The nondescript box arrived on my doorstep in exactly two weeks. Just as promised. I tore into it and pulled the book out, staring in awe at my work.
It didn’t look like a traditional book. It had no cover and the type seemed a bit odd. But that’s all twenty dollars on the Internet would get you, as far as black market publishing was concerned anyway.
I quickly applied my homemade cover and set it in a place of prominence. I was proud of that book, dammit! And I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me it didn’t deserve its rightful place among my most honored possessions. I went about the rest of my day as usual, but occasionally glanced at the bookshelf where my words were calling out to be read.
That evening, during my celebratory dinner of Ramen noodles, my apartment door burst inwards. Black-clad men poured into my domicile, shouting for compliance. Damn black market publishing! The rats must have sold a list of recent purchasers. But still I smiled, knowing I’d do it again.