Wild NightI shouldn’t have drank. Fuck.Wild Night
I staggered a couple of steps further and stopped, hand splayed on the cold brick wall, wishing fervently to fuck that the world would stop spinning. My eyes closed for a second to spare my smeary vision from blurring my surroundings any further than it already had. The wall was slimy under my shaking fingers and nausea gripped me. No. I swallowed back bile and pushed myself upright. I was nearly home, my apartment five minutes’ walk... ten minutes’ stagger. I would get home and be fine. Each step forward felt like a victory.
People with my condition aren’t supposed t
C.O.D. The tattoos, they caught on incredibly fast. I mean, it only took about half a year after the Death-caster came out. That’s what the press called it, the Death-caster. Anyway, about 6 months after the first televised prediction, these tattoos starting showing up everywhere. It went from fad to craze to routine. Everybody did it. You would get some blood drawn. The machine would quiver a bit and hum. You’d get your paper and you’d go straight to the tattoo shop. Pretty much everyone has their cause of death, their C.O.D., tattooed these days. The accepted place to get it became the top of your leC.O.D.
| i like whiskey, cheese and image generation |
the hell?
Thank you for the fave, sir.
--
'I'm a bad thing that happens to good people.'
She smiled at me, and in the candlelight she looked at once completely insane and the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
'I know what you are. You're a villain.'
I never saw her again.
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