Snow, chapter 18

The psychologist never liked walking down whitewashed hallways. Everything was white: all the white brick walls. Here, in this polished place, are the scum of the earth: People who made fools of the American government, heh. He straightened his lab coat in preparation. Why do they make me wear this? Of course, this wasn't some looney-wing of a hospital, however. NORAD had allowed many new people in since the attacks had subsided. The country had been crippled, and Doctor Kay was the most qualified to find out where they had began... as though it matters any more.

"So what do you make of this, Doctor?" his field guide to the 'exhibits,' Mr. Bledsoe, said. He was only a student, but he was respectable, and so Kay kept him on his team.

"Well, he's obviously antisocial," Doctor Kay said, staring straight ahead. "Other than that, this guy has no story."

The hall was so white. It reminded him of one of the most clever con artists he had ever interviewed. The man he had interviewed all those years ago was not a typical obsessive-compulsive: he had social skills to a high degree. Enough, apparently, to infiltrate the CIA after a few years of trying. Clean cut, a compulsive groomer and cleaner; they never saw it coming. This whiteness always seems dishonest to me. Of course, who was he to claim purity?

Kay arrived at the cell, somewhat nervous. He pressed the call button, and the wall separating him from the prisoner became transparent.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Kay, and I'll be taking care of you for the next few months. Your name is... 'Fog'? I hope you feel like talking today, Fog. I want to hear what you have to say."

The man looked up: He was an intimidating figure even in his condition. They stared at each other for a while, which was fine with me. Kay was getting paid whether his subject said anything or not, but they only call back those who get information from their 'clients.' Kay held his wallet closer than anyone else in his life.

Fog had painted a picture with his remaining arm. It was just eyes, and Kay gathered that Fog had drawn it in a hurry. He took my coat off and slung it around the chair they placed in front of the plexiglass cell.

"Put down 'delusions of persecution' too, Bledsoe," Kay whispered.

"You like my painting, doctor?" A vague European accent that Kay couldn't place.

"Yes, it's interesting. Is someone watching you?"

"Oh yes. I do not think I will be in this cell long."

Kay waited a moment, just in case he wanted to answer his own statement. "Why is that? You've been here for eight months. Is someone coming for you?"

"Is not someone always 'coming' somewhere? Heh, heh, heh."

Kay make it a point to never laugh at a sociopath's joke, or any joke made by an insane person: It gets in the way of conversation, and that gets in the way of Kay's business. He waited a few moments. Fog was now looking in my direction very intensely. Kay tried the same line of questioning, just in case it bore fruit.

"Is someone going to arrive here... 'soon,' you said?"

Fog looked straight at the wall and said, "Why am I in prison?" and shuffled in his simple bed. It was as though he asked the wall the question.

"Er, I think we both know the answer to that, Fog..." Kay tried not to shift in his seat. He just watched fog lying there, as though he couldn't move. In spite of all this, he looked so relaxed that it was as if he would melt through the concrete walls and escape.

Fog lay there, silent. Kay knew that he would be one of the 'silent types,' but even they loosen up eventually: They all want their story to be known, or some shit like that. They all want to be famous. Kay packed up my things and gestured to Mr. Bledsoe to call in to re-opaque the wall. As he walked away, the doctor had a strange feeling that Fog knew far more than he was letting on.

Different Story #2: High school theme, ch. 2

At school the next day, Alex was hanging around his friend Scott. Scott was clean and cool, tall and muscular, the star of the track team, and only a freshman himself. The cafeteria was crowded and noisy, like always. Alex felt like crap. He wanted to start a riot.

"Scott, what are you doing?" Alex asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

"What do ya' mean, Alex?" Scott replied, a part of a sandwich in his mouth. "I'm not doing anything."

"I mean, why do you want to be the best on the track team?" Alex asked, his cool, unblinking eyes peeking just below his brow. "Is there a girl?"

Scott shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable for the first time around his friend of 5 years. "Well, there's a girl I have a crush on, but I'm not, uh, really the 'best'..."

"God damn, you're modest," Alex said with a sigh. He wasn't sure where the conversation was headed, but he felt powerful being the friend of a dimwitted, popular jock. "Well, okay, let me phrase it this way: what are you going to do, now that you're on the track team?" Alex noticed Scott's polo. He noticed how both of Scott's parents dropped him off at school that day.

