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“Hunting Season” by Nick Roberts

Barren McNeil had always been good with a gun. Ever since he was eight years old and his father took him to shoot beer cans with a BB’s, Barren realized he was a natural. He instinctively knew how to aim; immobile targets never stood a chance. The first time he fired his dad’s rifle, the kick and BOOM of the gun sent a previously dormant rush of adrenaline through his body that he relished. Pretty soon he and his old man were targeting clay pigeons careening through the sky. Barren savored the rare grins of approval from his father as the targets exploded to smithereens, raining debris across the open field. He didn’t know which he enjoyed more: firing weapons or pleasing his dad.

            After his tenth birthday, he and his father always went out together for hunting season. With each progressive season, Barren’s skills sharpened. Throughout his early teenage years, Barren dominated the youth competitive shooting scene. Never once did he feel fear or intimidation stepping up to the range with his weapon. As soon as he stared down the sight of his rifle everything but the target dissolved away. The noise of the crowd, the wind, and the birds all just evaporated from existence. The only thing he was aware of at that finite moment in time was the rhythmic THUMP of his heart as he focused on the solitary target.

            After proving himself time and time again with kids his own age, he began entering into adult competitions. No one could best him, regardless of age. His parents helped him secure a marksman scholarship, and that’s how he made it through college. All through this time, as soon as hunting season rolled around, Barren and his dad would hit the woods. When his father passed a little after Barren’s 25th birthday, he continued the tradition, until recently. He could swear that he felt the old man’s spirit out there in the woods with him, and he liked that.

            For roughly the next twenty years, Barren’s life course was similar to many other Americans. He finished school and then toyed around at various entry-level business positions until he discovered that he was a natural at selling real estate. He obtained his license, made some profit, and began a successful real estate agency. At his ten-year high school reunion, he ran into a former girlfriend named Sally, and the sparks reignited. Barren and Sally dated, fell in love, and got married. They quickly bought a beautiful house on a large farm. The many acres of private property was a necessity for Barren and his favorite pastime of target shooting.

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 After a few years of mostly blissful marriage, they decided to have children. Sadly, it was discovered that Barren was infertile. They were both devastated and considered adoption, but even that never came to fruition. Sally went back to school for her master’s degree in social work, and Barren leaned all the more into his thriving business. However, whenever he needed to clear his head and let the worries of the world slip away, all he had to do was step out back with his rifle and some targets.

***

            The chilly Autumn wind blew against Barren’s taut face, pulling him away from his memories. He stood alone in the silent woods. He was miles away from his empty home. It had been a little under three years since he had last spoken to his now ex-wife, and his real estate business was in a downward spiral. He knew he had no one to blame but himself – he had neglected them both since the accident.

The frigid dawn temperature was perfect for hunting. He could sense the animals moving about to stay warm. The sun was just beginning to peek above the Appalachian mountain range that surrounded the sprawling West Virginia valley. Forty-four years old now, Barren leaned back against a tall Sycamore tree and took a warm swig of amber whiskey. Drinking during hunting season was a time-honored tradition, but this year it was a necessity. He assessed the half-empty pint in his hand and then slid it back into a pouch in his tan vest; his mesh-camo ballcap kept the bright rays out of his eyes. A disturbed flock of birds flew over his head.

God, he missed this.

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It had been three long years since he had been in the woods. Three years with no hunting and lots of drinking. A few shots of liquor helped to dull the pain at first, but then he noticed that he needed more to get the desired effect. After what he’d been through, though, anyone would drink; at least, that’s how he justified it. He pulled the bottle right back out and took another generous gulp. The sourness of the bourbon coated his throat as he exhaled a deep, boozy breath. Numbness began to take hold, and he welcomed it. He took a slow look around the woods desperately trying to stay focused on the majesty of the forest. The last time he was out during hunting season was three years ago in this exact location, and he had returned to it intentionally.

