Hackforsatan19
Using a proper USB cable, connect to /dev/ttyUSB0 with tio with the badge switched to "FUCK ME?!" and click the button on the badge
- BT MAC: 80:6f:b0:ab:53:db
Story 1
[edit]He won't stop talking. He never stops talking. Chuck. He could've gone by Charles, Charlie, whatever the fuck his middle name is. But no. Fucking. Chuck. For the first few months, you went along with it. It was just common courtesy. Workplace politics. Keep the peace and play along. Like Mitch said when he introduced you to everyone on your first day, you were the "new girl" at the office. Fresh meat... Best to keep your head down. Just work your ass off, be your best self, and try not to make any waves. So you smiled, nodded, agreed, affirmed, and pretended not to hear his "off-color" remarks. You chuckled politely where it seemed like the "punchlines" were supposed to be. You clenched your smile so tight it might crack the enamel as his eyes slithered down your chest and back up again. Uh-huh, oh yeah?, that's awesome!, right?, thank you, that's very flattering, oh, I appreciate it but I can't, I'm sorry, no thanks, I've got plans that night, maybe another time, I'm sorry, we'll see, I've really gotta get back to work, I'm sorry, Mitch is really on my ass about this account, you know? I'm sorry... You too! By the end of the first year, he was lucky to get a nod and a "yep." But he wasn't getting the signals. Or maybe he just didn't care. Every time you said "no," he heard "better luck tomorrow." You kept making excuses, dropping hints, faking phone calls, apologizing. Why? For what? Best not to make waves. It could be worse. So much worse... No thanks. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry but... But he just keeps talking. Chuck gestures with his hands when he talks. Every day those wagging arms and flapping wrists were creeping farther and farther into your cubicle, until one day they were touching your shoulder. The next, your arm. Then your hair. Your face. Your ass that one time in the breakroom. You asked him politely to stop. Please don't do that. It makes me uncomfortable. You forced a smile where you thought the fucking punchline was supposed to be. He was just being nice, he said. Don't get so worked up about it. It was just an accident. Lighten up. He laughed. Alright, jeez. Better luck tomorrow then. He punctuated it with finger-guns. He even said "pow pow" when he did it. If you ran this place, there wouldn't even be an HR. Grab a coworker's ass? Fired on the spot. Throw-up some finger-guns? Taken out to the loading dock and shot in the back of the head. Pow fuckin' pow, creep. You told Mitch about Chuck last Spring, but he just brushed it off. Just ignore him, he said. He didn't mean anything by it. You know how Chuck is, how he gets. He's just a little too friendly sometimes. Look, don't make a thing outta this, okay? HR means paperwork, then investigations, then a million hours of "sensitivity" training, Christ. It'll derail the whole office for weeks, months even. God knows how many accounts we'd lose. Look, it's not that I don't understand your... concern. It's just that we've got bigger shits to fry, you know? And we gotta think about what's best for us, for the company, understand? I'm sorry, you said, without thinking, without meaning, with regret, wondering why you said anything at all--Okay great. Good talk!--angry at yourself for being there, for putting yourself in this situation, it's not his fault, maybe if you were, if you just, if you didn't... You saw them together an hour later having lunch in the breakroom, laughing at a punchline that sounded a lot like you. You spent your lunch break locked in a Starbucks bathroom, crying. You hated yourself. You knew you shouldn't. But you did. And then you cleaned yourself up, brushed yourself off, and went right back to work like nothing ever happened. It felt like a victory, at least a personal one. A testament to your strength and resolve. You were showing them what you were made of, dammit. You could overcome anything this world threw at you. You're a survivor. You're just a strong as any of them even wish they could be--more! But it's been three years and he's still here. Still asking, staring, touching, laughing. And he never stops talking. You haven't really heard a word of what he's said since, what, fifteen minutes ago? Twenty? You haven't heard a word since your name slid off the slimy membrane of his tongue, stinking of last night's vodka and today's gas station sausage. You're staring at your monitor. You're clicking randomly between spreadsheet tabs. You're typing emails you'll never send. He's leaning against the frame of your cubicle, legs crossed at the ankles, flapping his hands around to make his words seem important. You've had a headache since you woke up this morning, but now it's throbbing its way into a migraine. You look up just in time to catch him leering at your tits. You'd have been surprised if he wasn't. You turn back to the screen and open Outlook for the thousandth time. Your head is pounding. And now that you think about it, those cramps in your stomach are aren't just gas. You can't be sick. Not now... "Am I right?" he asks, and your stomach turns. Do you have any sick days left? Not like it matters. You can't afford even half a day. You can barely afford lunch. Besides, Mitch will rip you a new one if you even ask. He'd rather you drop dead at your desk than cost him an account. "Is today my lucky day or what?" he asks, biting the tip of his slimy tongue through the corner of his smile. Your gag reflex kicks-in and you don't have time to make it to the toilet before the words come spewing out of your mouth... "I'm sorry, but..." His smile drops a little at the edges but it's not going anywhere. It never will. It'll be like this every day, forever, until he gets that gross little smirk smacked right the hell off his bloated, sweaty goblin face. He'll just keep eye-fucking you until your bullshit catastrophe-only health coverage finally kills you. And even then, it'll just be some other poor woman going through the motions, following the rules, like she's supposed to, sucking up and staying quiet just to scrape together some slumlord's rent in Hell. Forever. Until, of course, someone finally grows the balls to doing something about it, MITCH. Somebody needs to put him in his goddamn place. Like he deserves. Like they all deserve... "You alright, cutie? You don't look so good." Every cell in your body is screaming FUCK YOU, YOU GOBLIN-FACED PRICK! But you don't say it. You don't say anything. You just wave him away, doubled-over in your chair, trying to keep it together, trying not to fucking scream, but it only makes your head hurt even worse. Your skull feels like a pressure cooker, slow-roasting your brain and jimmy-rigging a bomb between your ears. Your guts are roiling and ready to spew up a bellyful of knives. And he won't stop talking. "Ohhhh," Chuck says, eating so much shit you're surprised you can even see his grin. "It's that time of the month, huh?" A) Run for the bathroom. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=32E460DA640B5457438AE8368B4E8CE368CC458823DF8DAB36EFE7DFEB6D6E92 B) Grab the trashcan. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2D4E8D74A6DAA295D22E2E972C8118530DA2ABEC7AD7CAF6D2DBAC43E7CE4ECC
Run for the bathroom