"Oh, I'm not-- I'm not the best. Chris, now Chris," Scott said, pausing for a moment to think, "that guy has talent."

Alex was tired of this. "I think you should run for school office. You'd kick ass at being the Freshman representative."

"What?" Scott said, "Politics? Me? Oh, Alex, thanks but I don't know if--"

"Too late, I already signed you up." Alex said, laughing slightly. "In fact, you've already got the 20 signatures last time I checked." Scott was surprised, but also delighted.

"Really?"

"Yep, and I'm your running mate." Alex said nonchalantly, as he turned back to his food, pretending to focus on eating. Scott selfishly thought about his chances at winning the office if Alex was involved. Alex was only slightly nerdy in his opinion, and not likely to sway any votes.

"Running mates for class representatives?" Scott said. The question felt out of place, considering he was trying to be modest around his friend. He should've asked Alex if he thought Scott had a chance of winning again. He should have danced around it, and acted surprised some more. "Uh, I mean that--"

Alex knew what Scott was doing, and it irritated him. He didn't need Scott's sympathy. "Yeah," Alex said without turning from his meal. "They want as many people involved in the class elections as possible." Alex got up, and gestured for his friend to follow.

"What's the rush, man?" Scott said, incredulous, indicating the huge sandwich in his hands. "I just learned that I might become a politician because my best friend entered my name, and now I have to go?"

Alex rolled his eyes. "Take your damn sandwich with you man," he laughed slightly, "we have to go spread the word of Scott to the masses." Alex spread his arms wide, chortling. "I mean," Alex corrected himself, "to the school."

Different Story #2: High school theme, ch. 1

Based slightly on TheLedBalloon's story. I liked my fantasy one, and maybe I'll come back to it. I guess what I'm doing could be called "Character experiments."

Alex looked out over the empty parking lot in front of his school. What a start to his freshman year, he thought. He had been sent to detention for the third time in as many weeks. Sitting in a quiet room doing nothing didn't bore him, though.
This detention was different from the others. They let him listen to his ipod, but he chose not to this time. The stillness and the quiet with the three other detention regulars was soothing. His personality, in that short time in there, seemed to have changed.
Alex started walking across the long, boiling hot blacktop of the parking lot in the general direction of his house. His thoughts didn't have a specific content, they were focused on the heat lines off in the distance, the kind that distorted what was ahead of him.
In the quiet stillness, he didn't worry about his future anymore. He stopped worrying about his folks and his family. He stopped worrying about his grades. There was nothing but the room and him, and it didn't feel like a hostile relationship. Suddenly, in the classroom, he could feel his emotions receding from him, like blood from a heart.
Maybe it hadn't happened so suddenly. As his parents' fights had gotten worse and worse, and as he became more and more "rambunctious," he could feel emotions slipping away from him. He was getting caught less and less now, maybe because he was becoming harder to read. He didn't feel anxious about walking home, now. He didn't know what he felt.
As he was walking, Alex stared at his feet and looked at the cracks in the asphalt. That one looked like a triangle. That one looked like a spiderweb. The shapes started coalescing, and he couldn't keep them straight anymore. He wasn't sure why, but he noticed his fists were clenched, and his teeth were barred. He didn't feel angry, but he could tell that he was.
Alex left the parking lot and started down the sidewalk to his house. It was a middle class neighborhood, maybe on the verge of poverty. He was the youngest in his family, and was expected to be the peacemaker whenever his parents started fighting, or at least, that's what he felt. His two older siblings just left the house with their respective friends, and seemed in denial about what was happening.
Why did they leave him alone with his parents? He wondered. He could feel a clenching in his throat, and his eyes squeezing together, but the feeling passed. He stared at his house, and he felt something: terror. There was only one car in the driveway where once there were two. This feeling of terror grabbed him, and Alex ran inside. He knew that his dad never worked this late, and that mom wasn't allowed to drive that car.
In the kitchen was his mother, slowly washing dishes by the yellow light of a skylight overhead. Alex watched her silently, and he knew she must have heard him, but there were other things on her mind now. Alex failed, and he knew it: he couldn't save his mom and dad.
Flashing in his mind now were new thoughts. Exciting thoughts. Usually excitement meant a sudden fight had broken out between his parents and had woken him up from sleep, but this kind of excitement was different. It wasn't a sympathetic "oh I have to do something" feeling: These thoughts, he could tell, resided in the sadistic side of the spectrum. He had to do something, all right, but to whom?

