![]() I do so, and I glare back at the glass, daring the qashmal to challenge my decision. While he’d loaded the gun, he hadn’t cocked it. ![]() But my reflection is talking, and I can see Pyros around that glass like heat rising off desert sand. I recoil and my fingers are already growing into claws before I realize that it’s a mirror, it’s my own reflection, tinted by the blood and bile covering the glass. I turn my head and see a monster on the wall. “You have to chamber the shell,” says a voice. I pulled the trigger, but nothing happens, and that makes me cry even harder. I drop the club, stagger away, pick up his shotgun and place the barrel under my chin. His brains, already half-pulverized by the damage, spill out around the weapon. Six Months Ago, After The fifth time I bring the club down, his skull caves in. ![]() Mark Johnson 1554 Litton Drive 10:25 a.m Roland Ortizħ80 Park North Blvd Ste A 30083 12:15 a.m Stone Mountain Police Dept.
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