“I’ll fucking kill you,” he raged, fists clenched, his face twisted in a grimace of fury.

“Now, Brad…” There wasn’t any reason left on that face — there wasn’t any thought left, anything that could hear rational thought, anything that could hear a well-constructed argument. That very look dropped his perceived IQ a solid 50 points, but there was no use even talking with him — not like this.

“Kill you,” Brad growled, gnashing his teeth.

“You need to calm down.” He let me lead him to the door, and I guided him past the motion sensor that made the doors open by themselves, so I wouldn’t have to leave his side to open it.


“Come on, now. Be nice, or they won’t let us come back to the Food’n’Fun anymore, okay? We’ll get your pie somewhere else.”

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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