As the sirens receded into the distance, Geoff smiled to himself in the darkness. He could still taste the metallic flavour of blood at the back of his mouth and his hands were slick with gore. Above all this, though, was the heady exhilaration of revenge. As he had watched their eyes, full of pain and too-late remorse, he had felt the burden of years falling from him. Years of rejection; years of shattered dreams; years of well-used semicolons. At last, the depth of his artistry would be understood. At last, the world would know his name. Maybe there was even “room in the market” for a confessional autobiography. “Room in the market,” they had said. Perhaps now their graves would read “there simply isn’t room in the market.” Geoff laughed. He had a feeling that the Numington-Putsch Literary Agency had drafted their last ever letter of rejection.