Cursor clenched in his teeth, he wades fearlessly into the teaming mass of wretched adjectives and adverbiage, slashing indiscriminately at the naked and seething slime of redundant modifiers that cling pitifully to his feet, laying waste to meaningless metaphors and confused similes like so many redundant pixels on the beach of time immemorial.
Eyes wide with fervor of mission, he pauses and surveys his righteous work. Curl of lip gives way to smirk of self-satisfaction as he turns to his friend and loyal manservant, Pica Sanchez, in time to watch him snap the neck of a homeless prepositional phrase, is what he does.
"Well done, Pica. Well done."
"Thank you, Don Colloquixote. My joy comes only in serving our Holier Purpose." Pica's tremendous girth was exceeded only by his immense humility.
Page one ran black with gore.
Donald Dernthwickle, Official Court Reporter, awoke gasping, the imprint of a space bar traced vividly across his forehead and a mouse cord curiously wound about his right forearm and neck.
(Author's Note: Stay tuned for future neurotica in the life of our frustrated adventurer.)