Fantasy theme, ch. 1

Vecna woke up next to a little lake on a nice spring morning. He could only open one eye right now, and saw that it was a beautiful day. He could barely feel the grass beneath him through his tattered rags. He was cold, and he felt like something important was missing.

Carefully, Vecna lifted his 10 year old hand up to the left side of his face. There was something very important missing. He couldn't remember anything before ten seconds ago, when he woke up, but he knew that he should have two eyes.

He could tell something pounded it out of him. All he could remember was his name, and that he felt like he had been thrown against a wall. Maybe he had. He could lift one hand, could he lift the other one?

Yes. It wasn't broken, just bruised. He felt the other side of his face, frightened for a second that he might have lost both eyes. Why would that be the case, he said as his hand wiped tears from his eyes.

Crying? He must have been crying for some reason. Funny, he wasn't sad right now. He was paralyzed in shock. The terror began to creep up over him slowly. His small body staggered to its feet. Vecna started to feel woozy, and fell back down again.

He looked over the pond at his reflection. Permanent scars stared back at him. Vecna's single eye studied the disfigured ten year old staring back at him. Absolute sadness and horror struck him, and sent waves of panic down his body.

Vecna woke up again. "I woke up again? Oh god, what happened now?" he thought. He felt his face, and nothing had changed. His surroundings had, though. Apparently, he had slept through a forest fire. "Sleep, why was I asleep? Where's mommy?" He thought to himself. "Mommy," he repeated out loud. "Mommy," he started screaming. Over and over, he screamed the word. He knew the word related to a face, but he couldn't see it.

He looked at his surroundings through a tear streamed face. All that was around him was destroyed. The sky wasn't blue anymore: smoke clogged the sunlight. There weren't any birds, no singing. There's the pond... he went back to sleep right in the same place? He started noticing that his hands were very warm. "I wanted a hug so badly that it burned my hands," he thought. His little body slumped down onto the ground, waiting for his mommy.

Snow, chapters 16 & 17

Chapter 16
Fog was watching the body from his apartment window for nearly an hour. Where the hell are the wild animals? Why aren’t they eating the bastard already? Fog still had the taste in his mouth.
He wiped an entire bottle of that toxic resin on the man’s face, and nothing. Lots of animals came and went, but they ran off as soon as they got close to the body. Mostly it was dogs, but even rats started avoiding it. Is that what the broadcasts were for? To perfect a city-wide contamination?
The radio was droning on in the background as he sat, chin resting on his palm. Fog was almost ready to call it a day, when he saw something down the street. Fog moved to the side of the window slowly to avoid the person’s gaze.
It was holding a... a what? A dog? Marching slowly, it suddenly stopped. Did he see my handiwork? Fog couldn’t tell what manner of person it was until it had run under the streetlamp below to examine the corpse.
The person was heavily armed, all right. Examining the body, it stooped down over it, and touched it. Hmmm, maybe that toxin is good for something after all. Now Fog wished he hadn’t used so much: it might become too obvious. Damn, the policeman was wearing gloves. Oh well, the poison will be effective for a few more days, probably, and hopefully he’ll handle those gloves again.
The policeman must not have been a soldier. If he had been, he would’ve known not to touch anything that the animals wouldn’t. He obviously hadn’t been in the jungle like Fog had. Suddenly, the policeman looked up, and his gaze almost caught Fog’s directly.
Fog dropped to the floor before that could happen. Outside, he heard barking. Peeking over the window’s edge, the policeman was gone, but from up the street came eight or nine dogs, foaming and snarling. One of them had a blue handkerchief in its mouth. At the back of the pack was a human shape, as though it was leading them on. Fog had time to see that it was human, wrapped in tattered clothes, except for a left arm that didn’t end in a hand... it ended in a...?
Fog didn’t have time to study it. He knew that the heavily armed policeman was inside the building, possibly hunting for him with a bullet-proof vest. Quickly, Fog scribbled onto a note pad, tore off the page, and strapped his climbing bracers to his knuckles. Without hesitation, he went into the hallway, and shoved the note into his pocket.
He had already closed all the doors, and knew that it would look suspicious, but he had no time. At the end of the hallway opposite the stairwell was a window. Fog was almost positive his bracers were strong enough to crunch through the building’s exterior. He didn’t like being almost positive.
He climbed down to the street and nervously looked around the side of the building. The pack and whatever was leading it was gone now. Fog snuck carefully into the lobby of his apartment.
Boots? Why are there boots here? Fog took them, as they were high quality, and snuck out the front again. He prayed to god that the mysterious figure leading the diseased animals was not waiting for him outside. When he was outside, he had time to pin the letter to the body, so that it would be right in the face of whomever had invaded his apartment.
As he was getting ready to climb the building again, Fog was thinking about those mysterious bottles of poison he got outside his door right before the riots broke out. He noticed he didn’t get any antidote, and he hoped it was because they hadn’t made any yet.

