Welcome Guest [Log In] [Register]
ZetaBoards - Free Forum Hosting
Create your own social network with a free forum.
Viewing Single Post From: We pissin' our pants yet?
Member Avatar
[ *  *  *  * ]
Jerry sighed. It wasn't someone he could consider a friend but it wasn't someone he could consider an enemy. And plus, he had an axe and it seemed really scary so no fighting between the two of them. He'd love to keep in his body, especially his head, in one piece if he were to go home. But also for his parents if he happened to not got home.

Gosh, why is this have to happen? They didn't do anything wrong, they just happened to be alive at the wrong time. So unfair and disgusting. Nobody had to go through this, the anxiety of betrayal and the fear of death. Just five minutes in this hell and he wanted a way out. He could go on a rampage starting with Michael, but was it really him? Was he born a killer? He looked at his past, at his family, at his friends, did they made him into a future killer?

No, they didn't. He lived a happy life and nobody could take that from him.

He sat down in a sit beside the window. Michael was obviously apprehending a fight and, to be honest, Jerry too. Who wouldn't? Paranoia is the only thing to keep you alive other than your weapon. He really wanted to home, but fuck that game. It's not going to ruin him.

Not today, maybe tomorrow.


Fuck, how do you say that you got a knife? Nobody teaches that! Then a flash cross through his mind, he remembered a battle royale in wrestling. It was similar, but instead of being eliminated: they died. But that wasn't the only thing: wrestlers have alter-egos and personas. Jerry could do the same, right? He shallowed hard and revealed his weapon,

"I got this baby," oh gosh, please don't be cheesy, please don't sound corny, "it's, uh, a shock knife if I read that right."

He could work on the tone of his voice to sound more tough but that'd be good enough for now. He kept it in his hand in a while to check the weight of it, and let it fall into his bag. He noticed the number on it. Weird, he got B022 written on it. They weren't considered humans anymore, just numbers.

"Oh fuck this man, look at your bag! It's not even our name on it, it's a fucking number. We're not people anymore," his voice rised then lowered, remembering that somebody with a gun could hear them and decide to shoot them up.
Edited by Leaf, Aug 14 2016, 12:43 PM.
me by naft
Offline Profile Quote Post
We pissin' our pants yet? · The Pub