[edit]You look up from the screen as he looks up from your tits. Your eyes meet. He smiles in yellow. It's not helping. You push yourself to your feet. The headrush is worse than the time you pissed yourself on some frat house's stairs. It's a struggle to push the words up and over the bile clawing its way up your throat. "Fuck... goblin... DICK!" Close enough. You push past him, hands clasped over your mouth. "Uhhhh..." he says. "Are you, like, okay or...?" You're already halfway down the hall. The bathroom is empty, thank god. You don't even have time to close the stall door. The knives churching around in your guts don't even have the common courtesy to let your knees hit the tile before they cut and run. You heave harder than you ever have in your life. So hard your head jolts up like a garden house, out of your control, at the mercy of the puke. Again. Cough. Heave. Try to choke it back. Try to call it quits. But it's not your call. Again. Your hair is wet. Toilet water. You hope? When you finally catch your breath and open your eyes, all you can see is red. Bright, vibrant red, shimmering in the fluorescent lights. The toilet is red. The water is red. The walls. The floor. Your hands, your hair, your only good blouse. Holy fucking shit.... what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck fuck fuck fuck... You stagger to your feet and nearly slip in the giant pool of vomit that definitely can't be blood. There's no way. There's just too much. You'd be dead for sure. Five times over. Spaghetti sauce? Or... You did have a couple of bloody marys... three days ago... What the fuck fuck fuck... You leave the stall and go to the sink, leaving a trail of red footprints as you walk. At least you wore flats today... You wash your hands clean before you get the courage to look in the mirror. Oh fuck. You look like the girl in a slasher flick right before the credits roll. The mousy brunette who's too literate to fuck, soaked in gore, hair caked and dangling over a face streaked in mascara, a real hot fucking mess. You can't go back out there like this. You phone is in your cubicle. Right next to your handbag. With your keys. Remember what YouTubeYogi1979 says after every Casper Mattress ad... Deep breath. Accept the reality of the situation. Stay positive. Be honest with yourself. Find the silver lining, no matter how small it may seem. Deep breath. I accept this. I will get through this. I may look like roadkill but, if I'm being honest, I've never felt better in my whole fucking life. Huh. Okay then. You splash your face with water. You smile in red. You look good, all things considered. So... now what? A) Call for help. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=A5F60B02EF54663D8CE43F4B4D1C37A6D4ABFEF27A36D9581616487105B000D9 B) Go for help. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=23BBC80A70B6602A1C1E179047E151BDF7591CE26A932667A4E674BE39D266C3
Call for help.
[edit]There's gotta be someone out there. There's what, three dozen people on this floor? 70% chance they're either female or over 55 or both. Pretty decent odds. Could be worse. So much worse. You press your body up against the door and push it open a crack. You can't see shit, so you push a few more inches to get a better view. Chuck sees you out of the corner of his eye as he walks by. 36 to 1. Fucking Chuck. He stops mid-stride and walks backwards like a rapey Daffy Duck. "Hey, um, everything alright in there?" "Well, I..." you say, staring at the ground. Your first impulse is to lie, say yes, shut the door, say something about tampons to make him leave, but... "I kinda need you..." you say in a cutesy baby-voice that somehow sounds seductive to men who spend all day criticizing cosplay nudes on Reddit. The hell did that come from? That's not you... Something deep inside your head, whispering. Not a voice. An instinct? Urge? Push. "Yeah?" he says the way PornHub taught him to. "Yeah," you say, like the 15-year-old Chuck wants so badly to fuck. He inches up close to the door, smiling in sickly yellow. Closer... Smile back... Yes... Closer... When he's two inches from the crack in the door, you swing it open hard, cracking him across the nose. "FUCK!" he whines, doubling over, hands over his face. You grab him by the collar and pull him into the bathroom. "You--you broke my nose!" he whines, whines, whines ... God, he never stops talking. You grab the back of his head and shove it into the mirror above the sink. It doesn't shatter, which is kinda disappointing, honestly, but it cracks. He falls to the ground, yelping like a bitch. "Whadafug! Thyu bish!" he groans. You kick him over and over until you're pretty sure you landed one on his tiny little balls. "Your shirt!" you hiss. "Give me your shirt!" "Pweess... Stah..." You kick him in the ribs this time, just to be fair. "SHIRT! NOW!" He feebly puts his hands up in surrender, unbuttons his shirt and struggles to get it off. You reach down and pull it off him, throw your shirt over his face and put his on. "Was it good for you too, Daddy?" you say, smiling in pitch fucking black. He's crying. Whimpering. Wheezing. Bleeding. You could kill him, you know. Easy. You can do anything you want. But you'll be merciful. After all, this is sensitivity training. You kick his balls one more time just to make sure he won't get any pleasure from you digging through his pockets. You pull out his phone. No password. Dumbass. Click Gallery. You don't even have to scroll to find a dick pic. No surprises, huh, Chuck? Click Share. Click Outlook. All contacts. Send. You toss the phone in the toilet and kneel down close to his quivering, blood-streaked face. "Is today my lucky day or what?" You spin on the heel of your flats and walk out the door. You walk as fast as you can without making a thing of it. Head down, sidelong glances, just breathe. You get to your cubicle and grab your shit. You catch eyes with Cheryl. Keep walking. Don't run. You make it to the hallway. You've made it this far. Ignore the murmuring behind you. Just go. Your view of the sunlit doors goes dark. Mitch. "Hey, hey..." he says, reaching out to touch you. "What's going on? What happened?" A) Ignore him. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=BE2996BF21FB9A863B71B65EFE7882E384E90C495B19E57DBAAC9015C878E5E7 B) Respond. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=56F4B5C8A02DDB657040C8C1B34D2BF36E02902E14C2E5DE6B18DE6AA5AE0C1C
Ignore him.
[edit]You shove him hard into the wall. "Jesus! What the fuck?!" Just keep walking. You throw open the front door and walk out into the street. You should be crying... You would be crying... But they don't deserve that kind of satisf-- A horn blares and you jerk your head up just in time to see the oncoming car. "Oh, of fuckin' cour--" https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861 (back to the start)
Respond.
[edit]"I had an accident. I need to go home." You try to sidestep him, but he grabs your shoulders. Deep breath. "Hey, hey," he says, stroking your hair the way a kidnapper would. "You're okay. Okay?" "No, Mitch," you say. "I'm not okay." You slap his hand away and he steps back, defensive, hands raised. "Whoa, whoa... Calm down and just..." You can see his mouth moving but he has nothing to say that you need to hear. "I am calm," you say, calmly. Your right hand is on his throat. You didn't put it there. But you did. But it wasn't a choice. An impulse. An instinct. A primal command. It's just where it belongs. So you squeeze. His eyes are wide, bulging. He's gasping. He's clawing at you to free himself. You can barely feel it. He's so weak. So pathetically fucking weak. "Stop!" shouts a voice behind you, weak. You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17 B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659
Let go.