Chapter 17
Merky was broken. His socked feet crunched on the hard gravel. He was in the worst section of town, now. There were a few corpses around a smashed shop window, with some pigeons feeding on them. Merky was still thinking about the body. He was still wondering about the note.
“Why did you run from the dogs, Mr. Policeman? Why did you save that dog? Who are you protecting now? When you return to the apartments, I will be gone. Your city will ache and groan under my weight.”
The mysterious writer didn’t know that Merky didn’t try to bash the apartment door down. Damn it! Why was he such a sheep? If he had barged into the apartment room, he could have at least found out what he was doing in there.
Was the writer responsible for all this? How was that possible? Merky kept walking down the dark road, his courage returning. This time, though, he didn’t see the roving band of rabid dogs.
Rabid. Rabid dogs... The corpse in front of the building flashed in his mind. Dogs understood the city, just like the mystery writer. If the humans didn’t, that was their fault, and nature just took its course.
Another thing... why didn’t the killer try and confront him? Was he scared just as much, or unarmed? He knew that the man had made a mistake: he wrote a letter to an enemy.
Merky had ten miles left. His walk back was lit sporadically by light poles. Blackouts had hit the city. Merky decided that tomorrow night, he would check the power plant.
Merky stopped beneath a pole, gripping his shotgun. Why was it so slippery? He looked at his gloves, and saw a sort of slime covering them. Merky was careful to take them off very carefully, after throwing his shotgun in a nearby dumpster. So the writer gave some evidence, too?
But this evidence wasn’t like the note. He wasn’t even sure where it came from. Carefully, Merky used a stick to lower the contaminated gloves into the same dumpster as the shotgun.
Merky sat down again. He looked left to right, and held his taser tight. Down the street, from the direction he just came, he could faintly hear barking. Could he walk and read at the same time? No. Moonless.
Merky’s mind stopped thinking in complete sentences as he eyed the handwriting. Capitals. Slanted downward. Rigid, heavy pressure. Red pen. Very angry writing, but not jagged. Good flow, consistant distance between letters and words.
He could see a vague picture: someone organized, who flit in and out of social situations like a leaf on a river.
So angry. So bitter. So clever. Why didn’t you hunt me down? Why did you leave evidence for me to find? Are you not careful or just cocky?
The barking sounded clearer. It was time to leave. Merky disappeared, leaving only his gloves and his gun in an unused dumpster. Oh, more bodies. Where were they coming from?
Shivers were sent up Merky’s spine as he wondered what was happening to the environment he had just left behind.
Cold, filthy animals ravaged by disease were there now: a literal swarm. Suffering, smelling, their vision rounded at the edges by darkness. Their target had just vanished. Sniffing the air for clues of their prey, they directed their terrifying new alpha male to their newest discovery in the dumpster. Their master was pleased. They slowly raised their reddened eyes into the wrenching freeze of darkness in front of them: hungry.

Snow, chapters 13 - 15

(NOTE: --RATED R FOR VIOLENCE-- Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Also, don’t say that I’m a psycho for writing this. PHEW! Psychological thrillers!!)

