by American Express, have a nice day."
Hotblack then turned, walked out of the door, and fell over dead. That is to say, he walked into the emergency tax evation death suspension device.

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