I wrote what was supposed to be a two page assignment for my creative writing seminar. It's somewhat fucked up, and probably needs editing and the like. I'll get around to it eventually. My only critic thus far is my professor, an aging white haired eccentric well-read intellectual "from the 60's". Maybe you lovely blades will read through it. It's like 6300 words so if you don't feel like it... then don't. Also, Open Season isn't a good title; I just had to throw something on there to hand in. I'll change it, and am open to suggestions. Here you go. Open Season Employees were given a three minute grace period before and after their scheduled sign in time. Howard swiped his name badge across the red laser sensor and pinned it onto the collar of his shirt. He had to work in the rotisserie this morning, covering a shift for Lukas who had called in sick. Howard smelled bullshit; it was six A.M. on a Saturday morning. The guy was passed out in bed – perhaps not his own, but nonetheless his head was throbbing like a dried-out well screaming for a sip. The warehouse was vacant, save for the merchandising crew and duty manager. The only reason Howard was in early was because he had to arrive before the wolves did. They travelled in packs, several at a time. Entire families of them, hanging around the entrances. The doors were locked, but they waited. Pawing at the sealed seams of the exit, sniffing the air around them; their nostrils flaring as they catch a whiff of life. Saturday was the day they were most ferocious; Howard fired up the ovens so as to prepare enough roast chicken and tenderloin to stave the stingy beasts off for eight hours or so. If not, they wouldn't hesitate to turn on him or another employee. Howard hoped they'd turn on each other and rip their kin down to the bone, slashing skin and spilling their own blood. But there was always enough to go around, especially since it was nearing Christmas time and the wolves would want to feast as friends, not foe. Howard donned the white smock and coat they gave him. The coat wasn't his to keep; a number of old stained ones were located on the hooks by the freezer. He was the first one in, and took the coat with the least blood on it. His hair was short enough that he wasn't required to wear a hairnet, and his moustache didn't count as beard. Beard nets were the dumbest part of the uniform anyways. The goggles were next. They kept the saliva from the slobbering animals out of his eyes. Bacteria was rife, prone to attach on to any breathing organisms that could provide for a short time. Howard was certain that the viruses wouldn't resist freshly killed chicken. Better than the wolves, who'd hosted them long enough now that the contagion grew bored and sought out other forms of sustenance. By the time nine-thirty rolled around, the chickens were crisp and baited on display. Now to play the waiting game. It didn't take long for the wafting scent of poultry to lure the predators into Howard's vicinity. There were checkpoints along the way – little stands full of fresh fruit and fromage – but the dogs disregarded these in favour of good old-fashioned meat. Typical carnivores. He sighted the first lone creature, slowing padding down the isle, stopping to sniff the peculiarities near the hardlines. I suppose wolves sleep in too, thought Howard. He couldn't imagine having to sleep on a stone floor while dangling stalactites hung overhead like sedimentary chandeliers. Howard's employers were in the business of selling mattresses and bedding, amongst other things. He had seen a pallet of dog beds – huge fluffy pillows that reeked of cedar trees, like the ones that the forest surrounding the warehouse contained. The wolf – a male, no doubt – approached the metal shelving that Howard stood behind. He noticed Howard staring at him, not breaking eye contact. The canine spoke. “How much is that?†the wolf man asked. “Seven dollars.†Howard waited, holding firm. The wolf's glance fell from his face to the chicken on display. Grudgingly, the wolf reached inside his furry coat to check if he had enough. He did. “It is a hard choice. They all look very well cooked and they smell delicious. I would like the largest bird you have to offer me.†The thing slobbered a little and the droplets of moist saliva dripped down onto the heater that was keeping the chicken warm; not fresh, but the wolves might think that the bird was freshly slaughtered and would be more willing to settle with that than with the man. Howard maintained his calm; the glint of the butcher knives that beckoned him out the side of his eyes made him feel safe. He hoped he wouldn't have to resort to gutting this wild animal if it turned on him. Each one floated inside a puddle of grease that was their own. Enclosed in flimsy plastic domes with equally unstable bases, Howard had a hard time telling the chickens apart. This is bullshit, he thought. They're all the same weight; I mean, look at how the farmers raise these things – factory bred and laid. It's almost as if each is a clone of the other. He