[This following is a graphic example of what happens when a rat tries to write a two-line horror story, then refuses to stop. Logorrhea: know the warning signs.]
The man, tossing and turning in the humid night air, sneezed himself suddenly awake, awkwardly swiping at his prickling nose with a half-numb arm. "Gesundheit," rasped a voice from out of the darkness of his bedroom. There was a deathly silence, broken only by the tinny whine of the earbuds that insulated the bed's occupant from the outside world as he drifted back to sleep. "Oh, godDAMMIT," muttered the man dressed in the shabby tatters of institutional pajamas, an oversized feather he'd found elsewhere in the house clutched in one red fist. He let it fall to the floor and reached into a bag at his feet. "You try to show a little flair... these fucking kids today." Hefting a hammer in one hand, he braced himself for the messy part.
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