The Fourth W'll

This is the first time I h’ve ever written ‘nything like this, wrote Ry’n. This is ‘ piece in which I will bre’k the fourth w’ll. Unfortun’tely, the [‘] on my keybo’rd h’s ce’sed to work, ‘nd thus ‘ll letters being the first letter of the ‘lph’bet will be repl’ced with ‘ [’]. But let this hinder us not. Without ‘ny further ‘do, we sh’ll st’rt the story.

J’ck is ‘ simple m’n. He lives in ‘ simple home, with simple neighbours, ‘nd he works ‘ simple job. Unfortun’tely, this simple job does not p’y p’rticul’rly well. But th’t isn’t why he is going to rob ‘ petrol st’tion in ‘bout h’lf ‘n hour.
He rushes out of the house. He knows even though his job doesn’t p’y p’rticul’rly well, he needs wh’tever money he c’n get. He stops ‘bruptly ‘nd looks to epic’lly into the sky.
“Who s’id th’t?” he ‘sks. Little does he know th’t authors do not live in the sky, but they ‘re ‘ll ‘round, w’tching ‘ll the time, ‘ bit like th’t God guy, or Big Brother from the book Nineteen-Eighty-Four.
“Nineteen-Eighty-Four? Wh’t in the world ‘re you t’lking ‘bout?”
What? You’ve never he’rd of Nineteen-Eighty-Four? It’s ‘ dystopia. ‘ bit like I’m trying to m’ke this story but you’re ruining it by m’king sm’ll t’lk. Now, stop this ‘nd re’ct to my boring, long-winded n’rr’tion.
“No! This is not norm’l. I dem’nd ‘n expl’n’tion!”
J’ck doesn’t re’lise th’t I’m ‘ctu’lly ignoring him.
He hurries up ‘nd gets in his c’r.
Oh, come now, J’ck. You’re boring my incredibly e’ger re’ders. He obeys ‘nd hurries up ‘nd gets in his c’r. Oh, wh’t ‘ sh’me. His petrol is ne’rly out. Th’t’s out first conflict. I suppose he’ll h’ve to go to the petrol st’tion.
“Ye’h, I know wh’t to do with ‘ low petrol gu’ge. Th’nks.”
I w’sn’t t’lking to you. Now, r’ther th’n bore you with tedious n’rr’tion while he drives there, I’ll tell you ‘ little story.

Once, ‘ long, long time ‘go, ‘ mother duck w’s feeling low. The mother duck h’d l’id her eggs, but h’lf of them looked just like kegs! One d’y the eggs beg’n to h’tch. They cr’cked ‘nd cr’cked, ‘nd ‘ll ten m’tched.
One h’dn’t h’tched ‘nd it w’s big, ‘nd looked different. Like ‘ fig. The mother thought, “Oh me! Oh my! I guess this duck will never fly!”

“I’m here.”
Ugh. Well I c’n’t end the story there! I’ll just h’ve to sum it up for you. B’sic’lly, he goes on ‘ big ‘dventure, ‘nd ‘t the end he wonders if he is ‘ sw’n like the ones in the pond with which he felt ‘ speci’l bond. Turns out he’s ‘ll out of luck ‘nd he’s just ‘n ugly duck! I re’lly love th’t story. It’s got everything you w’nt. Tension, emotion, ‘n eng’ging plot (‘s opposed to this story), and--
“Hey, I’ve been sitting here for ‘ges. Can you direct me ‘lready?”
Jack gets out of the car and enters the petrol station.
“I thought you couldn’t use [a]s because the key is inoperable,” Jack points out.
I c’n’t. J’ck p’ys for his petrol.
“I h’ven’t even filled my c’r yet!”
J’ck shuts his mouth ‘nd p’ys for his petrol. He pulls ‘ gun.
“I don’t h’ve ‘ --”
-- Yes you do. He pulls ‘ gun.
The st’tion keeper g’sps. “Wh’t the -- I c’n’t swear in this story c’n I?”
No. It’s going up on ‘ school intr’net.
“Oh, ok’y. Wh’t the ****?!”
“Wh’t now?” ‘sks J’ck.
I don’t know.
“Wh’t do you me’n? You’re writing this story, ‘ren’t you?”
Yes, but I don’t know wh’t to write next. Wh’t’s th’t excuse writers use when they don’t feel like writing? Oh ye’h, writer’s block. I h’ve writer’s block.
J’ck shoots himself and f’lls to the ground.
Hey! You c’n’t do th’t! I’m writing this story!
“I’m writing it now,” s’ys J’ck.

But do you live or die?

J’ck?