Story by Anony Mole
The all-night theatre felt empty. Yet, behind the curtains lurked he who had witnessed every performance, heard every catcall, every boo. The applause. No Guy Fawkes, but still, a spectre bent on teasing emotions from the viewers. Fewer these days. And so the cravings grew, a drought having starved him. So much so that, at 3:33 am, he slipped forth, bared his talons and dug his way into the bowels of the young woman, her mate screaming at the sight. The mineral taste would do, for now.
Thanks to Anony Mole of anonymole.com for the, quite frankly, gruesome and visceral tale. I know some of you are eating your breakfast while reading this, and will absolutely love it. How’s that rhubarb on porridge looking, huh? Cheers, Anony!