Provoking the Beast (Day 102)

With a savage roar, Max leaped at Wyrmus. He could feel his body responding to his rage, thickening, changing, shifting. Max’s increased weight bore Wyrmus to the ground. Wyrmus’s snarls became impotent mewls as fought to get out from under Max.

Max slapped shoving hands away and grabbed fistfuls of the Warthua’s filthy wife beater. He slammed him hard against the asphalt which cracked under the pressure. “Is this what you wanted?”

Wyrmus avoided his stare. “I’m sorry-”

The apology infuriated Max further. This coward, this runt, this politician, thought he could slip away on the backs of words? Blood boiling in his ears, Max’s fist rose high like a headsman’s blade.

The wretched little backstabber threw his puny arms up to try and ward off the blow with a howl of fear.

Blinding light filled the parking lot, freezing both of them in place.

“HOLY SHIT! WHAT IS THAT?” came the cry.

Max rolled off Wyrmus and to his feet, blinking to restore his vision. In the gaps of light, he saw rednecks—and guns.

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