Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

==Grab the trashcan==
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2D4E8D74A6DAA295D22E2E972C8118530DA2ABEC7AD7CAF6D2DBAC43E7CE4ECC Link]
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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
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===Take responsibility===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2AD41061203ED8A987CDF7DF72510FD26B317D30EAEAA841205AD92FC868377A Link]
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"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)
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===Take the opportunity.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=D046B5794D36511E4BF67E67D0F997C66EAC733CCF8827EC40A0DA04915CC16D Link]
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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)
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