Your dog just died, your mother told you during visitation hours. You were a once-distinguished journalist with a really big newspaper -- obviously wrongfully locked up in this insane asylum in the first place -- I mean, come on, who doesn't take a paper bag filled with old jelly and throw it at the Mayor while running naked through the crowd at an assembly yelling, "free beelzebub, the end aproaches!" You haven't lived until you've tried it.
Write an article about the bastards that snuffed Fido.
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