“The elephant rider fell into a pit of fire. The end,” the Boshkow said.
“Terrible one lined story,” Kruschev replied. “Disappointing. Utterly disgusting, you should be ashamed of yourself Boshkow.
Twenty years ago, in the year 2020, Kruschev was still an innocent and happy man. He believed in equality, looked extraordinarily handsome – a strong and kind person. 2020. Kruschev’s most hated year. 2020. From then on, Kruschev swore to insult every one lined story he heard.
An ancient prophet, by the name of Hobowatson, approached Kruschev one day. “I have something to tell you Kruschev,” Hobowatson said.
Kruschev, being the kind (and super popular) man he was, happily obliged to listen to the old man’s words of wisdom and ramblings.
Hobowatson told Kruschev a tale. A tale with only one line. A tale with no end. A tale with a cliffhanger.
Hobowatson left Kruschev enraptured with this mesmerizing tale. Kruschev tried to find meaning, tried to find its end. But to no avail. Kruschev spent the rest of his life, thinking about the one lined story, forever left in suspense.
He thought of it during his finals to become a brain surgeon. He failed.
He thought of it while repairing his robot friend. He destroyed.
He thought of it while flying his hover-plane. He crashed.
He thought of it in the hospital. He died.
Kruschev woke up from his eternal slumber, heavy with dread and the desire for vengeance. His face grew darker, his eyes fierce, his words sharp.
“I HATE one lined stories! I will insult everyone who says such blasphemus things!” shouted the new, transformed, grumpy Kruschev.