***

            The Morris family had recently adopted a new tradition of renting out the Rusty Mountain Lodge for their Thanksgiving festivities. Originally, the family had celebrated the holiday at a different Morris’s house each year. As time went on, there became many factions of the original Morris clan that had grown exponentially; larger accommodations were naturally in order. All of the elder siblings agreed that the best course of action was to rent a large enough venue for everyone to get together without tripping over one another. Located just an hour away from most of the family, the historic and luxurious Rusty Mountain Lodge was an ideal place for a gathering.

            Arnold and Debra Morris drove carefully up the winding gravel road. Their two children, Nathan and Sam, sat in the backseat glued to their phones with headphones on their ears. On either side of them were miles of trees atop rolling hills. Arnold loved this part of living in West Virginia. He had seen the beauty the world had to offer during his time in the military, but nothing came close to fall in the Mountain State. Debra loved it, too. She stared with awe at the bright orange and yellow leaves barley hanging on by a thread to their branches. A swift wind would easily create a shower of fall foliage. As she looked deeper into the forest she could make out shades of light brown and pink as the sun’s rays made everything glow.

            Arnold accidentally hit a deep pothole in the road, and everyone was popped out of their respective trances. Debra gasped and the two teenage boys looked up from their electronics obviously annoyed.

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            “Oops,” Arnold said as he slowed down a bit. The crunching of the gravel was audible as the heavy SUV crept along the road. Debra looked back at the boys.

            “Put down your phones and appreciate the scenery,” she instructed her sons. Neither one heard her through their headphones. She reached back and snapped her fingers in their line of sight. They both looked up, and she motioned for them to take off their headphones. They did. “Put down your phones and appreciate the scenery,” she repeated. Sam, the oldest by two years, placed his phone on his lap and looked out the window. Nathan, fourteen, just waited for his mom to turn back around so that he could resume his game.

            “It is pretty out here,” Sam said earnestly.

            “Mhmm,” Nathan mumbled without looking up from his screen.

            After a few more ascending miles, the family arrived at a clearing in the woods. The two-story cabin stood tall in the open area. The building was from the Civil War era, but the inside had been modernized. It was ideal for a remote getaway without sacrificing all of the present-day amenities. Smoke bellowed from the stone chimney as many members of the Morris extended family were already inside cooking and drinking. Almost twenty cars were haphazardly parked around the building. Arnold didn’t like being the last to arrive, but Debra had a cooking mishap earlier in the day that had set them back an hour.

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            “Here we are,” Arnold announced as they pulled into an open spot beside a white minivan. “Everyone grab something to carry.”

            The family entered into a bustling cabin. The senior aunts and uncles were hidden away in the kitchen preparing the turkey and side dishes. A multitude of cousins in their twenties and thirties carried drinks, desserts, and hors d’oeuvres. There were quick, frenzied greetings as everyone rushed by attempting to prepare the massive Thanksgiving feast. Depending on where one stood in the cabin, smells of pies, wine, or turkey permeated the warm atmosphere. The teenagers mostly congregated on the porch out back, while the little children ran through the field playing tag. The grandparents lounged around the blazing fireplace.

            About twenty minutes after Arnold and Debra’s arrival, one of the Great Aunts shouted from the kitchen, “Dinner time!” Everyone, no matter the location, dropped what they were doing and assimilated in the massive dining hall. A senior member of the Morris family led everyone in prayer, and then they all dug in.

Arnold and Debra sat together with Arnold’s brother, John. Soon after finishing his first helping, Arnold did a quick glance around the room trying to find where his kids were sitting. He looked at the two kids’ tables, but his two boys weren’t there. He scanned the remaining tables where the adults were, but could not find them.

“Did Nathan and Sam already eat?” he asked Debra.

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“I don’t know. I haven’t seen them,” Debra said as she surveyed the room. “Did they not hear us call for dinner?”

“I’ll go find them,” Arnold began. “They’re probably still out back with their damn headphones on.”

Arnold got up and walked over to the kids’ tables.

“Hey, do you guys know where Nathan and Sam are?” Arnold asked the group of kids.

