Editing Hackforsatan19 (section)

=====Let Mitch go.=====
[https://plague.infect.site/?contaminant=F0D878E8394E85143DA9D540986D863557BF0011DBD437BBC38C0A023051C659 Link]
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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)
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