Michael Scott Don't Like That

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datatime: 2022-09-26 04:45:15 Author:XRvBEjYM

He reached up into the severed head, and the brains plopped into the big bowl.

He stood over Sister. "You okay?" His voice sounded like steel wool scrubbing a cast-iron skillet.

He planted the rifle he was carrying butt first in the snow, then unwrapped the cord that held the plastic jugs from around his shoulder. He set these down, too, near the still-kicking animal. His pack was shrugged off, and then he unzipped it with gloved fingers and took out an assortment of various-sized Tupperware bowls with sealed plastic lids. He set them in an orderly row in the snow before him.

"I know," the man replied, but he offered nothing more. "Lady," he said, "start opening those Tupperware bowls for me, will you?"

"You don't know that"

She heard a sharp crack followed closely by a third. The wolf-dog that had her ankle shuddered and shrieked, and Sister saw blood spewing from a hole in its side. The animal let her go and began to spin in a circle, snapping at its tail. A fourth shot rang out-Sister realized the beast had been pierced by a bullet-and she heard an agonized howling over where Artie Wisco lay. Then the others were fleeing, slipping and sliding and crashing into one another in their haste to escape. They were gone from sight within five seconds.

"They can be tough motherfuckers," he said, and then he began to carve the animal's head from its neck. "Open that big bowl, lady," he told her.

"Yeah, I think so." She had bruises on bruises, but nothing was broken.

Sister did, about to choke on the coppery smell of blood. He wiped his hands on the beast's hide and then slid the two jugs back on the cord and retied the knot; he put his gloves back on, returned the knife to its pouch and the filled Tupperware containers to his pack, and then rose to a standing position. "You two got any guns?"

He grunted, glanced at her and then went back to his task. The stream of blood was weakening. "Long way to walk," he said. "Hell of a long way, especially for nothing."

"Cold cuts," he repeated disdainfully. "Lady, you can't go very far in this weather on cold cuts. You say you've got some vegetables? I hope it's not broccoli. I hate broccoli."

"Yeah, I think so." She had bruises on bruises, but nothing was broken.

She heard a sharp crack followed closely by a third. The wolf-dog that had her ankle shuddered and shrieked, and Sister saw blood spewing from a hole in its side. The animal let her go and began to spin in a circle, snapping at its tail. A fourth shot rang out-Sister realized the beast had been pierced by a bullet-and she heard an agonized howling over where Artie Wisco lay. Then the others were fleeing, slipping and sliding and crashing into one another in their haste to escape. They were gone from sight within five seconds.

"They can be tough motherfuckers," he said, and then he began to carve the animal's head from its neck. "Open that big bowl, lady," he told her.

He reached up into the severed head, and the brains plopped into the big bowl.

He reached up into the severed head, and the brains plopped into the big bowl.

"You can put the lids on now," he said.

"I know," the man replied, but he offered nothing more. "Lady," he said, "start opening those Tupperware bowls for me, will you?"

"They can be tough motherfuckers," he said, and then he began to carve the animal's head from its neck. "Open that big bowl, lady," he told her.

She did as he asked, and he started pulling out handfuls of bloody, steaming intestines. He chopped them up and began filling the bowls. "Did I get that other bastard?" he asked Artie.

Artie came trudging toward them, holding his wrist. The man with the ski mask looked up quickly and then continued his work, taking off his gloves and untying one of the knots in the cord so he could slide the jugs off. "Sonofabitch get you?" he asked Artie.

She heard a sharp crack followed closely by a third. The wolf-dog that had her ankle shuddered and shrieked, and Sister saw blood spewing from a hole in its side. The animal let her go and began to spin in a circle, snapping at its tail. A fourth shot rang out-Sister realized the beast had been pierced by a bullet-and she heard an agonized howling over where Artie Wisco lay. Then the others were fleeing, slipping and sliding and crashing into one another in their haste to escape. They were gone from sight within five seconds.

"I know," the man replied, but he offered nothing more. "Lady," he said, "start opening those Tupperware bowls for me, will you?"

He planted the rifle he was carrying butt first in the snow, then unwrapped the cord that held the plastic jugs from around his shoulder. He set these down, too, near the still-kicking animal. His pack was shrugged off, and then he unzipped it with gloved fingers and took out an assortment of various-sized Tupperware bowls with sealed plastic lids. He set them in an orderly row in the snow before him.

"They can be tough motherfuckers," he said, and then he began to carve the animal's head from its neck. "Open that big bowl, lady," he told her.

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