Jill, Arnold’s teenage niece, said, “They went on a walk through the woods, but they said they were coming right back.”

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About a mile away from the cabin where the Morris family was enjoying their Thanksgiving dinner, Barren McNeil was walking through the forest, back to where he parked his vehicle. After sitting out in the cold all morning, he had not even spotted a deer. This was his first time at this hunting location, and he was not glad that he came. If it wasn’t Thanksgiving and Sally wasn’t waiting on him for their small family dinner, he would stay out all day. It was a last ditch effort, but Barren was walking as stealthily as possible hoping a buck might stumble upon his path. He was just thinking about how ridiculous that was when he heard the snap of a branch.  

Barren’s ears perked up out of sheer reflex. He immediately halted and crouched down to one knee, carefully lifting the sights on his rifle up to his eyes. Leaves rustled from the same direction as the previous sound. Barren looked, but didn’t see the deer. There was another small sound of a stick breaking. Something with brown fur poked out from behind a tree about thirty yards away from Barren. He aimed the gun, but the animal retreated back behind the tree. Barren sat, waiting for it to get curious again. He was breathing, but it was so shallow and controlled that it was barely audible. Time seemed frozen.

Finally, the animal emerged and Barren fired at the movement. The animal fell to the ground with a thud, disappearing from Barren’s line of sight. He quickly stood up with his gun, listening for the wounded animal. The sound of the teenage boy screaming haunted Barren for the next three years of his life. He froze as a hollow feeling sank to his stomach.

The boy screamed again.

This was not a scream from pain, but one of confusion – one seeking help. Barren snapped out of his paralysis and ran toward the wailing. He leapt over logs and dodged tree branches as he recklessly ran through the woods.

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“I’m coming!” he shouted as he heard the boy begin to cry. As he approached the scene, he saw a pair of red sneakers poking out from behind a tree. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said as she ran up to the boy on the ground. Another boy stood screaming in shock. Barren knelt down to look at the unresponsive child and nearly vomited when he saw the dark crater in the side of the boy’s head. Music was still playing from the headphones lying on the ground beside him.

Barren finally looked up at the screaming boy and saw that a red mist had been sprayed across half his face. Barren wanted to say something to calm him down. He wanted to say that it was an accident. He wanted to say he was sorry. Instead, he just shook his head, mouth agape, with a frozen look of bewilderment. Barren thought he heard someone else scream from afar. He stood up and looked in the direction.

“Nathan!” Arnold Morris screamed in the distance as he desperately searched for his boys. “Sam! Where are you?”

Barren stood up from beside Nathan’s body. Sam walked backward into a tree and let himself slide to the ground, weeping into his knees.

“Over here!” Barren yelled to their father. “There’s been an accident!”

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***

            The following months were an emotional whirlwind for all involved. Barren was arrested, while the Morris family grieved the loss of their child. Although Nathan’s death was clearly an accident, Barren had broken the cardinal rule of hunting: always identify your target before firing. The lawyer Barren had on retainer was the best criminal defense attorney in the state. He struck a deal with the prosecution; Barren plead guilty to manslaughter and received ten years’ probation and no jailtime. The Morris family was satisfied with the guilty plea and never saw Barren again.

            After the trial, Barren attempted to return to his life. He quickly realized that he was a pariah in his own town. He couldn’t deal with the looks he’d get from people when they realized who he was and what he did. Conducting business became impossible, and he started delegating tasks to the point where he didn’t even come in the office anymore. His empire crumbled.

            His home life was no better. Sally tried to be there for her husband, at first. She knew what he had done was accidental, and she wanted him to move on with his life. Although it was intolerable at times to deal with the infamy, she was willing to weather the storm if he was. However, Barren sank deeper and deeper into self-pity and resentment. He began drinking more and she bore witness to it all. Once his business disintegrated, she gave him an ultimatum: get it together or she was leaving. He was alone in the house the very next day.

