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May 04, 2011

In which the author demonstrates his proficiency in metaphors.

This story starts with Bad at Foreshadowing.

The cave was pitch black, like a pitch black cave. Sam patted his pockets for his trusty lighter. He pulled it out and flicked it on, causing the darkness to draw back like a bunch of kids running away from bath time. Sam carefully felt his way through the cave, hugging the wall like it was his mother but using only one hand, not two and his hand wasn't around the wall's shoulder it was placed against it. Soon he sensed the cave opening up and saw a faint light, as though the sun itself were shining through some sort of small opening in the cave. From the echo of his steps he realized he was in a large chamber. He was getting close now! His pulse quickened like, you know, as he saw a glint in the middle of the chamber.

Sam headed towards the glint and found a rusted treasure chest. He dropped to his knees like a man and pried the lid open. Inside the treasure chest was a veritable treasure chest of riches. Gold, diamonds, emeralds! There was enough money in here to start that small business he'd always dreamed about.

Sam was about to grab the treasures and stuff them into his pockets like a man who hasn't eaten anything in days and then finds a twenty dollar bill on the ground so he takes it into the nearest restaurant but they won't serve him until he bathes so he has to run down to the beach to clean off and return, then order, then wait for his food to be made and finally has it set down in front of him, when he heard the CLICK of a gun and a voice:

"Thanks for your help, Sam. But I'm afraid this treasure belongs to me."