Death of a "Croc Hunter"

What is the difference between a daredevil and a fool?

A fool, you'd agree, doesn't know what he's getting into. And, yes, most fools are men (after all, ladies and gents, it takes one to know one). A fool walks into a situation both blind and clueless.

A daredevil, while still at least something of a fool, likely knows the danger of Heading In. Also, the daredevil has an aim—no matter how reckless; no matter how insane.

As sniffling and mundane and specious as he may appear to you, the FireVaney secretly seeks to date a daredevil—so that he may proceed to write about her, of course; thus dispensing with the need to conjure such an intrepid vixen up out of thin air. (Although, in the end, he'll probably marry a librarian.)

Which the "Croc Hunter" was, daredevil or fool, the FireVaney does not care enough to investigate and conclude. He scribbled down the factoid into his notepad upon hearing the news this morning. Three hours later, roughly, the urge to draw a distinction between that which is a daredevil and that which is a fool surfaced.

In other news, only one hundred more pages remain to be slathered with ink before he calls it a novel or a novella or a minor catastrophe of a first draft. Yes, in "form," its story is contained—but as contained and ordered as well as a botulism-blighted tin-can can contain and order several servings of alphabet soup.

Does that make sense?

It is a contained mess.

Can we leave it at that?

Of course not.

Pull the pin on a grenade within the closely situated, triangulated ramparts of the so-called Aristotelian Unities and, whatever's left in the aftermath of the detonation, that's what it is—which may be the most one can ask of a first draft, especially only half-way through.

You see—and this would be the embarrassing part—a mathematical oversight set back his deadline another month. Yes, he wrote one hundred pages within the desired timeframe, but the idea was to fill the composition book up, first page to last, and call it a draft. The composition book has one hundred sheets, allowing, then, silly-rabbit, for two hundred pages. (Insert ubiquitous, self-demeaning Homer Simpson utterance here.)

Alas! The pledge to Multum In Parvo is yet again forsaken!

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