Uncle Slappy's Quest for Monkey
Gracelessly twisitng yourself of the wire cereal rack and down over the counter, you manage to keep your footing brielfy before kneeling in front of the nearest casualty: the woman who had given you coffee as her last act on Earth. From the looks of her, you assume she had been much prettier a few minutes earlier.
She is clearly beyond hope. The force of the blast folded her in a way the human body should never fold. Down the counter there is nothing but broken glass, blood and ketchup bottles. At the far end of the diner, a man in a shredded blue denim jacket raises a limp arm as if to ask for the check. You stagger forward, ignoring the electric agony that continues to shock you from heel to brain with every step. But you make it to the moustached and jelly-haired Marlboro man. His hand droops to the counter, finger still pointed out and directed toward the cracked sugar tumbler. He is trying to say something. Do you?
She is clearly beyond hope. The force of the blast folded her in a way the human body should never fold. Down the counter there is nothing but broken glass, blood and ketchup bottles. At the far end of the diner, a man in a shredded blue denim jacket raises a limp arm as if to ask for the check. You stagger forward, ignoring the electric agony that continues to shock you from heel to brain with every step. But you make it to the moustached and jelly-haired Marlboro man. His hand droops to the counter, finger still pointed out and directed toward the cracked sugar tumbler. He is trying to say something. Do you?