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Writing from Unreality House, a hyperfiction project created and edited by Jay Gabler.

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Our legal system is FUCKED

The fucking cops are bringing Tanner in again tomorrow. Seriously, they still haven’t settled shit about Will’s death? I mean, come on. It’s obvious Will took the pills himself. It sucks, it was an accident, case closed.

EXCEPT NOT.

First they had to search literally every corner of the house and grounds. They didn’t search our buttcracks, but I would seriously not have been surprised. They found some of Tanner’s stuff, but obvs it was different than the stuff Will had—no one knows where Will got those pills. Why does it matter? He’s dead, and he’s not coming back. Only because we’re in the middle of bumfuck nowhere Minnesota do the cops have nothing better to do than drag this out. I have no fucking idea what they’re going to ask Tanner that he hasn’t already told them.

That guy Daniel was the last one to see Will alive, but he’s only been in once. Once. Sketchoid bro living alone in his cabin and eye-raping girls, the only one to actually be in my boyfriend’s room with him the night he died, gets away with one quick Q&A and now he’s good.

Why? Because he’s local. Because he’s a local guy, and he’s probably like the cousin or the brother or the son of a cop who’s said, hey, this guy is good. If we need a scapegoat, let’s get that writer kid who’s been fucking all our wives. Listen, assholes, maybe your wives and girlfriends wouldn’t be jumping into bed with a newly-arrived man-whore (I call ‘em like I see ‘em) if you were home with them instead of hanging out at the station trying to come up with some remotely plausible story that will allow you to pin Will’s death on a person besides himself. Use your dicks, pigs, don’t inflate them with phony stories about us!

We only have to be here for 25 more days, and they can’t go by quickly enough for me. This whole project has been a fucking disaster, and the sooner I leave this backwards town in my rearview mirror, the better.

- Lucy Coleman

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