You begin to cry like a baby, your hands shaking and clutching your knife for dear life. This is so hecking scary, nothing like the gore you watched of russian ytbois getting their asses kicked by Ukrainian drones. You need a choccy milk and a nappy NOW.
Wrenching out a sob from your throat, you respond to him:
Th-the masks are really hard to get off… you need a.. need a plunger to take them off..
He slowly turns to you and laughs. It’s a halted, forced laugh.
Plungers? Are you serious? You think plungers are gonna get this off?
He chuckles dryly as he taps at the exposed bone of the officer.
His brows contort upwards into a knotted, almost pleading expression, simultaneously laced with bitter mockery.
You wouldn’t happen to be.. lying to me, would you, son?
His glazed eyes peer into yours menacingly, like a puma about to pounce.
You can perceive with sickening clarity that this man is not just insane anymore, he’s on the brink of a total psychotic breakdown, his fragile mind held together by sheer force of denial. Denial that he has just killed innocent white police officers. And you fear that one more wrong word from you will send him over the edge.
What do you do?