            It wasn’t until the third anniversary of the hunting accident that he realized something had to give. He knew that how he was living was no way to live. Sitting alone in a house all day desperately trying to numb the pain with alcohol was not living –  it was barely existing. He thought back to what brought him joy. He thought back to his childhood and shooting cans out in the backyard with his dad. He thought about his dad’s grin when he’d nail a target. He thought about what his dad would think of him now. Without wasting anymore time, he pulled his rifle out of the closet and headed back to the woods.

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***

            Barren stared at the rising sun, now fully emerged from the mountains in front of him. He took off his camo hat, shut his eyes, and let his face bask in the warm rays. Tears started to well in his eyes, and he swayed a bit from intoxication. He opened his eyes and took a sniff of the cool Autumn morning, savoring the smell of dry leaves and dirt. He picked up his rifle and continued his trek through the forest.

            The tree looked different than he had remembered it three years ago. Of course, the last time he looked at it he was approaching it from a different direction. This time, he was walking from the Rusty Mountain Lodge where he left his vehicle. He had intentionally walked the same path the Nathan and Sam had walked that fateful Thanksgiving afternoon. Now, having reached his destination, he surveyed the massive tree.

            The tall Sycamore was older than he’d ever get and had no doubt witnessed many gunshots in its time. He doubted it had ever seen someone get killed until three years ago, though. Looking at it, it was no different than any of the hundreds of trees surrounding it. Only one with a knowledge of its past would find anything significant in it. He looked up at its branches high in the sky and let his vision move down the thick trunk until he was staring at a spot a little over six feet off the ground.

            The bloodstains in the bark had browned and darkened, but they were still there. Even in the chaos of the shooting, Barren remembered the stain; it was forever etched in his memory.  

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Barren took a moment to appreciate the beauty in his surroundings. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the leaves were doing their annual Autumn dance just before being released by in inevitable wind. He slid his hand into his vest, withdrew the flask, unscrewed the top, finished off the bottle, and put it in his pocket – careful not to litter. The cool wind blew against his cheeks as he leaned back against the marked tree. His hands were moving as if on autopilot, but he only listened to the birds. He listened to anything that distracted him from that song playing in Nathan’s headphones that hadn’t left his memory in three years. His hands cocked the gun, and he felt the rifle’s cold barrel press against the bottom of his chin.

Barren McNeil had always been good with a gun.

Nick Roberts, Author.

I am a graduate of Marshall University and live in St. Albans, WV. My short works have been published in The Fiction Pool, The Blue Mountain Review, Teen Ink, and The Herald Dispatch. My debut horror novel is being published by J. Ellington Ashton Press.

Original Series

Nightmarish Nature: Horrifying Humans

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So we’re going out on a limb here in this segment of Nightmarish Nature and exploring one of the most terrifying, most dangerous, most impactful species to walk this planet. I’m talking about us of course. Sure, as humans, we may not seem all that horrific to ourselves, but to many other creatures we have been a force of nightmares.

Humans male as drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Humans male as drawn by Jennifer Weigel

Why are we terrifying?

Humans are among those species that engage in massive modifications to our environment to serve our needs, like beavers who dam rivers, elephants who eat all of the new growth scrub to keep the savannahs tree-free, and so on. Yeah, all creatures have some impact on their surroundings, but some take it up a notch, and we do so at an order of magnitude higher still. And we have gotten so good at it that we have managed to exist and thrive in places that would otherwise be inhospitable. We are outwardly adaptive and opportunistic to the point of being exploitative. We are the apex predators now.

Sabertooth cowering as drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Sabertooth cowering as drawn by Jennifer Weigel

We have forced many creatures into extinction, intentionally and not, and have sped up these effects enormously. The National Audobon Society chose the egret as its symbol after it made a comeback from being hunted to near extinction, and it was one of the lucky ones. Many weren’t so lucky, especially if they came in direct conflict with humans, such as wolves and the big cats who were in direct competition, or those who were really specialized in really specific niche circumstances that we pushed out of the way. And this is in only a very very limited scope of our earth’s history, and has since been even more ramped up with industrialization.

