| |
|
You scream in agony, then scream some more.
"I cannot believe you fucked up my package", the bartender says, his tone having reverted to one which is calm yet still threatening.
"Guh... P-please..." is all you can manage to choke out in response.
"The German had such high hopes for you, but you're a crushing disappointment, motherfucker. Stumbling about blindly from one abortive disaster to the next, totally unable to grasp the reality of what's going on."
He cocks the revolver and presses the muzzle against your head.
"You don't belong in this place anymore. Prepare to meet your GOD."
You screw your eyes tightly shut and in desperation call out mentally across the virtual plane for salvation. "FITE! Save me!"
There is a horrific ripping sound that seems to defy the all known laws of science and several unknown ones by its very existence, and a a glowing rift in space-time suddenly opens to the East. On seeing it, the bellhop does a double take, shakes his head, rolls up his sleeve and proceeds to tie off, muttering "Sorry Greggs."
FITE!, the flying horse, comes charging out of the hole in time and rears up in front of the bartender, whinnying fierociously.
"Well get on with it motherf-" is all he has time to say, before FITE! caves his skull in with a deft kick of one hoof.
"Oh, FITE!", you cry, weeping bittersweet tears of gratitude. "Thank you! We'll always have each other, after everything we've been through, even if this place we are in now has become too unpleasant to bear!" |
|
|
