>>5401405https://youtu.be/dxTtWkVR4y8Still reeling from your powers being absorbed into the skull, you can’t really refuse his offer.
“Cool,” he smiles, “Figure we’ve got some time before we’re done here…” Seeing the <span class="mu-b">SKULL</span> hugged close to your body, your coworker lets out a hollow laugh. “Ah. Gonna be needing that too, but feel free to hold onto it for now.”
Taking a seat on a hill of bones near you, Boris pops a fresh stick of painfully-minty gum into his mouth.
“Y’know, after my leg healed up a bit after the accident I took up a bunch of new hobbies: <span class="mu-i">Tai Chi, Shooting, Creative Writing, Painting…</span> but you know which one <span class="mu-i">really</span> stuck with me, bumblebee?”
You don’t bother responding. He’ll tell you anyway–he always does.
“<span class="mu-i">Trapping</span>.” He concludes with a smile in his voice. “Nothing like it, Stannie–gets you outdoors, challenges you to think ahead, and after setting it all up…” He pauses before letting out a nostalgic sigh, “you get to prove to some wayward critter that you’re smarter than it. <span class="mu-i">Better</span>.”
That explains a lot, you croak, vision still spinning from the blow and your fatigue.
“You catch all kinds of stuff:” Boris continues, not bothering to respond to your jab, “Possums, coyotes, sometimes a deer… but you know what my favorite is?”
Still out of range, he leans in a little closer to your dazed face.
“Raccoons.”
Rising from his seat, your fellow janitor paces behind you as you continue to take deep breaths on the ground. “Chunky little bastards. Crafty too, but that’s not why I like ‘em.” Coming to a halt a few feet away, Boris turns your way once more. “No, Stanley, I like them because possums? They play dead. Deer? Freeze like they’re invisible. But <span class="mu-i">raccoons?</span> They’re <span class="mu-i">fighters</span>.”
A gunshot cracks across the sky as the janitor fires his revolver at something… or some<span class="mu-i">one</span>.
“Doesn’t matter if all four paws are snared–they might greet you with those puppy dog eyes of theirs, or maybe they try to break free, but at the end of the day they never go down without a fight, Stannie… even when you bash their brains in with a bat they <span class="mu-i">STILL</span> have to thrash around for a few minutes!”
You feel a boot nudge your side.
“Y’know, seeing you here right now? Limp like a noodle and barely able to fight back?”
Another one of his famous shit-eating laughs escapes his mustachioed mouth.
“You look just like one of those raccoons, Stan.”
It feels like someone emptied a glow stick into your head, but you feel like you can still put a few words together…
<span class="mu-b">WHAT DO?</span>
>TRY TO BLAST HIM AGAIN! SCREW YOU!>TELL HIM SONNY AND HIS PALS ARE DEAD!>WHY? WHY’D HE DO IT?>SAY NOTHING–HE DOESN’T DESERVE IT!>TRY TO EAT THE SKULL! SCREW THE CONSEQUENCES!>WRITE-IN!That's all for tonight--should have more <span class="mu-g">MONDAY 4-5PM PST!</span> Home stretch!