Humans female as drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Humans female as drawn by Jennifer Weigel

But humans aren’t all bad are we?

Depends on who you ask… We have created all sorts of incredible opportunities for some species too. Take mice for example. And coyotes. And kudzu. And a whole host of animals whom we’ve domesticated, some of whom wouldn’t have continued to exist otherwise or certainly wouldn’t exist in anything resembling their current forms. And the most massive extinctions occurred long before our arrival, when the earth was still forming and underwent rapid catastrophic changes and swings, decimating critters as they were trying to get a foothold. Nothing is constant except for change; that has always been true.

Wolf begging for cheezborger drawn by Jennifer Weigel
Wolf begging for cheezborger drawn by Jennifer Weigel

So it isn’t my goal to get all eco-con​scious and environmentalist here. Just that I feel if we are going to explore some of the more terrifying aspects of nature, we need to look in the mirror. Because if a consensus were taken right here, right now of all living beings globally as to what is among the most terrifying creatures among us, I’m sure we’d appear on that list.

If you enjoyed this closer-than-kissing-cousins segment of Nightmarish Nature on Horrifying Humans, please check out past segments:

Vampires Among Us

Perilous Parenting

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Freaky Fungus

Worrisome Wasps

Cannibalism

Terrifying Tardigrades

Reindeer Give Pause

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Komodo Dragons

Zombie Snails

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Werewolf-ing It Well, Part 3 by Jennifer Weigel

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Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous two St. Patrick’s Days… Here are Part 1 from 2022 and Part 2 from 2023 if you want to catch up.


Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel

So apparently it really was my lucky day at that suburban gas mart last St. Patrick’s Day. I got the mother lode of all Scratchers. I hit it big time. I had no real idea of what that meant, but it looked promising. Maybe I could get a Cadillac to tour Route 66 AND a cabin in the woods… But who was gonna drive?

Now apparently you can’t just cash these things in at the register. You have to mail them in or something. Why does life have to be so complicated? Anything involving those good for nothing mailmen has to be rigged or part of some larger conspiracy, I’m sure. But I pocketed my prize and made some plans. I couldn’t rely on old Sal not to just pocket my prize for himself; he wasn’t the sort that would let me have my dream. Or even understood that I had dreams beyond just chasing rabbits (though those are the best).

The next full moon I whined and howled at Sal to take me in to work with him. Sal just patted me on the head. Didn’t even offer a treat or nothing. Seriously, I had to get out of there, this suburban situation was the pits. I couldn’t do another year of it, watching my life tick away. So, when that didn’t work, I gently grabbed my Scratchers ticket like I was retrieving a very important slipper and slunk over and hid in his truck under that ratty blanket he kept in the back.

I managed to creep into the junkyard office and hide there while Sal was sleeping on the job. Those mastiffs nearly ratted me out, but fortunately they were chained up, and they weren’t all that bright anyway. Just growled a string of profanities at my cur form, like I hadn’t heard that before. Anyway, I waited it out and before long I heard Monty’s car pull up, rattling like the dilapidated Honda Civic held together with duct tape that it was. Sal’s truck pulled off, spitting gravel and exhaust in its wake as always.

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Dusk was setting in and I could feel the change starting. Nothing to do for it, guess I’d just have to run with it then. Monty had settled in as usual, watching bad porn and staring off into nothing. He still smelled like day old jelly donuts (the kind you can get a whole bag for $1) and coffee, as usual. Good boy Monty, how I’ve missed you and the occasional stale donut, even if it wasn’t a cookie. I approached him from behind and coughed.

Monty nearly leapt out of his skin. He blanched as if he’d seen a ghost before he managed to find his voice. “Shit, that wasn’t a dream,” he stammered, pointing. As he realized I meant him no harm, he regained his composure and even offered me a day-old jelly donut, which I accepted gratefully. I think he could tell that my tail would have been wagging if I’d still had one at that time.

