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February 5 - February 17, 2023
That had been one of the first things Montague drilled into our heads when we began our training. Never. Ignore. Your. Gut.
If everyone was scared of you, they didn’t try to make conversation.
Group sex and murder.
“Oh, are we playing squid games? Last time I played, the tentacle wasn’t used like that, Tal. You need to stick it—”
“Mmmhmm, the best part about getting fucked by a tail is the range of motion.”
He was dressed in a pair of purple, latex pants that hugged his nuts tighter than a squirrel clinging to an acorn at the height of winter solstice.
Just when I thought they had maybe a shred of humanity in there—doing what they did for that kid—they go and kill a man because he smelled like horse shit.
Later, I want to eat your pussy for like eighty-six minutes.
“I swear to all that’s cosmic, kukola... If you don’t stop moving and shut your mouth, I will turn that ass redder than the seventh circle of hell and then stretch it out with my hand.”
That was the fucked up thing about PTSD. Sometimes, no matter how rational you were with your thoughts, you could still get sucked into the vortex of trauma and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it.
A person without fear was a loose cannon. Reckless and unpredictable.
