Chapter 1
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Buying the gun had been yet another annoying chapter in Bob's life. The store had been pretty busy, and Bob had unassumingly lined up in the queue. When it had been his turn to come up to the desk, the clerk had looked over his shoulder and said "next please". Boiling with anger, his average ears and average cheeks turning red, Bob had then muttered to himself, while reading the clerk's name tag: "Bar-na-bas, you just made my list". Bob had then only needed to slam the gun on the desk to get the startled clerk's attention, but it was nevertheless a humiliating experience. Even after that, while handling the payment, and registering the gun, the clerk had never taken his eyes off the desk and the paperwork, seeming utterly oblivious to Bob.

But anyhow, that was all over now. Bob had a gun, and things would now be different.

It was a double-barrel Winchester, and Bob grew instantly attached to it. He gave it a functional name: "Winch", and a dedicated resting place near his sofa. Winch would be an important part of Bob's plan, as Bob was counting on it to get the attention he deserved. A plan which he admittedly recognized as being ambitious, but which he also knew to be fundamentally flawed. His plan's main flaw stemmed from the fact that Acute Memory Syndrome victims were not only serious grudge holders, but also the world's worst procrastinators. There were just so many memories for Bob to choose from that he was never sure he had picked them in the right order. Should he stick to the current plan, or should he now start off with Barnabas, that little tweep at the gun store? At some point Bob was just going to have to trust his choices.

And thus, on this very evening that he had bought the gun, Bob declared that Day 1 of his plan was now officially in motion. But since it was now dark outside, he decided to put off his first planned action until the next morning. He lounged down on his sofa, gave Winch a quick complicit look, grabbed his remote, and turned on the TV.

TV was always a very intense experience for Bob. Even the worst soap commercials would all get hard-wired into him. He knew soap brand names by the hundred. Lime-flavored soaps, delicate-skin soaps, anti-bacterial soaps ... he knew them all. He knew decades of slogans on the benefits of scrubbing hard or scrubbing soft.

He zapped. Newsflash: Ten civilians dead in Baghdad. Zap. President Pufus meeting his cabinet, looking bored. Zap. Ruppert Crostini-Smythe flashing his Antarctic-white teeth at a financial talk show. "Yeah yeah, flash those ugly teeth while you still have them", muttered Bob. Crostini-Smythe was a man Bob had written nine letters to, never getting a single reply. Not even a single acknowledgement. Ruppert would pay like all the others, in due time. Bob's fingers struck at the remote control with cold anger. Zap Zap Zap.

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