[edit]Your first impulse is to do the right thing. Just let him go and put an end to all this. Put your hands up. Sort this whole thing out. But you're getting pretty fuckin' sick and tired of your first impulse's shit. Your right hand squeezes 'til you hear a wet crack and can feel your thumb touch your fingertips through what used to be Mitch's trachea. But you believe in compromise. You don't wanna leave your First Impulse out to dry. So you do the right thing. You let Mitch go. And he crumples in a heap next to your blood-streaked-but-sensible flats. Lick 'em, Mitch. Lick 'em good. And Winston, poor, kind Winston, shuts his eyes tight and pulls the trigger. You're not sure where the bullet ended up, but it wasn't you. You look Winston in the eyes and say, "I'm sorry." And for once in your entire adult life, you genuinely mean it. And then you charge. The old coot's still got some fight in him, and he struggles to straighten his glasses and cock the revolver. He's had a rough life and got a raw deal. It's not fair. You'll make it quick. He deserves that much. Before he can raise the gun, you've got a hand on each side of his head. You twist hard and fast. He never felt a thing. You pry the revolver from his twitching, liver-spotted hands, and gaze out upon the sea of cubicles, button-downs, and sensible blouses. Deep breath. Accept the reality of your situation. This is war.
Let Mitch go.
[edit]Your first impulse is to do the right thing. Just let him go and put an end to all this. Put your hands up. Sort this whole thing out. But you're getting pretty fuckin' sick and tired of your first impulse's shit. Your right hand squeezes 'til you hear a wet crack and can feel your thumb touch your fingertips through what used to be Mitch's trachea. But you believe in compromise. You don't wanna leave your First Impulse out to dry. So you do the right thing. You let Mitch go. And he crumples in a heap next to your blood-streaked-but-sensible flats. Lick 'em, Mitch. Lick 'em good. And Winston, poor, kind Winston, shuts his eyes tight and pulls the trigger. You're not sure where the bullet ended up, but it wasn't you. You look Winston in the eyes and say, "I'm sorry." And for once in your entire adult life, you genuinely mean it. And then you charge. And Winston, poor, kind Winston, shuts his eyes tight and pulls the trigger. It's an odd feeling, the sudden pressure in your chest and back. The stars dancing across your eyes, flickering in and out, glowing and fading, beautiful and intoxicating. "I'm sorry..." whimpers the old man. "I'm so sorry..." He's choked-up and sniffing. You can't see anything but his feet, the gun clattering onto the hideous green-grey pattern of the carpet and finally going still beneath the leaping, twirl of a galaxy, in-and-out, as the green-grey goes vibrant red, lush and beaut-- https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861 (back to the start)
Go for help.
[edit]You can do this. They'll understand. It wasn't your fault. You're sick. It might be blood. It's not blood. It's fine. You're fine. But what if it's blood? Just walk fast, don't say anything, grab your shit and go. Text Mitch when you get home. He'll understand. He'll fire you. He won't. You're sick, that's all. You'll lose the account. He'll fire you. But it's not your fault! So what? He doesn't give a fuck about you. He'll have a replacement by the end of the day. And she'll be prettier. Younger. Naive. Vulnerable. Put out or shut up. And the cycle continues. Forever. Deep breath. Fuck it. You throw open the door and walk briskly down the hallway, head down, trying to be inconspicuous, trying not to make waves... And there's Chuck. "Holy sh... What happened to you?" You keep your eyes on the floor. "I just need to go," you say. "Excuse me." You try to walk past him but he grabs your shoulders in the worst possible way. "Are you okay? You look like... blood..." "Please just..." You push past him and duck into your cubicle. You grab your things, turn off your monitors, and he grabs you again. A) Keep your head down. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D5BF027AFB6C8D53E8A2F3055F39E0176C756E2D11A4B438DC6BD8AA94A10545 B) Be your best self. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0EF4AF0AA752B5C172A1C13529ED5E761362D0A3548E99ACFA580B47CA108863
Keep your head down.
[edit]"I'm sorry," you say, of course. "I just... Excuse me." You manage to break away from his grip and half-run for the door. You can hear him over your shoulder. "Ohhhkay whatever, bitch." Deep breath. Just keep walking. You throw open the front door and walk out into the street. You should be crying... You would be crying... Are you crying? They don't deserve that kind of satisf-- A horn blares and you jerk your head up just in time to see the oncoming car. "Oh, of fuckin' cour--" https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861 (back to the start.)
Be your best self.
[edit]Your left hand reaches out reflexively. You're barely there at all. It grabs the 3-hole puncher off the desk. You're entirely here right now and you know it. You hold the puncher up like a club, spittle shooting from the corners of your mouth (red?) with every labored breath. His smile abandons him there alone, stammering and grasping desperately for whatever words haven't already up and run off with his shriveling dick. "Wha... Hey! I was just being nice!" he says. "F-f-fuck you, bitch!" The fear dilates his titfucking eyes wide enough to drown an army. And you know what? You kinda like it. You swing the puncher hard and crack him across the nose. He doubles over, hands over his face. "Fuck! Fuckin' bitch!" You turn to run but immediately collide with Mitch's soft, shapeless chest. He grabs your shoulders, hard. Or at least as hard as he can... "What the hell is going on here??" You don't even think about it. You don't have to. The 3-hole puncher in your right hand makes a gross cracking sound against his eye socket. He can barely utter a pathetic little "hrmph" when his knees give out and he crumples to the ground like a bitch. The voice in the back of your head, the impulse, the instinct, you, YOU drop on top of him, straddling this weak, fragile, wretched excuse for a man, and raise the puncher high. He feebly attempts to shield himself with his stubby little hands, sobbing, whining, as you bring the puncher down and draw fresh blood. The sight of it gives you a strange, exciting, anxious feeling, radiating out from the pores in your scalp and the gums around your molars... Like the anticipation of a starving person about to take the first bite into a perfectly-cooked filet mignon. You toss the puncher aside and wrap your right hand around his throat. "Stop!" says a voice behind you, trembling, weak. You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17 B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659 (same as responses under Respond)
Grab the trashcan
[edit]You want to clapback so fucking hard. You've got, like, ten deep-cuts in the clip and one in the chamber. Locked and loaded to make it fuckin' RAIN on Chuck the Fuck. You could straight-up ruin him right here, right now, in front of everyone if you weren't desperately fumbling for the plastic trashcan beneath your desk. "Oh damn, let me help," he says, knocking heads with you as he bends down, foiling your trashcan grab and throwing the world into frat-drunk spins. "Shit. Sorry, let me just--" he says, crouching in perfect form and perfect time as your guts decree--without discussion or opportunity for redress--that you've crossed the event horizon. There's no going back. You don't want this anymore than he does. (Well...) Deep breath, Chuck. Accept the reality of your situation. Your stomach turns. Your diaphragm contracts. Your mouth opens. And it wouldn't TECHNICALLY be a lie if you said you were aiming for the trash. "Jesus FUCK!" he screams, toppling back onto his ass, hands over his face. "You puked in my EYES, you crazy bitch!" You want to laugh. You SHOULD be laughing. It's perfect. Poetic, even. But... It's just... He's soaked in it, the carpet's soaked in it, even the trashcan you missed completely is spattered with it. And it just... It looks a whole fucking lot like blood... A) Take responsibility. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2AD41061203ED8A987CDF7DF72510FD26B317D30EAEAA841205AD92FC868377A B) Take the opportunity. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D046B5794D36511E4BF67E67D0F997C66EAC733CCF8827EC40A0DA04915CC16D
