Blood-tainted nails feverishly reach for you.
The gigantic meat hook that your back flesh clings to will not hold you forever. Death is certain…someday.
The little amount of blood that flows from that gaping hole (now intruded by steel) drips on the rotting faces, trickling down into their mandibles, giving them a taste of what will come.
You tease them.
They want you.
Someday they shall have you.
It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you can bet your ass that as soon as those chain links wither, your body—lifeless or not—will fall into their undead grasp.
They’re not going anywhere anytime at all.
They, unlike you, are already dead.
Death, for you, is certain…someday.
Valve split—why did you do this to me?
Atrium crushed—is this really all over?
I’m slowly disintegrating into merely a pile of ashes.
I am just wasted flesh now.
Bring out your dead so we can dispose of your remains.
How many existences have you demolished?
How many more interested innocents will fall into your wrath?
Septum slit—I should have known not to be curious.
Tissue torn—I cannot believe Armageddon occurred.
My brain stem is infected with your wretched bacteria.
My cerebrum has been eaten by your inner demon.
Instant pleasure transformed into permanent pain.
All my joyful feelings have gone numb.
There is no use attempting suicide, because I already have been murdered.
I am just a mindless, decayed zombie, and I crave absolutely nothing, and I feel absolutely nothing, and I see absolutely nothing, and I am absolutely nothing.
The plump, unkept man grabs his chicken nuggets greedily and speeds off to his destination, not caring about the world.
He cannot bear to see the dead meat just sitting there, innocently minding it’s own business, so he sticks his fat hand in the grease-stained bag and stuffs his fat ass. He looks down for his artificial-fruit flavored liquid relief, and doesn’t realize the innocent creature making it’s way across the cement.
Not caring about the world, the man hits the beast dead on.
The windshield cracks.
Intestines and unnamable parts splatter.
He slams his foot on the brakes and leisurely staggers out of the car, not realizing the other nature-born creature staring in his direction, watching his every move. Unlike the now dead creature, this one is of the flesh.
The man throws the rotting carcass aside and spits out a piece of grizzle (the remnants of a chicken nugget).
The salival projection spackles the fresh yellow paint on the cold road.
The fleshy creature jumps from behind a bush, wooden spear in his left hand.
He’s a lefty.
Uncommon for a cannibal hunter.
It’s pretty safe to say that we all know what occurs next.
Flesh splits.
Gore flows.
Help cries are heard, but they never get a response.
Everyone is too busy sitting at home, watching Trading Spaces, not caring about the world.
Selfish flesh forms a blanket over the earth.
Not a blanket for warmth—no.
An uninvited blanket.
A blanket of greed.
Way to go, fleshlings.