The writer sat back, lit himself a cigar and grinned. He had come to the end of his tome, Somehow, he worked through all the jokes, and all the times when he didn’t want to write the damned thing. It was done, and he was a happy man. He saved his work.
He went to the kitchen, took a grand puff on his cigar and poured a drink of the pinot he’d been saving for a celebration. Soon the glass was empty. He poured a second glass and walked back to his computer with a big smile on his face.
51,717 words. He was indeed proud of himself. Lady Whats-her-name had adventures up the wazoo and who knew? Maybe the next novel might bring more adventures. He had only one more thing to do. Upload his words to the online site. Before he did, there was just one itsy-bitsy change he wanted to make. Change THE END to FINALE.
He sat down at the computer and looked at the page. He was stunned. The words, all 51,717 of them, had been erased. Where was his work, his month of staying up late and typing out nonsense into the word processor? Hours of trying to think up crap for a useless extravaganza of an exercise.
He stared at the monitor. Suddenly a big mouth appeared on his screen. It said in the crudest possible way, “I’m hungry and I want more words. More words, if you please.”