Chapter 13
Chaos. Utter chaos. Outside the window: honking, a gun blast, screaming. Fog left the lights off in his apartment while he broadcasted. He wanted control more than ever right now. “one, two, three, four, three, four, five, six, seven...”
Fog was sitting on the edge of the bed, away from the window, and was reading his logbook by firelight: fires from the building across the street. “Three, four, five, four, five, four, five, six, seven, eight...”
A train rattled by. Ding, ding, ding, ding. Screaming, glass smashing, car alarms, fire alarms. “Seven, eight, nine, eight, nine, ten, zero, zero, BREAK...”
Done. Fog set the tape to play-back, and left the bed. Fog got his machete out of his satchel, and held it in hand. In his attaché case, he had three bottles of poison that had been anonymously dropped outside his door. He took one of them and then reached for his pistol on his bed, which he didn’t bother attaching the silencer to, as he walked calmly into the hallway. In the hall, a large, desperate woman in an orange dress was asking a neighbor for food. The argument was getting loud, and the woman was becoming more and more demanding.
“I have three children!” she started screaming, “I have three children!” Fog thought she looked gelatinous when she yelled. He was slightly disgusted at her lack of self-control. His sterling steel machete glinted off the bare light bulbs overhead.
When Fog got outside, he wiped his mouth clean. It was complete chaos. Fog had been in this situation before, during the genocide. He enjoyed being in such command of the situation.
Fog stood still as, in the distance, dark, distressed figures ran and ran. The hollering was seeming to die down. Fog, in his clean black coat and dark blue pants, looked disappointed. Shrugging, he turned to go back into the building, the lamp post near the staircase guiding the way.
Clip, clop, clip... Quickened steps. Steps from behind him? He turned and caught a dark figure in the kidneys, the machete protruding slightly out the other side. Fog caught the body, and held it upright. A look of surprise was etched on the young man’s face. He hadn’t died yet, Fog thought as he held the very tense body: it was just too painful to scream.
His jujitsu training swarming over his mind in a flash of mangled legs and arms, Fog broke the young man’s back, and then the neck. Feeling numb, Fog stood over the body, examining it. Checking for a wallet, and finding it, Fog took out fifty dollars. He left five. Other than a wallet, there were some brochures for the Church of Latter Day Saints, and a picture of a pretty blond girl.
The young man was actually quite handsome, and had not shaved in a day or so. The face didn’t look like someone who would jump a large, muscular man from behind. It looked warm. The eyes closed automatically, which Fog always took as a sign that they were used to warm dreams in clean, warm places. They were used to being closed and comfortable.
Fog’s eyes very rarely blinked. They were red around the edges and always itched, but it was better than not being able to see around him.
What a good life this man must have had before today. Handsome, but not too clever, he must have had it easy. No one would leave him in an orphanage.
Fog’s heart slowed as he leaned over the young man’s body.

Chapter 14
Merky was concerned. In his riot gear, with an automatic shotgun slung around him, a taser and a pistol in his belt, and a riot shield, Merky looked around his office, ready to leave for the streets. It sounded too quiet outside.
It had been a few days since they were ordered to evacuate. Merky had gone on patrol every single night, and had rounded up about ten people. The rest eventually left through the barrier at the north end of town, far from the commercial district where the worst was happening.
It took him about an hour to walk over to the huge supermarket in that side of town. It was deserted, as were its shelves. The huge white building was now cavernous. He remembered shopping there in its better days.
Walking along the dark, quiet streets, Merky saw a figure on all fours in the distance, lit by one of a few unbroken street lamps. “Hey! Hello?” He called. The figure was moving along the ground slowly. As Merky caught up with it, he saw it was a dog, limping.
It was a border collie with a blue handkerchief around its neck. It uneasily addled away from the large, black object without eyes coming towards it. Merky took off his helmet, and the dog still seemed confused and anxious.
Merky liked the dog. He took off his gloves and sat, petting it for a while. The puppy laid its head in his armored lap. It looked injured on one leg. Merky didn’t want to abandon it, so he picked it up.
“You’ll come with me and protect me, won’t you?” He smiled at the dog. It rubbed itself warmly against Merky’s chest.
At the end of the street, past a few abandoned cars and smashed windows, Merky saw a hunched figure in front of a lamp post. Merky started jogging towards it, and the dog, curious, looked in the direction he was traveling.
As he got closer, Merky thought something was wrong with the figure. The dog was getting very antsy, and struggled as hard as it could with a broken paw out of Merky’s grip. He placed the dog carefully underneath a car.
“Sir? Sir are you all right?” He called. The figure was not leaning against the lamp post, something was propping him up. Why was he leaning like that? Why can’t I see his face?
When Merky was next to the body, he saw the head was turned completely the wrong direction. The body was handcuffed to the lamppost. The torso twisted in an irregular way, almost flexible enough to wrap around the post, as though it was broken in several places.
“Jesus.” Merky said. His initial instinct was to run, but he calmed down enough to put his gloves back on to examine the evidence. Slowly, he turned the head to face him, dreading what he would see.
Hopefully, it was the crows who did this. The blood streaked from the empty eye sockets to the shirt.
Merky had been at crime scenes before, usually with a team of professionals to keep him sane. He’d seen autopsy reports, and dead bodies. This was just another body, right? Just another drive-by? Merky hoped so, but knew it was laughably optimistic.
Merky looked around, but his eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness. Did a mob do this? A very angry mob?
No. It was too orderly. It was too skillful. Merky was curious, and patted the man’s back, feeling a missing bone in the vertebrae. Maybe it really was a mob, a mob who jumped up and down on this man until his back broke. He felt the front. Other than a stab wound in the abdomen, he didn’t feel any trauma from a group of people punching or hitting. A single human being did all this?
Where are you, he wondered. Are you watching the body? Waiting for it to be hurt again somehow? Is that why you handcuffed it here?
From down the street, where he had left the collie, he heard a squeal. Turning around, he saw dozens of eyes piercing the nighttime squalor. A group of growling. A group ready to pounce. Foam from their mouths told a very short, nasty story.
Merky quickly bounded up the staircase of the tall, brown, apartment building he was in front of, and closed the double doors behind him.