finally chose one on the end and passed it across the metal barricade to the outstretched paws of the wolf, who was waiting eagerly. Turning on his heel, he trotted away without saying a word to Howard. The wolf receded out of sight, nearing the front of the warehouse where he would escape into the sunlight with his meal. Easy prey, roasted chicken is. It just sits there waiting to be consumed; it doesn't even try to run. Howard noticed more wolves approaching him, pushing carts and scolding their little ones. A female with a brownish pelt moved his way but stopped abruptly to sample the blackberries that were on sale. Her kid, a raucous pipsqueak, slunk up to Howard sullenly. He had to bend down to hear what was being demanded of him. “Say Mister... I don't like the skin on my chicken. Get me a chicken without skin please.†“Sorry. All the chickens come with skin.†“Well, I don't like skin.†The little bastard glared at him, and then stole a glance at his mother who was now preoccupied with the berries, sucking them down greedily. “I want one without skin!†he pouted, stomping his paw on the ground in frustration. Howard leaned over the counter top, glimpsing his stony expression in the polished metal. The knives glinted in his peripherals. He bore into the frightened child's eyes, unblinkingly. “Okay, listen kid. I get paid by my boss to fucking stand here and smile and cook you chickens. I'm not God; I'm not Santa Claus; I'm not some mystical cloud being that can magically summon skinless chickens at your request. There are boneless chickens, but not skinless ones. We take the bones out of them; tear their spines out. Do you want to end up like those slabs of poultry? Because I can accommodate you then.†The pup drew back, his eyes wide and his jaws agape. Turning on his heel, he bolted into his mother's hind and snuggled there, whining. The mother walked distractedly over to the chickens and grabbed the first one, dragging her son with her, disregarding his protests that the man behind the counter had been mean to him. She was busy twiddling away on her cellphone, oblivious to the happenings around her. They too disappeared down the long tunnel that led out of the warehouse and into the cedar labyrinth. *** Howard continued fending off these scavenging creatures for hours, until a weird man named Jacques came to replace him for the evening. Howard knew the night shifts to be unsettling; the wolves were anxious to get back home before the moon took over the sky. He remembered Jacques saying that he was transferred from a warehouse miles away and that he was used to dealing with all sorts of vicious dogs. He told Howard he avoided eye contact with them, for fear of initiating some sort of alpha-macho competition. “I don't know about that, Jacques†Howard said. “Don't you think it would be wise to acknowledge their presence? I mean, I don't respect any of these mangy mutts enough to look them in the eye, but it might be wise to do so. Keeping your distance is one thing, but if you let your guard down, they might chance on the opportunity.†Jacques stroked his thin moustache absentmindedly while Howard was speaking. He turned to walk over to the clotted coats hanging on the hooks, but Howard tapped his shoulder and offered his butcher-wear to him. “It's the least bloody one – I kept my distance far and my eyes glued to them, and as a result, you get to work in relatively clean clothes. I can't do much 'bout the grease from the chickens though.†The man snatched the coat out of Howard's hands and donned it. The jacket looked ridiculous on him. Howard suppressed a chuckle. I don't think I should be laughing, he thought. Jacques might not even survive the night. The back door was a tiny hole in the wall; it had hinges, but was rotting and falling out of its frame. A stone-faced hulk of a man called Cleaver was waiting there, carefully dotting some list on his clipboard. He looked up as Howard approached. Cleaver sensed his anxiety. Howard was strange. No one liked him at the warehouse – well, Jacques spoke to him a little but for the most part he remained silent and solitary. “Where do you think you're going, Howard? I want you to go back there and help Jacques clean the blood off of the floors in the prep room.†He smirked triumphantly. Howard had no backbone; he had to do what Cleaver told him. After all, he had a clipboard. Howard stared at him, not saying a word. Finally: “Cleaver, I covered for Lukas today. I came here early this morning and now it's getting late, and I'd like to go home. Jacques is perfectly capable of cleaning and washing the area himself. Have a good night.