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Old 03-02-2018, 11:48 AM
Beesauce (Offline)
Word Wizard
Join Date: Aug 2017
Location: Phomerica
Posts: 539
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Default Troll In The Dungeon

FICTION -- SHORT STORY -- ROUGH DRAFT -- word count: 528 --

"You work for murderers. You know that signing up meant shutting up or else they'd murder you too. You knew that didn't you?"
He remained silent, shaking, trying not to show the pain and nightmares of every night of his owned existence.
"You knew -- you thought you were doing it for your country, I know what they told you too, they tried that on everybody when those planes fell, it was our generations Pearl Harbor," she spoke slowly, holding in her tears and all her emotions, calm she watched the military spies owned, crumble into fear and shame, rocking back and forth in the terror of what they had been forced to shut up about for years, "How long did it take before you stopped caring that you were being paid to bully peaceful people online? How many nightmares did you have of people traveling to the land of the dead, screaming, crying your name wanting you to whistle and blow the truth out with those lists. Those lists. All those lists of nouns and content you were given, did you ever put the dots together? And if you did, how long was it until you stopped feeling bad about being a bully?"
He could not answer. Whimpering, he fell forward in his chair, looking away from the woman who his bosses had wanted dead or owned as he was owned and slaved. Shaking, his insides began to roll, his muscles tensed and he silently began to convulse, he was sobbing without tears or sound, it was complete shivering panic as if he was to die soon of hypothermia all alone without love or condolences.
"I know your kind very well and am indeed in the know beyond what you are told, as you are just the owned fool, while I was shown what you are used for," reaching into her pocket she pulled out a crinkled piece of paper, blank on one side a portrait on the other. She threw it down at the man's feet where he would see.
Landing face up it was the image of a beautiful woman with small text on the right-hand side, on the left below the woman's name read the dates 1974-2016.
"Open your eyes. Look at the photo," she waited for him to oblige her, "She's dead because of your boss. She's dead because your boss keeps making mistakes. Those mistakes are continual and perpetual mass murder for the end of time, and you are working for him."
"No. No, we're not."
"Yes. Yes you are," she waited but he remained silent, "It's going to come out you know. And when it does, you might as well stay alive and say what you know because let me tell you, that boss of yours is worse than any imprisoned mass murder in written history and it's because it's not history yet, which means your boss is winning and as he wins you lose."
"Can we talk about this tomorrow?" he looked up, but the girl was gone.
That night the man went home, drank the beer his trainers taught him would stave away the nightmares but it didn't help.


i didnt do it, except
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