I don't need your forgiveness
I don't need your hate
I don't need your acceptance,
'Cause Rabid Weasels are over running New England,
And I'mma goin' to Cape Cod.
Imma gonna DIE MOTHERFUCKER, DIE!
Flaky preferred Cars over the Public Trains. Who wants to be stuffed like sardines in a bus of rapist, murderers, and Tom Cruises?
Either way, fate was usually in her hands when driving, as opposed to the alternative where one idiot's sleep depravity kills hundreds. Such power should be left firmly in the hands of the People. It must be within the hands of the people. IT SHOULD ALWAYS BE IN THE HANDS OF US!
Flaky returned to reality, just in time to slam her foot on the brakes. Recovering from a swift jerk forward, she looks out over the red hood, hoping the pedestrian got away unharmed. Nothing, nothing was in the headlights. Flaky smiled, easing onto the gas and moving forward on her merry way.
It was dark as pitch beyond the headlights, with the horizon and sky barely distinguishable. This is the place where monsters feigned existence, and Stephen King really sends shivers down your spine. Flaky shivers, fearing the worst of the night.
Up ahead, standing beneath a street lamp, was Skippy. She didn't really trust the boy, but he was certainly not evil. He raised his thumb up, in the style of stereotypical hitch hikers.
She suddenly pictured Skippy decapitating her in the Window. She cringed, and slammed her foot on the gas, zooming the Furball by. He looked astonised- in the rearview mirror atleast.
POP!
Flaky gasps, as the car begins a slow roll to stop, in the darkness of the night. Standing still, Flaky paused as well, reviewing the past few seconds. Examining herself, then glancing outside for a second, she opened the car door, to behold a flattened tire. She pulled out from the trunk of the car a car jack and socket wrench, examining the viability of the object in her hand to become weapons. Visions the each object cracking open a skull made her drop them immediately. She pulls her hands to her chest, trembling.
The Socket wrench hits the ground with a clanging racket. Momentarily stunned, she stares at it as if it were a snake ready to strike. She reaches for it only to have her wrist grabbed by an unknown tan hand. She screams, too frightened to move. Another tan hand reaches from the darkness and grabs the socket wrench off the ground. Instead of bashing her brains out on the ground, it placed the wrench firmly in Flaky's hand.
the nonentity steps into the light of the headbeams, revealing himself to be Skippy. That damn squirrel thing...
"Flakes I noticed you passed me back there." Skippy says with a false smile upon his face. "Is everything Okay?"
Flaky remained silent, lip trembling from fear.
"Ah, you got lost on your way to the Panic House." Skippy said with his bright yellow smile.
She gulped in air, trying to work up a voice to answer.
"Do you need help with your flat, here?" he asks.
"Y-y-y-yes, S-s-skippy." she said.
And before she could put a period upon her sentence's ass, Skippy heralded the fixed wheel with a smile and jazzhands.
"Thank you, Skippy." she says, returning his smile. "Do you need a ride to the gas station?"
"Nope, you've made me walk half a Kilometer to this spot, I might as well continue on alone." Skippy says.
Flaky thought for a moment. A Kilometer? wasn't he just a couple hundred yards behind her? How did he get here so fast if he walked?
Skippy's logic rarely made sense. It was like reading bad Dean Koontz.
When she resumed paying attention to the world around her, Skippy was leaning upon the hood of Flaky's car. "If you run into Flippy. Never try to convince him of otherwise. Never. "
flaky looked back at her new tire, then at the hood of her car. Skippy was gone and absolutely nothing was heard from either side of the Car. She quickly leaped into her car, and sped away.
NЗVЗЯ.
What's with the Cyrillic lettering?
NЗVЗЯ.
That could be offensive, man. Stop It. The Chapter is over!
NЗVЗЯ.
WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING NEGATIVE!
