Come closer and I shall sing you a song of pain.Deciding that this hellfont of ancient native magic is none of my business, I slam the door shut behind me and run from the home. But when I reach the front door, I find to my horror that it is shut, the deadbolt locked tight. Behind me I hear the horrible, grating voice of Tom Hanks, cackling as he drops a key--clearly the only key to the house--into the back of Hamm, the piggy bank. I'm trapped. Immediately I wonder how many other movers have met the same fate as me; whether this family is cursed to forever lure manual laborers to their suburban tract home/feeding pit. I am about to die. But as that realization starts to sink in, a strange energy comes over me. A fire forms in my bowels, and a rod of steel and hate forms where my spine should be. For a single, glorious moment, I can perceive the design of the universe, and my place within it. I shouldn't be afraid of toys. They should be afraid of me. I take a couple seconds to form a plan... _________
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.