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"In all honesty man, Pain-Ballers would be nice title if I had a say in it. Depends on the movie really." Michael nodded to Johnathan's titles, first one was pretty good, latter two, eh not so much. Didn't matter though, the conversation helped Mike forget about the butterflies in his stomach (and the pinprick sensation at the bottom of his feet, thanks to his overactive imagination and the idea of rusty nails laying around.) The irony wasn't lost on Michael, considering the content of the conversation.

Alex replied with his own name idea. "Yeah man, sounds like a title for one a 'da fuckin' Italian gore-flicks, top tier shit. Like Lucio Fulci movies. Hahaha 'yknow?" Michael chuckled. "Now the Italians, they know how to make a good horror film man, best in the business when it comes to slashers. Got some damn good soundtracks for 'em too." Alex finished the conversation, letting everyone know it's time to get their shit in gear. Fuck yes! Whatever fear Michael had dissipated the moment they stepped inside the rather large arena.

Michael trailed off from everyone else, finding a somewhat small shack to hole up in. He crouched down, leaning against the wall near the doorway. He set his bag on the ground, and pulled his gear out. He started with putting his paintball mask on his head, but not quite covering his face with it yet. He pulled out the paintball gun and the spare ammo containers. All filled with hot pink paint-balls, he knew exactly who he'd hit with these. He loaded the gun, and wrapped his left hand around the handle and trigger. Now's the time to wait. Michael checked his watch- wait, he forgot his watch, shit. Michael fumbled his right arm through his pocket, pulling out his phone. The light went up and filled the room. "Well, lemme see what time it is." The phone showed 9:43. "Perfe-

Michael was cut off when his eyes trailed upwards towards the wall he was only inches away from. On it, was one big fucking demon. An Eldritch Abomination, one which the eyes of man was not meant to see. A creature so vile, so horrific, Michael could not even fathom it's existence, this was truly much worse than rusty nails, worse than a demented hillbilly with a hacksaw, WORSE than someone getting a hold of his private porn folders on his phone! Inches away from his face, was a wolf spider. One big goddamn demonic wolf spider...

One falsetto yelp and a leap backwards later, and Michael had already extended his paintball gun and unloaded, the famous *Ftoop-ftoop-ftoop*s echoing throughout the arena. Michael took a quick pause, breathing to re-inhale his ghost that had just temporarily left his body to escape such a demonic monstrosity. Though a Pyrrhic victory, one which costed Michael his masculinity for a sheer second, it was still a victory. The wall in front of him was a blotch of pink, with a small amount of chitin and spider leg glued on. Michael Crowe=One, Demonic Hell spawn from Innsmouth=Zero.

Michael took the time out to yell "Misfire!" so his buddies wouldn't panic and think he'd stomped on a rusty nail. He lurched forward, grabbing his phone, and getting the hell out of dodge, he'll just lay low behind that little barricade over there. After all, that shack he bailed on was contaminated with hell spawn guts. Once he had finally reached his new destination, he checked his phone. 9:44. Michael grabbed the mask hanging above his forehead and pulled down, covering his face. Taking one last shiver, he exhaled. That never happened. Anyone asked, he tripped. He looked back down at his phone again. 9:45.

"Let's do this." Michael spoke in the lowest rasp he could, regaining his machismo. That little "incident" was already in the back of his mind. Now, all he had to focus on, was turning his opponents pink.
Edited by ToxieTheToxicAvenger, Jan 11 2016, 12:51 PM.
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