Apparently Mr. Thomas Morris, my supposed next of kin (whom I have never met nor heard of), has told a bank somewhere in a continent I've never been to (but have at least heard of) that I am dead, and so he stands in line to inherit the $20 million (give or take a few hundred thousand) that I would have otherwise inherited... you know, had I not been dead.
I think that the death of fiction might be nearer than we thought after all. I mean, with scams and spam like that, who really needs fiction anyway?
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