Chapter 15
Merky tried to looked outside the door, but the lights inside the lobby made it so he couldn’t see past the door’s windows. He held his shotgun tight now: he had a feeling whoever created that mess outside was in this building.
Merky took off his boots and slowly creeped around the small lobby of the apartment building. It was in shambles. Even parts of the wallpaper were torn off, somehow. He didn’t want to use the elevator, for some reason.
Merky looked up the cramped staircase. For some reason, Merky noticed that it was freshly waxed. I wonder what the janitor was planning to do today, he thought.
It was dark and cold in this building, a feeling Merky disliked. The city was usually bright and warm, but not tonight. He felt like the darkness of the night had swarmed this building and taken it over.
He got to the second floor and leaned out the stairway door. Doors open, a few cats wandering the hallway... soundless.
The third floor was much the same: all the doors open, a few cats and dogs mewing and squeaking for food... soundless.
The fourth floor... all the doors were closed. Something smelled wrong here: salty and iron-like, it captured his attention. He heard a faint, repetitive sound coming from one of the rooms. Merky didn’t want to bust down each door, so he just slowly crept. He felt the floor in front of him with his toes, so as to avoid creaking.
When he got to the middle of the brown hallway, he saw the source of the smell: a large, dark red puddle of blood, and streaks emanating from it, going underneath a nearby door. Merky knew it was his friend.
Was this person normal until a riot broke out? Did this person feel like that was the only time they could express themselves? Merky had very few clues to go on with the city in this much shambles. If he had the homicide squad with him, the story would be different, and he thought that the murderer knew that, too. Did the guy just lose control, like the city recently had?
At the end of a hallway was an open window. Behind a door near the end of the hallway, Merky could hear a very soft voice saying something over and over. He couldn’t tell what.
Merky didn’t like bursting in to rooms without back up, and slowly creeped away, checking behind him the entire way back to the lobby. He clenched his shotgun tightly. Odd: his grip kept slipping the more he clenched.
Merky was surprised, and somewhat angry, to see his shoes gone when he exited the stairwell, but decided he had no time to search for them. Outside, attached to the body’s shirt, was a note.

Preface to Snow, chapters 13 - 15

Before I post my next three chapters, I just want to say that they're gonna be violent. And I don't mean like:

"Yeah, violence is kewl!"

...kind of violence, I mean more like:

"..." "O____O" "...wtf?!"

...kind of violence. I didn't plan for my characters to do this kind of stuff. I just wanted a nice character-driven analysis of two interesting people. Suddenly, Fog does THIS and it throws my entire idea out of whack.

I'm writing realistically (as much as possible), and so the story is kind of just carrying me along. Apparently, Fog is a very angry person. There's a description of a mutilated dead body, and how Fog killed it; it's just that I don't want you to go:

"Cajek is a psycho, and not the fun kind like he was at Uncyc"

I'm still "funny" (or whatever it is I tricked you into believing I am), it's just that this story... uh, isn't? It's just a very slow analysis of these two characters, and if they do something crazy, I don't want you to think the person who wrote it is too. Okay, it'll be up in a day or so.

UPDATE: Okay, I don't feel so bad after reading Chapter 2 of Led's story, but still... mine is worse.