Reginald Humphrey Bonaparte was understandably perturbed when he saw that the book he had taken from the shelf in the old, dusty bookstore began as follows: "Reginald Humphrey Bonaparte was understandably perturbed when he saw that the book he had taken from the shelf in the old, dusty bookstore began as follows."

"I've seen this before," the shopkeeper said, dusting his glasses with an unsurprised calm. "Metalieraturitis, I believe it's called. Terrible luck."

"Can anything be done?" Reginald Himphrey Bonaparte said. "Whatever will become of me when the story ends?"

"Not much good, I'm afraid," the shopkeeper told him. "Cease to exist. This happened to my uncle, that poor man. He found himself in a tweet. Barely made it a sentence."

"How long do I have?" Reginald was becoming visibly distressed.

"It says here that it's a post on reddit," the shopkeeper replied, pointing to this sentence. "10,000 characters max, I believe. Except that it's being written on an iPhone, it seems. You're being written with somebody's thumbs. You see? Just a bit before he spelled your name 'Reginald Himphrey Bonaparte. Lazy work. It looks like he's writing it on his commute to work, and I suspect he'll stop before the bus does."

A great discalm shook Reginald Humphrey Bonaparte. He slammed the book onto the desk and announced, "Well I'd like to file a complaint, then! It is simply unacceptable for any establishment to go around selling books that disclose all of their customers private affairs, and an outrage that they would include one that seals my death sentence."

The shopkeeper pull out a form that read, Complaints: Metanarratives and Postmodernism and slid it across the table. "You may," he told Reginald Humphrey Bonaparte, "but I wouldn't. You're on a limited time, I'm afraid. You might as well make the best of it."

Reginald grabbed the paper briskly and began to write down his name, but, a small sliver of sense slipping into his consciousness, stopped. "What," he said slowly, "do you mean? Limited time?"

"You're on a limited word count," the shopkeeper said. "I'd probably try to make the best of it while I could. Wouldn't waste words, you understand."

Reginald dropped the pen. He lifted his head slowly, as if expecting salvation to reign down upon him. "How?"

"I have just the solution, Reginald Humphrey Bonaparte."

"Don't call me that!" Reginald Humphrey Bonaparte cried. "Are you mad? What a waste of letters! Reg, please, Reg!" You're literally killing me here!"

"As you will. Reg." The shopkeeper bent down and scurried his hand under the table.

"Hurry up, won't you?"

The shopkeeper rose slowly. "It's word count, fiend, not time. Don't rush me. Time doesn't really matter for these sorts of things." To prove the point, he stood completely still for thirty two years, then added, "See? Barely affected a thing."

"Yes, very well," Reg said briskly. "Anyway, do try to be sudden about it, at least."

Suddenly, the shopkeeper pulled out a jar of white out and a pen. "Here you are," he said.

Reginald picked the jar up, inspected it, and slammed it back onto the table in discontent. "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

"Anything you want, of course. Let me show you." The shopkeeper bent down over the paper, carefully erased the next sentence, and scribbled something down. Immediately, Reginald handed his wallet to the handsome shopkeeper, who was incredibly intelligent and loved by all.

"Amazing!" Reginald said. "Let me give that a try!" And he took the pen to paper. Thn 2 hot P0rn strs cam in n we're like reg u so sxy bby n thy had a 3way it was spr ht

"That's just atrocious," the shopkeeper said, pulling Sasha Grey off of the pompous writer. "It's just as well we move on anyway. I believe we're nearly at an end."

"But we can't be!" Reginald cried. "There must be something we can do, surely."

"Accept our fates? Try to maintain some dignity and decorum?"

"Definitely not that!" Reginald cried. An idea hit him. He snatched the pen and took it to paper.

"Are you sure you want to do that? It'll be terrible, I assure you. Total trash I'm sure. If it evens works."

"I'm sure," Reginald replied, and blew the wet ink dry. He held it up, and read it aloud: "Please continue the story in a reply."