“Lucky, what in all of hell are you doing here?” he asked, eyes still wide as saucers. “And for Christ’s sake, put on some pants.” He offered up the spare uniform that still just hung from the hook behind the door. I guess in my fervor to talk to him I’d forgotten to dress. Oops.

Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel

“Monty, old friend, I need a favor,” I barked. I handed him the Scratchers. His eyes grew wider.

“Shit, where’d you get this?” That’s a lot of money,” Monty exclaimed. “They’ve been looking for the winner of this one…”

“I’d stashed it in my hidey spot under the place where the carpet peels up after I got it… It’s our ticket out of here,” I retorted. “You don’t think I want to spend the rest of my days laying around suburbia with tightwad treat-skimping Sal do you?”

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“I suppose not,” Monty quipped. “But what’d you have in mind?”

“You and me, we could get a cabin in the woods, live off the land. Get out of this shit-hole. Hell, you could even get a real car, one of those big-boat Cadillacs with the wide tongue-lolling windows…”

“Um, you could do a lot more than that with this, but I catch your drift. And I want out of this hellhole too. But, like…? I mean, you aren’t gonna bite me or anything, or get all weird.” Monty fidgeted like he did when he was nervous. “I guess I knew but didn’t want to admit it – dude you’re a freak show.”

“Gee thanks. Trust me, being a dog is better any day except that you can’t drive or get your own treats and crap,” I retorted. “And if was gonna bite you I’d have done so a long time ago. It doesn’t work that way, anyway. Seriously, you don’t believe all that werewolf mumbo jumbo on Netflix too, do you?”

Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Werewolf transformation digital art by Jennifer Weigel

Monty shook his head tentatively. “I don’t really know what to believe. I mean, I guess I always knew you were like this, but I didn’t let it sink in.”

“Well, get over it and help me get my dream cabin,” I snipped. “Seriously don’t just stand there gawking all night; I put on clothes and everything. I only have tonight.”

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“You mean before you turn back into a dog?” Monty asked.

I nodded, still licking the jelly off my lips.

“But I thought werewolf changes happened every full moon,” Monty asked.

“I do, but these Scratchers change like the wind. We gotta cash in quick,” I growled. “And if you try to turn on me, I’ll hunt you down. That’s OUR ticket outta here.”

“No, no, I get it,” Monty said. “I’ll make good on it, I promise. I can follow up on the ticket first thing tomorrow; it says to mail it in or go to the courthouse or something. I’ll figure it out… I guess you can stay with me until we get it sorted, but you have to be really quiet about it. I’m not supposed to have pets in that crap apartment for all that a little dog hair would be an improvement.”

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Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

Check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s writing here at Jennifer Weigel Words.

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Lighter than Dark

LTD: The Firing Squad

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So you’ve just gotten the pink slip.

Work is letting you go. Amidst all of the layoffs, you just didn’t make the cut. Well, I’m sorry to say, but it behooves you to go quietly. And quickly. Because you don’t want to stick around for the Firing Squad…

In fact, if your HR department is outsourced to one of those Eldritch contractors like so many are nowadays, get outta dodge NOW. Like seriously. Leave the lunch you brought in the fridge; leave the personal items in and on and around your desk. Hell, leave your coat and purse if you are not near them. You can get new ones. Maybe one of your ex-coworkers can help you retrieve your stuff later. Because you need to get out while the getting is still good.

The Firing Squad is coming.

And if they so much as see a pink slip anywhere in your immediate vicinity, it is complete and total annihilation…

Ready Aim Fire...  The Firing Squad appears digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Ready Aim Fire… The Firing Squad appears
Wing Shot...  The Firing Squad takes aim digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Wing Shot… The Firing Squad takes aim
Sharp Shooter...  You're a goner! digital art by Jennifer Weigel
Sharp Shooter… You’re a goner!

I warned you… Those Eldritch contractor HR departments mean business… It’s like going to the Library. Or making Jell-O.

Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.
Portrait of myself with dark makeup and crow skull headdress, backlit by the sun.

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