Take responsibility
[edit]"I'm so sorry!" you say. It comes tumbling out of your mouth like the last bitter chunk of vomit before the heaves go dry. He's screaming. "BITCH! YOU BITCH!" He's scratching at his eyes. He's writhing on the floor. Your first impulse is to grab the tissue box and frantically rip out enough to make a towel. But you're not moving. It can't be blood. It's too much. It's not your blood. He's bleeding. Blood that's definitely not your puke (which is definitely not blood). It's dripping out of his ears and mouth. No, it's gushing. He's having a seizure. People are gathering around the cubical, screaming. CALL 9-11! GET MITCH! WHAT HAPPENED?! OH MY GOD! You're frozen, staring at the pools of red blooming from nowhere beneath his starched white shirt. Someone shoves you out of the way. Cheryl, that bitch. She's probably been dreaming about a situation like this. Any excuse to hurt you. To be the hero. She crouches over Chuck. He's stopped moving. He's still bleeding. Cheryl checks for a pulse, her fingers disappearing beneath a cascade of ruby red something. She jerks her head around and snarls at you, "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, YOU CUNT?!" You open your mouth to say something, but she's already turned back to Mitch, positioning her hands on his chest just like the posters in the break room tell you to. You've read that poster at least a thousand times, waiting for the Keurig machine to beep. You don't remember a word of it. "STAND BACK!" she shouts, all dramatic and self-righteous, the star of her own fucking show. She shoves down hard on Chuck's ribcage and a geyser of vibrant red erupts from his slimy, vodka-sausage mouth hole, directly into Cheryl's smarmy fucking face. She screams, chokes, growls, spits, and vomits sheets of definitely-not-blood. Everyone is screaming. You grabs your purse, push your way through the throngs of button-downs and sensible blouses, and make a mad dash for the door. Behind you the screams seem to be growing louder. You hear a crash and a crunch and screaming and screaming and screaming. You don't look back. You push open the door and stumble out into the street. You don't look back. Or up. Or to the left. The horn blares and-- https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1497969018CDA17EF962EC3E2826ECA0E1B2D4D1E602B30ECE16726D6CE79861 (back to the start)
Take the opportunity.
[edit]He's screaming. "BITCH! YOU BITCH!" He's scratching at his eyes. He's writhing on the floor. Your first impulse is to grab the tissue box and frantically rip out enough to make a towel. To clean up the blood... It can't be blood. It's too much. It's not your blood. He's bleeding. Blood that's definitely not your puke (which is definitely not blood). It's dripping out of his ears and mouth. No, it's gushing. He's having a seizure. Your hand reaches out for the tissue box but comes back with your purse. People are gathering around the cubical, screaming. CALL 9-11! GET MITCH! WHAT HAPPENED?! OH MY GOD! The chaos and cacophony blurs and fades into a low drone beneath your own inner monologue. But it's not you. But it is. Inner dialogue? Something deep inside your head, whispering. Not a voice. An instinct? Urge? Push. You raise your foot high in the air, higher than you even knew you could--YouTubeYogi1979's video lessons might actually be paying off--and you bring it down hard on Chuck's shriveled little goblin balls. You hear a crunch. A gasp from somewhere in the droning sea of murmurs. You can't tell if he even felt it. He's still seizing. Still bleeding. Mitch is running toward the cubicle as fast as his stubby little legs can carry him. Cheryl, that bitch, clearly seeing her chance to be a fuckin' hero, tries to shove past you to get to Chuck. You shove her back, hard, and look at you! Standing up for yourself for once! She topples backward, knocking over the cubicle wall. Mitch is clawing at you, your one good blouse. He's shouting but you can't hear him. Or maybe you just don't care to hear him. He's trying to restrain you. At least you think that's what he's going for. He's just so pathetically fucking weak, it's kinda hard to tell. Your right hand is on his throat now. You didn't put it there. But you did. But it wasn't a choice. An impulse. An instinct. A primal command. It's just... where it belongs. So you squeeze. His eyes are wide, bulging. He's gasping. He's clawing at you to free himself. You can barely feel it. "Stop!" shouts a voice behind you, weak. You turn your head and see Winston from Inventory, 84 years old but too underpaid to retire, holding a tiny revolver in his quivering, liver-spotted hands. "Please..." he says. It's barely a whimper. "I don't want to... Please just... let him go..." It's sad, apologetic, kind. He's always been kind. You smile in red. A) Let go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=6B1B417DD661AA614BE1ACBD9A0F7014458F312525976836CACEB65A35256F17 B) Let Mitch go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659 (same as Respond above)
Story 2
[edit]It's been three days since Governor Burnett signed HB-16 into law, flanked by a TV preacher who's under investigation for fraud, a spokesgoblin for an SPLC-designated hate group, the CFO of Chick'n'Nuggs, and the only four female staffers the PR guy was able to recruit last-minute from anywhere in the whole fucking building. Two smile like traitors, two smile like captives, and all of them smile for the primetime cable news. It's been three days since the first, only, and last reproductive health clinic in the state shuttered its doors after 28 years in operation. The Governor, the courts, the pundits and the preachers all agree: the clinic simply REFUSED to comply with the state's new guidelines "to ensure the health and safety of women across the state"... by widening their entrance hallway by two fucking inches. It's TOTALLY not because a nonprofit clinic didn't have a couple million dollars just lying around to pointlessly remodel their entire fucking building in half a week, you know? And it's TOTALLY just a coincidence that one of Burnett's interns just HAPPENED to drop by the clinic the day before the bill was proposed, and just HAPPENED to bring a fucking tape measure. You know, textbook REFUSAL TO COMPLY WITH HEALTH & SAFETY. Fuckin' cynical pricks. It's been three days since you lost your job as a junior clinician. The job you'd worked and studied your ass off to get. The job that made all the student debt worthwhile. The job that made you feel like--for ONCE--you were doing no harm, like you were doing something good, like you were serving the community instead of some greedy prick's bottom line--like you were making an actual difference in the world. It's been three days since Mango started leaving chunks of black shit in his litter box and barfing up black all over the apartment floor. It's been three days since the rent was due. It's been three days since the anti-choice zealots, drunk on victory and vodka-sours--newly relieved of their Godly Duty to harass, shame, and threaten anyone within 20 feet of the building--decided to swarm you in the parking lot on your way out the door. It's been three days since they pinned you against your car, chanting BYE BYE BABYKILLER while they spit and screamed in your face. One shouted "You're gonna burn in HELL, you murderin' WHORE!" as he squeezed your left tit. Then another pushed his way to the front of the mob-- middle-aged, Mormon-handsome, and more meticulously clean-shaven than anyone this side of the uncanny valley. "That's enough now, y'all!" he said, and the others quieted down, backed off. "That's enough. Leave her be and y'all get on home now." You were so grateful, so relieved... But something was off. It