He's drilling through the Spiritus Sanctus tonight, through the dark hip falls
Screaming, "Oh, you mambos, kill me and kill me and kill me"

Your sandals tread nigh-impercievably on the dirt beneath you amidst the obfuscating whistling noise of the wood and vegetation by your sides. There was some kind of animal over here just a moment ago. You're tailing it. You lost sight just now, but it surely hasn't gone far. The dog accompanying you, appropriately named 'Dog', is sniffing the ground somewhat noisily. You hope he's not giving away your position.

Something moves in the gap between two trees. You don't turn your head fast enough to see the beast itself, but a particular pair of bushes are waving back and forth like they've been disturbed. Wind doesn't do that.

Your left hand tightens around the handle of your spear. It's wrapped in duct tape, makes it a little easier on the hands to hold. Duck tape? Duct tape? Nevermind. Not like you care. There hasn't been anyone around to call you out on your grammar mistakes for a while.


Follow.