The sky was an Impressionist painting, the town a Norman Rockwell print.

Luigi was up to his neck in mayhem when all he ever wanted was a brush in his hand and a canvas before him.

The vegan toreador had issues.

"That boy ain't gonna make it in prison," the drug dealer waiting to be sentenced said aloud as the teenager was dragged from the courtroom, wailing.

Eventually the whole world stopped dreaming.

He didn't hear the warning shouts over the holiday din until it was too late and he had been beaten nearly unconscious with a turkey leg by his overworked wife.

The writer stared at a statue of himself now residing in a city park and wondered if the fraud he had perpetrated would ever be discovered.