Dead Writers Society

𝙒𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙧.

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Max Hawthorn is one step away from sticking a bullet between his eyes.

There's rats in the kitchen, unpaid bills piling on the doormat, and last night he found his fiancé's ring in the toilet.

Everything is falling apart.

His latest novel crashed and burned harder than the twin towers, and to make matters worse, writers block has him bent over and begging for mercy. The stories just aren't flowing like they used to. Even his favourite gluten-free vegan wheat smoothie isn't getting the creative juices flowing—at least, not the type of juice Max needs.

It's only a matter of time till Hawthorn cements his name between the ranks of the Dead Writers Society.

With an eviction notice hot on his heels, and shitty bourbon in his hands, Max dives head first into the worst mistake(s) he's ever made.

One broke college kid. One thirty-four year old virgin. One beat up Honda civic. Throw in strippers, recreational murder, early onset liver damage from alcoholism and sike—the perfect recipe for the world's biggest fuck up.

But he'll do anything to set his writer's block on fire and watch it burn to ash. Anything.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

After all, he'd rather die than end up in the Dead Writers Society.

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Disclaimer: Not affiliated or particularly based on the Dead Poets Society. Just borrowing the edgy name.

Warning: I got a shit sense of humour. Might be offensive. Lots of cussing. Not very PG friendly.

You're welcome.