†Howard tried to step past Cleaver, who happened to be blocking the exit. With one swift motion, Cleaver slammed Howard up against the wall; his bare hands closed around his neck in a vice-like grip. Howard spluttered and choked and tried to pry Cleaver's calloused fingers from around his neck. Futile. “Howard, why the fuck won't you ever listen? Do you not respect me? Am I not a nice guy? I think I'm nice. That's what counts, right Howard? If you think you're good, if you think you're nice then it must be so, right? My mama always said that if you were nice to others, good things would happen to you in your lifetime. Well heck, she was right. All the employees at the warehouse seem to love me and now look. I'm the duty manager, with job security and a pension. Do you have those things Howard? Are you confident in coming here every day knowing that if you fuck up, you may not be employed here much longer? Tonight could be one of those fuck-ups. Now go help Jacques or I'll speak to the boss about you.†Cleaver eased his grip on Howard's neck and let him drop to the ground. Howard stood up, rubbing the tattooed red finger imprints gingerly. He glared at Cleaver, not taking his eyes off of him. Howard spoke. “I respect you, Cleaver. Do you see me staring you in the face? Is it making you uncomfortable? You may be able to manhandle me, but so what? Hardly a due cause for me to respect you, you prick. I'm walking out that door now, okay? Don't stop me or I promise I'll show you what job security means next time I see you. Don't ever touch me again.†Cleaver was taken aback, but recovered himself in time to say: “You will, will you? I turn off the cameras at night. Not much to see, so what's the point? They didn't see our little exchange just now, and they won't see the next one either. The boss will take my word over yours when there's no video evidence.†“Good. I don't want there to be any proof.†Howard seized his fur coat from the rack, threw it hastily over his shoulders and pushed the door open into the cold November night. His truck was parked under some snowy underbrush, hidden from sight. He jammed the key into the door and hopped inside the cab. He could see his breath undulating from his mouth; it hung in the air, suspended in time. Howard prompted the ignition to let the engine heat up. He turned on the radio. The warm tones of a jazz guitar filled the truck with a comforting presence. Howard pulled a cigarette out of a bag in the dash. Native cigarettes, while cheap, came in bulk. He wedged one in between his chapped lips and lit it. The initial rush of nicotine enthralled him, calmed him down. He exhaled and watched the blue smoke rape his cool breaths in between drags. The truck growled as Howard pushed on the pedal. He could leave for home now. The ride along the rural route that took Howard to his house was lonely. He was on his third cigarette now; two hundred and twelve were left in the bag. He couldn't stop thinking about Cleaver. The marks on his neck hadn't gone away yet. Howard suspected he would find welts and bruising in the morning. As if there was no evidence, he scoffed. He would go in tomorrow and show his boss what that fat oaf had done to him. The verdict would be irrefutable and Cleaver would be asked to leave for 'greener pastures'. Howard laughed to himself. He remembered when his boss had fired some jack-off for coming in late one too many times. The guy had been well-liked, but that was no matter. The note left on the punch-out clock said “Jeff has left us for greener pastures. We wish him all the best in his future endeavours.†The grass wasn't greener on whatever side Jeff had ended up on, so he hanged himself in a tree in his backyard. No one read the newspaper though. Howard's house came into view. His truck lurched up over the clumped snow which had obstructed his driveway. Howard had left his television on all day; Kevin Costner's gaze greeted him from under a ten gallon brim. He grabbed the remote and the screen went black. Howard's home was very small and self-contained; a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen and the den. The fireplace crackled dryly when Howard tossed the butt of his cigarette into the pit of logs. He walked over to his fridge and pulled out a can of Coors. Reclining in his chair, feet upon the ottoman, beer in hand – Howard was home. He drank long into the night, and passed out in his chair till morning. *** The phone was ringing. Howard did not know how long it had been ringing for. His head harmonized with the repetitive jingling, making it difficult to tell whether or not he was imagining the beckoning sound. Groggily, he got up out of the chair and stretched. The ringing did not subside. Howard clambered over to where the telephone and knocked the receiver from its hook. The phone fell and hung there, suspended by its flimsy cord. A voice started shouting at the other end; Howard brought the phone up to his ear to hear what was being said. “Howard? Is this Howard?†The voice belonged to Hennessy, his boss. “Speaking.†“It's Sunday morning. You were supposed to be here an hour ago.†“I was under the impression that Sundays were my day off. In fact, the schedule hasn't changed in the slightest since I've been here.†Howard waited for a response. There was a lingering silence. He was sure Hennessy was rifling through the pages of the schedule, determined to find in writing proof that Howard had to be at the warehouse. After a moment, Hennessy spoke. “Well uh, Howard, Cleaver said you didn't show up yesterday to your shift and that Lukas had to cover for you.