Midnight Masks



He whistled as he walked over to Southside. The inviting aroma of hotpot drew Skids into Ma’s Boarding House, a regular haunt of his, where he was soon sat at table, armed with his racing spoon before a steaming dish of stew.

“What’s the meat, Ma?” he asked the elderly proprietress. “Smells,” he inhaled appreciatively, “mighty good!”

“Hell man! What the fuck you talking’ about?” spat out a guest, who had been glaring at Skids ever since he entered Ma’s’ dining room. “It’s dog, can’t you see the snout?” Skids looked into the dish… there was something odd about the stew… “Now calm–” he started saying.

The absurd man pulled a mortified-looking Ma downward and plunged her face into the scolding stew.

“Bastard!” cried Skids, and shot the cultist between the eyes.


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