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Bruce Facepuncher: The Unbearable Lightness of Facepunching (The Thing That Should Not Be Finished)

His tendoned and fingered hands finally bandaged in the finest hand-bandages available, Bruce facepuncher reclined in the aged and motheaten recliner on the front porch of his aged and motheaten farmhouse; for Bruce Facepuncher was now aged and motheaten from growing old and punching many a face.

"Truly, I have suffered for my art," Bruce Facepuncher said to no one in particular.

A horsefly -- mistaking him for the corpse he would surely be someday -- landed on his knee, bringing back a flood of memories of his days of glory long ago.

Bruce reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a small remote control. It had two buttons. One said "Do Something" and the other read "Get Depressed."

Bruce pondered the remote control. He stood up, shuffled inside the house, and picked up a bottle of Seagrams gin and two packs of cigarettes of the wet bar in his dusty foyer. There were no matches around, Bruce resolved to finally shoot himself if he couldn't find any. Bruce picked up what he needed and moved sluggishly back to his seat on the porch.

With his gin and cigarettes at hand, he settled into the chair, sighed deeply, and pushed the latter button.