†“That's the take he's given you? Okay, well here's the thing. I did show up yesterday because Lukas was probably too drunk to give a shit about showing up. Me being the loyal employee that I am, I took over for him. Cleaver is just pissed off that I stood up to him yesterday after he tried to make me stay there. I'll come in and show you the bruises.†Without giving his boss any time to respond, Howard slammed the phone down, seething with a rage that had been pent up for too long. He showered, dressed, and went outside. He grabbed a Sago from his truck, lit it and proceeded to walk around the side of his house to where the storage shed was located. The lock was frozen in place. Howard fumbled in his pocket for the key, which he carried everywhere. Inserting it into the narrow slit, he gave the key a clockwise twist. It snapped off. He was shut out of his shed. “FUCK!†Howard shouted. He stood staring at the door, whose rotten grains had become permeated with ice. He backed up a few steps and threw himself against the door. The frame creaked in protest, splintering on impact. Howard rammed his shoulder against the wooden surface and it gave way, its hinges unable to bear the strain. He squeezed through the spiked stakes of wood which reminded him of gaping jaws, and entered into the dark pit. It was colder in the shed than it was outside. Howard groped along the walls until he felt his workbench materialize in the dark. Directly above the bench was a segmented chain. With a quick tug the bare bulb flared up and Howard's vision greeted him. He took a seat. The workspace had been cleared of all tools. Howard stored them away the last time he had been in here, which was months ago. He opened all the drawers, one after the other to see what they contained. The first two were empty. The third drawer was missing. The fourth drawer was jammed but Howard had no trouble wrenching it open. He pawed through the contents briskly, removing a box of tarnished bullets that had been in there for years. He placed them on the table and looked up at the sleek metal shape that was mounted on two nails above the bench. Howard's father had been a hunter. After he passed away, Howard took the rifle for himself. He would often retreat into the underbrush of the forest, blowing holes in leaves, chipping the trees with lead. The gun had a strange weight about it. Howard place it in front of him and began to take it apart meticulously. It had been a while since he had had to service a firearm, but he wanted to make sure everything went according to plan, whatever the plan was. After a couple minutes of wiping the intricate mechanisms free of grease and grit, Howard screwed the barrel and telescopic sight back in place. Grabbing the box of ammunition, he proceeded to climb back out through the breached entrance. The gun was slung snugly around his arm. Howard walked to his truck, placed the gun in the passenger seat and fired up the engine. His trucked groaned, not wanting to budge. He idled while the heater engaged. Minutes later, he peeled out of the driveway and sped towards his destination. Open season was officially underway. The warehouse came into sight, but Howard turned off the road early and took a path that led up to a hill overlooking the massive building. He parked near some trees and got out, rifle in hand. The vantage point he had chosen was gorgeous; Howard could see people moving around the shipping and receiving entrance lifting boxes while periodically disappearing inside. They reemerged, unencumbered. Howard lit a cigarette, and exhaled. He cracked open the chamber of his gun and inserted as many bullets as possible. His jacket kept his body warm. Howard tromped through the layer of snow that had settled on the ground. Flopping down, his body prone, he looked down through the sight while adjusting his cross-hair. Howard didn't know any of the men. He wondered if they were worth killing. They hadn't done anything specifically to incur Howard's wrath. It seemed unfair. But they don't value me as an employee, Howard thought. The weak attempt at justifying what he was about to do prevented him from opening fire right then and there. He got up and shook the snow off of himself. Cleaver and Hennessy were his targets, not them. Howard walked back over to his truck and opened the door, placing the gun on the seat once more. As he was about to shut his door, Howard heard the sound of snapping branches behind him. Three wolves emerged from the frosted foliage, their eyes locked on Howard's. The biggest of the three spoke to his brothers. “Whadda we got here, eh fellas. An interloper. Mister, you'd better leave now unless you're prepared to pay a toll. We don't let just anybody hang around our territory.†Howard looked at them calmly. He thought he was going to be alone. “You sure have a nice view from up here. Tell you what, how about you fuck off and leave me alone. I'm sure you don't care as much as you're letting on.