wasn't a condemnation. It was a command... "Grant your good ol' Rev a moment of peace with the little lady, if y'all'd be so kind." And they did. All of them. They shambled off to their cars and, one-by-one, left the parking lot empty, quiet, desolate, alone. With him. "Relax now. Ain't nothin' to worry about, save a'course the final judgment God, harlot." Your screams bounced off the concrete and emptiness and echoed back hollow, mocking, and just straight-up fucking cruel. The last thing you remember is the Good Ol' Rev shoving you down hard in the back seat of your own car. And that sneering smile on his face. You could still see it even with your eyes closed. You will never not see it. Vividly, viscerally, until the day you fucking die. It wasn't the first time, that's for fuckin' sure. But it was the worst of them. That's for fuckin' sure. It's been three days since you felt well or present, clean or whole. It's been three days of frantic job hunting, calling-in favors, calling and hanging up, crying and cold showers, picking at pimples then picking the scabs, excoriating random scumfucks on Twitter just to feel something, scrubbing Mango's heinous black whateverthefuck out of the carpet, screaming, worrying, stressing, regressing, reliving, medicating, coping, trying, failing, and falling the fuck apart... You HAVE to get Mango to the vet. You HAVE to get the money somehow. You can't lose him too. You fucking REFUSE to lose him too. It's been three hours since you started pacing around the seediest block you could think of, wearing your Ankle-Blister-Job-Interview Heels and the ratty fishnets you dug out of the Halloween box in your closet. Headlights hit you from behind, slowing to a crawl, and for a cruel fucking split-second, you're literally scared of your own shadow splattered black across the pavement. You stop. The car does too. You take a deep breath--please don't be cops, please don't be a serial killer, please don't trip in these fucking heels... It's a white Honda CRV. New-ish. Clean-ish. A mom car. You somehow make it all the way to the passenger window without a single slip, trip, or wobble. You see your reflection in the too-dark tinted glass and your stupid fucking brain reflexively starts reciting by heart every dogeared-and-highlighted passage in the Neverending Master List of Flaws and Insecurities that you painstakingly cataloged, scrutinized, ranked, and obsessed over for at least two fucking hours before you even walked out the door tonight. The window starts to hum and sink until it decapitates you, dismembers you piece by piece, until you disappear completely beneath the black rubber horizon line of the clean-ish white door. "Well hi there, sweetheart," says the man, one hand on the wheel, the other draped and dangling around the passenger seat headrest like a real cool dad does. It's hard to say if he's mid-forties or just late thirties with a couple of kids and shit-luck genes, but he dresses like the middle-child of a braided belt and a cellphone holster. "I'm in the market for a real nice time, if you know what I mean." Welp. Here goes... something. "Yeah, I like to party," you say, acting the part, playing the role, falling the fuck apart. "But I'm a picky girl..." "Oh, I bet you are," he says, smiling. He has good teeth. Too good for... Don't overthink this. You can't afford to fucking overthink this. "How picky ya talkin'?" Don't lowball it. Throw out a big number first. Let him negotiate down. But what if he says no? What if-- No. No. NO! DON'T FUCKING LOWBALL IT. You can do this. YOU'RE the one with the leverage here... right? "I'm a fifty kinda girl, sugar," you say, awkwardly, twirling your hair around your finger, awkwardly, realizing you've literally never done that before in real life, realizing you're kinda bad at it. I mean... you don't do that, right? He's smiling with his mouth open, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth, bobbing his head like a cartoon vulture. It's making you feel seasick. Or maybe it's just the thought of his phone holster ramming your pelvis that's making you wanna puke up black slime in a fucking litter box. "Fifty's good for me," he says, letting the tip of his tongue flop out between his too-good teeth, biting it, bobbing. "Hop on in, sweet thing." Holy shit... You thought for SURE nobody'd pay more than 25, at least not without some haggling. Maybe he's rich? Mom's CRV says otherwise... Don't overthink this! Maybe he's never done this before? Maybe he just thinks that's how much they all charge? How much WE all charge... What if it's an undercover sting? What if he's a murderer? Why do you feel like you've seen him somewhere before? What if-- DON'T FUCKING OVERTHINK THIS! A) Overthink this. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F117CAC47C1B2BB4B45FABE4190DAF08D6EE2666F214D55F46004558876A4DEA B) Get in. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=8599C5E8D2727ED4B859F3C48A33D349D5AF450C7BBBE9405C243BEDFFE124A4
Overthink this
[edit]You force a big dumb smile and say, "Sounds good, sugar. I just gotta run it by my 'boyfriend' real quick. Don't go anywhere, big boy. I'll be back in two... jiffs..." "Whatever you say, sweetheart," he says, bobbing. "I'll be right here." You give him an exaggerated, cutesy wink and you totally pull it off, channeling that motherfuckin' '80s Madonna... if she had minor brain damage and got her hair done at Party City. NO! STOP THAT! You hurry around the corner into the nearest alleyway and throw your back up against the wall, resisting the urge to let your body slide all the way down to the filthy pavement. Wouldn't want to mess up your fucking Halloween costume, now would we? 'Two jiffs'? Seriously? God, you suck at this. You pull the half-empty pack of Camels out of the hideous pink-sequined purse you kept from middle school and dig around for a lighter. You fumble your grip and nearly spill the damn thing. You catch the purse but smoosh the Camel box. Fuck. The lighter was in the box the whole time. You pop a crooked smoke between your lips and struggle to light it with a quaking hand. The cigarette's bent ugly to the left. Just like your ex's weird little dick. Ha! Fuck... Are you really gonna do this? There's nothing wrong with doing this. You literally marched in the Sex Workers protest, like, two months ago! Well, not marched, but, you know, took a selfie for Insta... Are you... But... Stop it! Mango needs you. You need money. And Daddy Good-Teeth out there wants to buy whatever the fuck you're sellin', SO STOP FUCKING OVERTHINKING THIS! The bent smoke's cherry is already licking the filter. You sucked that fucker down in three drags, so fast there's two inches of ash still dangling off the end like a ghost Camel haunting the red-lipstick crime scene you made of that filter. Pervy Dads of the World take heed... This bitch can suck so fuckin' good, you'll straight up die. You crush it out under your heel and walk out of the alley, confident, strong, resolved, not tripping on these heels, not tripping on these heels, not tripping... "Looks like it's your lucky day, big boy," you say, flipping your hair like it's sexy punctuation. "But there's just one teeny-tiny problem..." His bobbing intensifies. "Yeah? What's that?" "My 'boyfriend' says I'm lookin' real hot tonight. Says I'm so smokin'... sexy... to him right now... He says I'm worth a hundred tonight, I mean." God, you suck at this. "Well, he sure ain't wrong about that." He's bobbing even faster than before, like he's anxious, cops? No, something else. You're just being paranoid. HE'S just being paranoid. Where have you seen this guy before? STOP IT! "Aw hell, you look like a hundred bucks to me too, girl," he says, smiling, reaching over the seat, popping open the passenger door. "Come on, sweetheart. Don't keep a poor fella waiting." A) You can't do this. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2AB5ADAD3ABCE95878E42FB684B31F84BD78CE81D533434F05162B870121627B B) You can do this. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=32E15AE9F84D9B3DBAC5E6090D8B03D5B7521502A7B041DBF607443F9D95AF7B
You can't do this.
