Billy Pirth watched indifferently as his pet brain slowly began to wither and die. That was his third dead brain this week. He had been feeding them all properly, drip-dropping all the important vitamins and growth hormones atop the exposed gray matter, singing to them, even calling out the finest brain surgeons (who found their new positions as Billy's personal veterinarians far more lucrative than their old jobs). Nothing worked.
Billy walked away from his mostly decaying brain garden and locked his study door, not wanting a servant to stumble in at an inopportune time. He went back to his brains. Counted all of them.
37.
All but two now dead.
"Fuck brains." Billy mumbled to himself. He withdrew a small revolver from his fluffy pink robe and pumped two rounds into each of the remaining brains. He saved the last bullet for himself.
"Fuck Brains." He said again, before blowing his own out.
...
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