Happy Life
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Epic fail. The poor guy writhes in agony, dying in his own filth, choking on bile and vomit, coughing up chunks of internal organs. Blood flows from all the orifices and pores of his body. His lungs fill with mucus, and his body loses function. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices pills and vials in the bag of a prepared vacationer. He could reach for them, take a painkiller, antibiotics. But he can't reach. People stand around him, watching with contempt as Arandor writhes in agony.
- Maybe we should shoot him to put him out of his misery? - asks one.
- No. I'm not a murderer. I won't shoot an unarmed man, - replies the other.
The body of the guy who failed the detective badge exam rots alive...
- Maybe we should shoot him to put him out of his misery? - asks one.
- No. I'm not a murderer. I won't shoot an unarmed man, - replies the other.
The body of the guy who failed the detective badge exam rots alive...
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
