Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

=Story 2=
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=5ACFD4366A9707DC7A2EE2CC14CAB0340519362E01166CDF3179771AEFBD6ADD Link]
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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
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==Overthink this==
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F117CAC47C1B2BB4B45FABE4190DAF08D6EE2666F214D55F46004558876A4DEA Link]

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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
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===You can't do this.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=2AB5ADAD3ABCE95878E42FB684B31F84BD78CE81D533434F05162B870121627B Link]
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"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
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====Go.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=0800265D1E37EA21A1F986E61098D2EAA96788ED95BB7CCC60E366AB9390E3AC Link]
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"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)
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====Stay.====
Leads to Get In below

==Get in==
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=8599C5E8D2727ED4B859F3C48A33D349D5AF450C7BBBE9405C243BEDFFE124A4 Link]
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"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
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===Call it off.===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=E69029390E47E4E187B67A9E7518EEF152EBD1F3ABF367042D7639371FA97C3C Link]
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"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)
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===Wanna talk about it?===
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=C9BC353ADDC72FD8CC1EB7C8883955FAE36234DF6560E3F89382A6041A901E3C Link]
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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
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====Fuck that.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=07F37EBA103596DB875C66F0FAC84436AAD24E193EA92D3976758AE1460E0DED Link]
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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)
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====Fuck him.====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=1A4C4347A0E419116DBA6F7A0DCC39AC9DFD675BCA6B57B0D1A1D7C662CC3496 Link]
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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."
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