Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

====Be your best self.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0EF4AF0AA752B5C172A1C13529ED5E761362D0A3548E99ACFA580B47CA108863 Link]
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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)
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