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Choose Your Own Drug Fueled Misadventure: F#@% This Cult

Page 9

You make your way down the steps, slippery with some kind of rank ichor that you cannot see; for once, you are grateful for the half-light. At the bottom of the stairs, a flickering torch sits against one wall. Beyond it: Darkness. After a few minutes of struggle, you finally wrestle the torch from its sconce and turn to proceed down the tunnel. Instead of brick and shadow, your eyes register only a vast expanse of blotchy white; two pools of shimmering blue on either side. A face, you slowly come to realize - a face mere inches from your own. The white of blotchy, pallid skin. The blue of mad, merciless eyes. An expression comprised of equal parts cruelty, wrath, and glee - you recognize the look; it's the same on your driver's license.

With some surprise, you discover there is a knife in your belly.

"Fair enough," you rasp to the almost-man, blood staining your lips, "totally would've done the same in your shoes."

As you curl into yourself, leaking life out onto the stones, you stare at the blade. It is buried in your guts to the hilt, and has been twisted counterclockwise, hard, so as to widen the wound. You die giving the man an appreciative nod, as if to say "hey, not too shabby!"

THE END

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Robert Brockway

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