†He waited, knowing that these wolves were barely more than pups seeking to find their place in the wild. The three dogs whispered amongst themselves. Growing impatient, Howard ignited another smoke. This set them off. One of them – the most wily looking one of the group, snarled: “Give us all of your cigarettes!†He bared his fangs and revealed his claws; razor sharp knives. Howard laughed. “Oh, I see. You can't buy them yourself, so you think you're entitled to mine. Well, you're all pretty rude. If you want a cigarette, I'll give you one. Just say please. That's all I want to hear.†He waited. More huddled whispers. The ring leader spoke again. “Give us all of your cigarettes or we'll take them from you.†They proceeded to take a few steps closer to Howard, sealing him against his truck. His door was still ajar, the rifle within grasp. The bag of Sagos lay on the floor of the cab. Howard seized them roughly and held them up for the feral creatures to see. “These what you want? Alright here, have them. I'm trying to quit anyways.†With that, Howard threw the sack of smokes so that they landed halfway between him and his foe. The wily one pounced, but Howard had no intention of parting with his tobacco. As soon as the wolf landed on the bag, he whipped open the door of his truck and grabbed the rifle from its cushion. The rabid dog was tearing into the bag. He looked up in time to see the butt of Howard's rifle soaring towards his snout. With a horrid crack, the wooden stock smashed into its nose. Blood sprayed everywhere; the thing let out an inhuman wail and fell, writhing on the snowy embankment. The other two stood there gawking dumbly at Howard, and then at their fallen friend. “Holy fuck, you're fucking crazy man! Pete! Pete! Are you okay? Jesus, what the fuck? Book it!†They snatched their friend up by the scruff of the neck and dragged him away from Howard, who stood there breathing heavily. Without looking back, the trio disappeared into the trees, their frightened yelps fading into the distance. The wind had picked up and was howling fiercely. Howard bent down and retrieved his cigarettes. Most of them had spilled into the snow and were too wet to smoke. Strangely, he did not care. As he was collecting them, a metallic glint caught his eye. A knife was partially buried in the snow. Howard picked it up, hefting it in his hand. They were going to stab me; I had every right to do what I did, he thought. He pocketed the blade and threw the rifle back into the truck. He climbed in the driver's seat and put the truck in reverse until he was able to turn around and get back on the main road. *** The workers stopped lugging boxes when they saw Howard pull up to the shipping door. He got out, whistling, nodded his head in their direction and disappeared inside the warehouse. The first person he ran into was Cleaver. The large man stared at Howard maliciously. “You're here – and you're late. Howard, Howard, Howard. I cannot understand why you can't be a good employee. Do I need to slap some more sense into you?†He cracked his knuckles earnestly. “Can I speak to you in the back room, Cleaver? I have a very good reason for being late, even though I'm not supposed to be here in the first place. It's Sunday; you know I don't work Sunday. But come with me, I want to show you something that I think you'll find pertinent to the situation at hand.†Without waiting for Cleaver's response, Howard walked off towards the back room. He knew the fat oaf would follow him. He heard the duty manager's footsteps trailing behind him. The back room was deserted. After they both entered, Howard closed the door and locked it. Cleaver raised his eyebrow in question, but said nothing. A security camera surveyed the area. Howard grabbed a ladder leaning against the wall, and extended it. He climbed up the rungs and looked down at Cleaver. “Howard, what the fuck are you doing up there? You said you had something to show me. Don't waste my time. What did you want to say to me? Get down from there.†The idiot was growing impatient. Without warning, Howard ripped the camera from its wiring. The thing buzzed in protest before short-circuiting. “What the hell do you think you're doing?†Cleaver ran to the foot of the ladder and started to climb up after Howard. He tugged at Howard's leg and yanked him down. Both men ended up in a mass of tangled limbs on the floor. Howard tried to wrest himself from Cleaver's grasp, but the huge man pinned him to the ground, choking him with both hands. Howard sputtered, sucking for air. He could feel the knife in his pocket poking into him like the lapel pin of a felt poppy. His vision started to blur. Cleaver was a mad man. Howard flailed his arms from side to side, trying to reach into his pocket for the knife. His fingers stretched out, feeling for the handle. He finally grabbed it and tore it out of his jacket, slicing right through the thick fur. Cleaver's dead stare bore through him. Howard's face turned a gross purplish hue. He jammed the knife into the man's stomach, giving