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The reality of what Matt had done a few hours ago had hit him - he had murdered Wade. Killed him in cold blood, not for any real reason. He couldn't help but think about what Wade's parents, whatever siblings he had, friends who weren't here would think about him. He figured that they wouldn't be too pleased, what with him being Wade's murderer and all that. They'd probably be pretty mad, actually. He had killed Wade for some nebulous, arguably not very good reason.

And, really, he didn't care that much.

He'd have had to kill someone sooner or later. If he didn't, he wasn't going to get off Shitfuck Island (population: him and a bunch of assholes) - he knew how this worked. So maybe killing Wade wasn't very justifiable. He didn't give a shit. He could dwell more deeply on his moral shortcomings when he wasn't in a situation like this.

Still, killing Wade only temporarily filled the Jerry Fury/Ben Fields/Nate Turner/Bart Capotelli (was that his last name? he could never remember) shaped hole in his heart. He was alone. Frankly, that wouldn't be an issue, but this was Shitfuck Island. Without any real direction, he wandered around. Maybe he'd find something to do, or a place to hide, or something.

He did find someone. Ben Lichter. He didn't know him that well. Had his back turned on him. Perfect opportunity.

Matt held the bloody pipe in his hand. As casually as he could, he said, "Hey."
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Chokepoint · The Slopes