[edit]"I just need..." you say, sucking at this. "Just gotta go let the 'ol BF know we've got a deal and then..." "No, you don't." His head stops bobbing and his smile flatlines, and the abruptness of it fucks you up. Like when the dryer stops spinning just as you're drifting off to sleep, or when the power goes out in the middle of a late-night movie. That startling, disarming jolt of absence. And then, just as suddenly, it all comes back. He's smiling wide--wider even--and he says, "Look, I know there's nobody in the alley back there." You should be running. You should AT LEAST be looking for a direction to run. But you're frozen, staring. WHAT ARE YOU (NOT) DOING?!? "It's okay!" he says, putting his hands up, palms out, shoulders limp, leaning back, clearly reading your FUCKING OBVIOUS FACE. "Don't worry! I'm not trying to... Look, you know what I want, and I know what you want, and it's a fair exchange, right? I'm not... I'm a family man, okay? I just, uh, need a little something every now and then. But I'm just a normal guy, I swear!" You wanna tell him, Yeah dude. That's kinda what I'm afraid of. Save that shit for your blog. GOD! Just shit or get off the pot and let your fucking cat die in a pool of nightmare diarrhea. Just run. Dead girls can't drive to the vet. Yeah, but broke girls can't either. JUST FUCKING SAY SOMETHING! A) Go. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0800265D1E37EA21A1F986E61098D2EAA96788ED95BB7CCC60E366AB9390E3AC B) Stay. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=8599C5E8D2727ED4B859F3C48A33D349D5AF450C7BBBE9405C243BEDFFE124A4
Go.
[edit]"I don't think this is a good idea. I think I'm gonna... I think I should go." "No, don't, I'm sorry! Look, I know I might've come off kind of... abrasive right then, and I'm sorry. I'm just worried about being out here so long. I can't risk getting caught. I'm a family man, like I said. Will you please just get in?" You should run. Just fucking run. "I don't think... I'm not sure that's such a good idea," you say for some what-the-fucking reason. WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?! Fuck his feelings, fuck his family, fucking RUN. "I don't normally-- I mean, I've never done this before and I don't think..." "Oh, it's your first go at this, huh? Gosh, that's a lot to, um... Look, I completely understand how difficult this must be. But--and this is gonna sound downright wrong--but I really think I'd be the perfect first client. Really!" He's almost charming in his own creepy fucking way. He's like... If someone put a gun to your head and said, "Which mid-life crisis at this airport Chili's would you fuck to save your life," he might actually crack the top five. But what about Mango? Who would you fuck to save HIS life? "I don't know..." you glance left, pretending to mull it over, then right, looking for the best escape route. "Hey," he says softly, sweetly. You look at him and see a quick flash of movement followed by a jolt of pain that can only be described in colors and measured in fucking lumens. You see him toss a knife on the floorboard as you stagger backward, hands clutching your throat, wet hands. You see the constellations of deep red splattered across the cleanish-white door. You see it pooling up between your feet. You see him gritting his too-good teeth, trying not to look at you as the tint-black window raises your reflection from the depths of Mom Car oblivion and... And you see... https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=5ACFD4366A9707DC7A2EE2CC14CAB0340519362E01166CDF3179771AEFBD6ADD (Goes back to start)
Stay.
[edit]Leads to Get In below
Get in
[edit]"Fuck it," you say. "Let's party." His smile stretches even wider, or at least you think it does. His stupid vulture head is bobbing so fast, it just looks like a blurry white gash cut clean across his face. You get in and shut the door. "Let's roll!" he says the way a Carpool Dad would to a minivan full of preteens headed to the mall. He's smiling and bobbing and his radio isn't even on. "Turn left up here," you say, asserting yourself and feeling pretty damn good about it, honestly. "I know a perfect spot." For a split-second you see his eyes change. Like his inner monologue just took a wrong turn down a dark alley. He looks caught-off-guard. Or disappointed. Or pissed. Or something. Or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe you're just being paranoid. Shouldn't you be? Don't overthink it. If you say so... "Is that okay with you?" you ask, knowing damn well you shouldn't have asked. "Sure, yeah, of course! No worries!" he says, patting your thigh in the weirdest possible way. It's not even sexual. Like, at all. It's the kind of awkward leg-pat a school dance chaperone gives a sad kid sitting alone by the punch bowl. One day, ALL the boys'll wanna dance with you, I promise... He takes a left, just like you said. He's bobbing slower now. It's like watching one of those old stereos with the little rows of red, green, and yellow lights that rise and fall with the music. And you're not so sure you like this song... Chill, chill. Just get the money and be done with it. He's gonna gut you with a meat-hook and leave you in a truck stop bathroom. STOP IT! "You can turn-in right over there, baby," you say, trying to do that "vocal fry" thing the NPR linguistics lady said men like for some reason. God, you suck at that too. "At the Waffle House, you mean?" he asks, raising his eyebrow. "Yeah, we can park right behind the dumpster there and no one'll ever find us," you say. It's not a trick of the light this time. His eyes are just not fucking havin' it. C'mon, vocal fry. You can do this. "Trust me, big boy. We'll have it allllll to ourselves, just you and me... mmm..." You sound like a middle-aged alcoholic hairdresser who smokes two packs a day. But he's smiling again, thank god. Men are dumb as shit. He pulls in behind the dumpster and cuts the motor. He sighs. Or just exhales. Or you're just overthinking it. It's a public place, sort of, more or less, and that's all that matters. He starts fumbling around in his pocket with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt with the other. You unbuckle yours too. He's still got his hand wiggling around in his pocket. Is he... fluffing? It's gotta be a boner thing, right? You can see beads of sweat forming at the edge of his decent-but-fleeting hairline. He's nervous. So are you. "It's okay," you say, softly, more baked than fried. "I'm a little nervous too..." That's cute, right? He glances to the left, the right, the rearview mirror. Everywhere but you. He stopped diddling around with his boner but his hand's still in his pocket. He's a weird kind of nervous. And it's making you a whole lotta weird fucking nervous too... A) Call it off. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=E69029390E47E4E187B67A9E7518EEF152EBD1F3ABF367042D7639371FA97C3C B) Wanna talk about it? https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=C9BC353ADDC72FD8CC1EB7C8883955FAE36234DF6560E3F89382A6041A901E3C
Call it off.