it a sharp twist before yanking it back out as fast as he'd put it in. Cleaver drew a sharp breath and let go of Howard before coughing blood up all over himself. He stared at Howard in horror, red streaming down his lips. Howard got up, gulping in large breaths of the surrounding air greedily. Cleaver keeled over and spluttered up some more of his guts, the life quickly exiting him. Howard half-crawled over to him and started to stab him some more. He did not stop until the entire back room was covered in Cleaver. There was a cleaning station in the room that had a hose and soap. Howard grabbed the rubber tube and turned up the water pressure. The hot water mixed with the bubbles, washing away the crust and blood caked to the ground. The flow converged towards the drain that was located in the centre of the room. Before long all that remained was soggy blubber wrapped in tattered clothing. He crouched and patted down the heap, looking for the key that locked the back room from the outside. Howard looked around for something to store Cleaver in. He found a box labelled “drum covers†which turned out to be full of industrial sized garbage bags. Howard finished tying the knot and then dragged what was left of his manager into a corner and buried him with greasy cardboard from the baler. Then he had an idea. He went back to the corner, kicked off the brown covers, and pulled the black plastic lump over to the trash compactor. With all the strength he could muster, Howard hoisted the cadaver up over the side of the fearsome metal machine. There was a dull thud as Cleaver disappeared over the edge and hit the ground on the other side. Howard pushed the ON button and listened as the machine came to life, crushing Cleaver between its metal jaws. Well, I just killed someone. That wasn't so bad, Howard thought. Hennessy's not as big of a guy; I can probably deal with him. He looked down at himself and realized his entire body was soaked in blood. Howard decided to use the hose to spray himself off as best as possible. He'd tell his boss he had been in the deli helping to portion meat into saleable slabs, if he started asking questions. Yeah, he thought. That should work. The remains would be found eventually. But Howard would be long gone. He proceeded to drench himself in the warm soapy concoction until he was dripping from head to toe. Without so much as a glance around the room he'd committed murder in, Howard walked out and sealed the door. He headed towards Hennessy's office at the other end of the warehouse, whistling as he waltzed. The door to the office was ajar; Howard pushed through without attempting to gauge whether or not his boss was inside. He came face to face with a woman named Nancy who worked in the human resources department. She smiled coldly at Howard, sizing him up. “Were you outside? Is it raining? In December? You smell like a wet dog.†She strode over to the photocopier, not waiting for Howard to answer. He pulled the door shut, waiting for it to click. “Is Hennessy in his office? I need to speak with him; I think he wanted to see me.†Nancy turned around to face Howard. She studied him with tight lips, her eyes narrowed accusingly. She spun around to catch the sheets of paper the machine coughed out. No answer. Her back's turned, Howard mused. I'm going to kill her, just for the fuck of it. He reached into his coat and pulled out the tainted knife. Howard turned it over and grasped the blade, feeling it bite gently into his hand. The pain was reassuring, like a puppy in the midst of teething. He glared up at Nancy who remained occupied, oblivious. With all of his might, Howard let the knife fly. It flew across the room, rotating through the air. The blade caught Nancy in the back of her neck, pinning her to the cupboard above the photocopier. A frothy strawberry haze misted around the dead woman. She hung there suspended by the knife, making feeble gurgling noises. Howard cautiously approached her and yanked his weapon out of her. Nancy's corpse dropped down; her face smashed off of the glass tray of the photocopier. Howard closed the cover and started bashing her head until it was mere pulp. Howard had made panini at home before. This seemed similar. There was nowhere to hide Nancy's body. A knock started at the door. Rattle of the knob. Another knock. Howard grabbed a chair and propped it up in the entrance. This will buy me some time, he thought. He turned on his heel and walked over to Hennessy's office, which was a rather small room inside the administration quarters. He was probably on the phone. “Yes, I know... what do you mean the shipment will be late? It can't be late – I have fucking people to feed! They'll go rabid if you don't deliver more chicken by tomorrow! What's that? You'll call back in a bit with an update? Fine. I'll be waiting. Yes. Okay, bye.