You fucked up. Consider it a loss of judgment; a breakdown in judgment. Some kind of judgment failure — a failure to, you know, have judgment. Now Orson Scott Card is dead.
It’s hard to remember, it was dream-like, ethereal, and a lot like Card’s short story, “A Cross-Country Trip to Kill Richard Nixon.” You quit your job and became a three-days-a-week unaffiliated cab driver. You were a good listener to all your fares and everyone got out of your taxi feeling uplifted and content. Then you started hearing voices and hitting the bottle. You took off down the highway to North Carolina with a gun in the glove compartment. There was a hitchhiker heading south and you picked him up and tried to be a father to him for a day or two, but he stole your wallet and took off in the middle of the night.
And in the end, instead of everyone crying and saying, “We love you, Richard Nixon” and “Someone had to make those mistakes for the good of our nation,” you bludgeoned Card into unconsciousness and drowned him in a creek.
Did it stop the voices?
It didn’t stop the voices.
Now Orson Scott Card is dead and eventually the world is going to take notice and crucify you unless you take over Card’s life and identity.
Simple enough to start — you have his wallet.
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