[edit]"You seem really..." "I'm fine. No worries!" he says to the rearview mirror, sweating. "I... I don't think this is such a good idea," you say, hiking your hideous pink-sequined purse strap up on your shoulder. "I think I should go. It's not you... It's just... I can't do this..." He's gritting his too-good teeth and looking intensely at everything but you. You grab the door handle but nothing happens. He doesn't even look at you. You try again. And again. "What..." keep cool, keep cool, "Will you unlock the door for me please?" He's bobbing again. His tongue is flicking the back of his teeth to the beat of a song you're pretty goddamn sure you never wanna hear... Something takes over your muscles-- some kind of animal instinct, an adrenaline shot of mindless, primal self-preservation. You lunge over him and slap the childproof lock button, then topple ever-so-ungracefully backward against the passenger door. "HEY!" he shouts, his voice cracking on the high note. He yanks his hand out of his pocket. It's a knife. You reflexively scream "NOT A BONER!" and it throws him off-guard just long enough for you to throw open the door. "SHHhh-- Shut up! Be quiet! People will hear!" he says like a suburbanite loser fighting with his wife over the TV remote. Except, you know, he's slashing at you with a knife and ripping at your fucking clothes... "LET... GOOOOO!" you shriek. He winces at the sound. You don't blame him. It's seriously gross and awful. STOP IT! PRIORITIES! You manage to tear yourself free from his grip and fall backward out of the car door, landing hard on the pavement, ass first, head second. "SH--it!" he half-shouts, careful not to wake the neighbors, lest there be gossip about his marital spats. God for-fucking-bid. You're bleeding but you're not sure where from. He must've got you with the knife. Maybe you cracked your skull open. Maybe it's just water. Maybe it's-- STOP IT! He's still in the driver's seat, bobbing like a piston, indecisive, scared, confused, falling the fuck apart. And suddenly you realize why he looks so familiar. "I remember you..." you gurgle-sigh. He jerks his head sharply to meet your eyes, biting the tip of his tongue between teeth that probably only seemed good in the context of turning a fucking trick to pay the cat bills. He reaches over and pulls the door shut. The engine turns and the car jerks forward a few yards then stops. You can't move much. There's blood and it's a lot and it's everywhere. The Mom Car's 'reverse' lights flare up white and all you can do is gurgle-laugh. The things I do for you, Mango... https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=5ACFD4366A9707DC7A2EE2CC14CAB0340519362E01166CDF3179771AEFBD6ADD (Goes back to the start)
Wanna talk about it?
[edit]He sighs and stares at his feet, bobbing to the silence in 4/4 time. "I've been following you for a few days now." He says it the same way you'd tell your therapist you cheated on your diet. "Why are you following me?" you ask, diplomatic, careful, calm, absolutely fucking terrified. He smiles in a sad way. You realize now that his teeth really only looked good in the context of turning a trick to pay the cat bills. You slowly, subtly begin moving your hand toward the door handle. "I didn't want to," he says. "I told him it was a bad idea, or, well-- I told him it wasn't a GOOD idea at least..." "Who is HE? Who did you tell?" Keep him talking. Keep him distracted. Your wandering fingertips finally brush the edge of the door handle. His bobbing has slowed to a somber waltz. One-two-three... One-two-three... He turns to meet your eyes, tears welling up in the corners of his own, and your fingertips retreat from the handle. He doesn't seem to notice. "The Good Rev... He said I had to..." No no no no nowhatthefuck... "No, I'm...! It's...!" he sputters, clearly doing a fair read of your fucking face right now. "The Rev made me do it! He said it was the only way!" The Good Ol' Rev... Prophet of Tax-Exempt Terrorism, Shepherd of Neo-Puritan Brownshirts, the Mitt Romney of Rapists. Fuck fucking everything. "What did he tell you to do?" you ask, pushing yourself as far up against the door as you can go. "He said you'd do anything to stop the Lord's Work. He said you'd spread lies about us to the Fake News Media. He said you'd be the end of the Church, the end of everything we'd worked so hard... years and years..." Tears are streaming down his face. He reaches into his boner pocket again and pulls out a large folding knife. You scramble for the door handle and yank, over and over. It's not working. He's got the child-lock on. Fuck fuck FUCK. He's not even looking at you. He's just holding the knife limply in one hand, covering his face with the other, weeping. "I just... I just want to stop the killing, you understand? The Good Rev says God'll forgive. What's one life to save millions? You understand?" He looks at you--a terrified, hyperventilating mess, knees pulled up to your chest, cowering, gawking, shaking--and he sighs. He reaches toward you. You yelp and shrink away. He's opening the glove box. He throws the knife inside and shuts it closed. "But I think the Good Rev's wro-- I think it ain't right. I don't wanna kill anyone, you understand? It's a sin, the worst kind of sin, no matter how righteous your intentions... I..." He slumps back in his seat and starts just straight-up bawling. "I'm sorry!" he sniffle-whines through his hands. "I'm so sorry!" You have to get to the child-lock switch on the driver-side door. Now's just as good a time as never. Here goes somethin'... You place your hand gently on his thigh and slowly, slowly, carefully start to climb across his lap. He doesn't try to stop you. He sniffs, wipes his eyes with his forearm, then puts his hand on the back of your head, pulling you gently towards him. Is he...? He closes his eyes and puckers his lips. Holy shit, he actually is... You lean into it and meet his lips. He's gentle, bad at it. You feel around for the child-lock while he starts feeling around the inside of your thigh. There's no way you're turned on by this. You probably just have to pee. You're fucking turned on, aren't you? No, it's something else... Similar. But different. You're getting wet--really wet--your whole fucking abdomen is radiating heat but what the fuck why?? Perv Dad looks and tastes like warm club soda and you're totally fucking turned on right now... No, it's similar but... It's very fucking different. A) Fuck that. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=07F37EBA103596DB875C66F0FAC84436AAD24E193EA92D3976758AE1460E0DED B) Fuck him. https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1A4C4347A0E419116DBA6F7A0DCC39AC9DFD675BCA6B57B0D1A1D7C662CC3496
Fuck that.