†Hennessy put down the receiver just as his door caved in in a splintering explosion. He immediately rolled out of his chair and took cover behind his desk. He looked up at Howard, who stood above him. Their eyes met. Hennessy was terrified. “What the fuck do you thi-†Hennessy interrupted himself in mid-speech. Getting to his feet, the man stared over Howard's shoulder. The room outside was red, reeking of death. Hennessy struggled to speak. “Yo – wha – you did... what the fuck is going on? What the hell, what the hell, what the hell...†Howard punched his boss in the face, knocking him out cold. He surveyed the cramped space around him. The decapitated countenance of a moose hung over the desk, taxed to death. The gigantic antlers were bleached white and quite sharp. The head was situated over his boss, who stirred slightly. He was coming to. Howard stepped over him gingerly, standing on his tiptoes, and tried to cut the macabre moose loose from its reigns that held it in place. With a solemn groan, the supports snapped and the giant stuffed head came crashing down on Hennessy. The antlers tore through his skull. The man jolted, gasped and was still. A pool of blood started seeping out from around wound. Howard laughed menacingly. Good fucking riddance, asshole. He stepped back, and that's when he realized that he was confused. Why had he killed this man? Howard had had a good reason to off Cleaver; the man was a brute. Hennessy was just incompetent. Now he was dead. Howard knew that he would be hunted for this. He had to save his own skin. Backing away slowly, he turned to bolt out the door but ran into Jacques, who had come to investigate the commotion. “Howard? Howard? What is going on here? What have you done? You monster! Stay right there and don't you move; I'm calling the authorities.†Jacques reached into his pocket for a cell phone and started dialling digits. Howard pushed him out of the way and made a run for the exit. The Frenchman's cries echoed after him: “Stop that man! He is a murderer! Stop him!†The long stretching aisles seemed to prolong themselves in an everlasting expanse. The warehouse was gigantic. The exit was at the opposite end. Jacques' cries alerted the wolves. Their ears pricked up and their attention turned to Howard, who was running as fast as possible. The starving ones gave chase, barking unintelligibly at him. Don't look back, Howard thought to himself. He pulled out his knife and spun around, brandishing it at them. They skidded to a halt, watching his every move warily. Some pulled out phones and starting talking. Howard turned and kept sprinting towards the shipping door. The freezing air was invigorating. Howard was still wet from his unorthodox shower; his hair began to freeze. The workers outside paused and watched him. He blew past them and made a beeline for his truck. He hopped inside, cranked the key roughly and pushed down on the gas. The truck screeched but inched forward. Within a minute, Howard was speeding away from the loading bay. He turned onto the road and headed for home. He was scared. Looking in his rear view, he saw packs of wolves congregating, watching him recede into the distance. None of them gave chase. *** The truck lurched into the driveway. Howard jumped out, and slammed his door. He walked around to the passenger side and retrieved his gun. He tromped towards his shed. The snow was a good couple feet deep, restricting his movement. Howard approached the broken down door, but stopped suddenly. The wail of a siren could be heard in the distance. They were coming for him. There was no escaping punishment. He paused. No, he thought. I won't let them take me alive. The rifle felt as if it weighed twice as much. Almost as if it was telling him to reconsider, that it was too much effort on his part. The barrel was cold; a steel popsicle. Howard's tongue stuck to the gun. They'd hang him for his crimes anyways. His finger closed around the trigger. Howard gave a slight squeeze. The snow seemed to instantly dissipate, replaced by flowery meadows and birdsong. Blood and brains poured over the green grass. *** The snow was falling. A timber wolf sauntered out from the wall of trees at the edge of Howard's property. It sniffed the air; the scent of freshly slaughtered meat registered within its nostrils. The wild dog threw its head back and howled. One by one, others appeared, following the alpha male's lead. They approached the frozen flesh and bone that lay before them. Eyeing their meal hungrily, they slobbered in anticipation. The meat would keep well in the cold. After they had their fill, they padded away. They would be back to feed again, if the birds didn't pick apart the leftovers.
Thanks people. I may edit some parts, but I'll give my professor a chance to give it a glance over. Time to smoke some weed.
Heh, I work at Costco. I didn't want to reveal too much but I'm sure it's quite apparent. Thanks man. There was actually a janitor at one of the affiliated colleges near my school who apparently threatened to kill faculty members and the police found like 6 guns at his house... fucked up... I read that today so that's not the inspiration, but it's quite obvious many people feel alienated under this er... "system" of capitalism. Vicious.