[edit]His hand's creeping up your skirt as you finally get the child-lock switch to click. You could drop a fist on his nutsack right now, bite off his tongue, jam your ridiculous fake nails right into his eyeballs. You could run. But you let him keep going. His stubby fingers rake against your panties and it's a real fuckin' mess down there. You don't know why, what, how the FUCK, but... "Wow," he says, jabbing at your labia like a summer camp homeschooler. "You're really, really wet..." You don't know what to say, so you just moan a little. And then he stops. Stops kissing, stops groping, stops looking at you at all. You're getting real fuckin' sick of these creepy Anti-JumpScares of his... He looks confused, his face is going slack, pale, motionless, afraid... "What's wrong, baby?" you ask. It's like he doesn't hear you at all. It's like he's moving in slow motion, weak, dazed, confused, as he slowly pulls his hand out from under your skirt. You gasp and gag. His entire hand is covered and dripping with Mango's nightmare puke-shits. But this stuff didn't ooze out of a sick cat's asshole... And maybe it's just a trick of the Waffle House lights, but it sure fucking looks like your viscous black pussy slime is making his skin shrivel up like it soaked three fucking days in a swimming pool. Shit... "What the...?" He sounds tired, drunk, out of breath. "The fuck izthisss..." You yank the driver-side door handle and push it open, trying to roll off him, but he's holding your leg down with his, um, good hand. "Fuggyou... do to me..." he mumbles. You're struggling to get him off you, but he's deadweight and determined as fuck. You're hitting him with your fists, clawing at his face, but he's just staring at you, expressionless and somehow still visibly full of rage. He thrusts his slimed, shrivelled hand against the ignition button. The engine roars to life and you swear to god you just watched three of his fingers break off in a cloud of dust. You heave yourself forward, clawing and dragging yourself out of the car. Your hands are touching the pavement but he's still got a firm hold on your leg. You scream and kick and manage to squirm enough to get your upper body on the ground, but he's still got you by the ankle. You scrape your cheek on the pavement and scream even louder. People are starting to pour out of the Waffle House to see what's going on. "HEYYY! HELP ME!!!" They look over at the dumpster and see some woman dressed up for Halloween as '80s Madonna-Gone-Wrong, dangling halfway out of a Mom Car, face-down on the concrete and screaming. They shout and run toward you. And Daddy Good-Teeth-in-Context--that motherfucker--floors the gas... https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=5ACFD4366A9707DC7A2EE2CC14CAB0340519362E01166CDF3179771AEFBD6ADD (Goes back to the start)
Fuck him.
[edit]His hand's creeping up your skirt as you finally manage to click the child-lock switch. You could drop a fist on his nutsack right now, bite off his tongue, jam your ridiculous fake nails right into his eyeballs. You could run. But you let him keep going. This is very fucking different. You shove your tongue down his throat so fucking hard he actually tries to push you off. You look at him like a frenzied animal. He looks at you like a spooked deer waiting to die. It's the fucking hottest thing you've ever seen in your life. You don't even bother to undo his shitty braided belt. You just tear open his fly, sending cheap Old Navy buttons flying in every direction. You pull him into a hard kiss and it's like he's just sitting there, just taking it, not sure what to do, entirely at your fucking mercy. You never really understood the whole bondage thing, but the power... the complete domination you have over this pathetic little biblefucking worm makes you just wanna fucking cum. You dig his cock out of his gross whitey-tightys and it's the shittiest fucking cock you've ever seen. You stop tongue-flogging him long enough to tell him, "You've got the shittiest fucking cock I've ever seen." Before he can even respond, you shove your tongue back where it belongs and taste blood on his lips. Fuck that's hot. You push your panties to the side and slide all four inches of his skinny little clown pole inside you. Your pussy clenches down on it hard and he yelps like a little bitch boy would, so you slap him across the face with the back of your hand. And then he just stops moving. Stops groping, stops trying desperately to keep up with your tongue, just stops. You're getting real fuckin' sick of these Anti-JumpScares of his... Oh fuck. He just came, didn't he? What was that, fifteen seconds? Holy shit, this pathetic little BITCH! You didn't even feel it, but that's hardly a surprise... He looks confused, his face is going slack, pale, motionless, afraid... Fuck yes, baby. It's okay, you can finish the job yourself. Fuckkkkk, mmmmmm.... His face stops moving altogether, frozen in horror, petrified, and the skin is pruning like he's been soaking in a bathtub too long... way too long. Mmmm... Yeah. Yeah. AH! FUCK, BABY! DON'T STOP! DON'T STOP! He's shriveling, like all the moisture is being sucked out of his body, like all the collagen and fat and muscle are evaporating, disintegrating, eyes rolling back and sinking into his skull, oh god yes, MMMM YES YES FUCK BABY RIGHT THERE RIGHT THERE YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS! You've never cum so hard in your entire life. Wow... Fucking just... wow.... But the afterglow doesn't last very long when you're straddling what looks like a bog-mummy made out of beef-jerky and plaster. You roll off him into the passenger seat and notice that his shitty mummy crotch--just like the seat, the console, your skirt, your hand--is drenched and dripping with viscous black slime... Just like Mango's nightmare puke-shits. Except this stuff didn't ooze out of a sick cat's asshole... Well shit... If being sick with whatever the fuck this is can make you cum that fucking hard, you're not sure you ever wanna get well. You dig around in Mummy Good-Teeth's pockets for the keys but they aren't there, so you shove him out the door. As soon as his body hits the pavement, it shatters into a cloud of white dust. Fuck, that's hot. You're horny as FUCK right now. Who knew death was such a fucking panty-soaker? You climb into the driver's seat and press the ignition. The engine roars, which means the keys are around here somewhere. You check the glove box. Bingo. Right next to the knife. And something else. You pull out a sheet of paper, a flyer for some church event. And there he is. The Good Ol' Rev's corny fucking headshot, right next to the official portrait of Governor George Burnett. DADDY-DAUGHTER PURITY BALL '19 With Very Special Guests, Your Rapist and The Fascist Prick Who Shut Down the Clinic. It starts in 40 minutes, just ten miles away. "Fuck it," you say. "Let's party."
Third Puzzle
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