You fly over the counter, crashing into the bottles of alcohol and land hard on the broken glass littering the floor. Your eyes burn as booze rains down on you from the shelf above. You hear wood splinter and shatter as someone -or some thing- bursts past Bernie. As quietly as you can, you slowly edge your head up to the lip of the counter to see what evil lurks on the other side. An unearthly growl that somehow manages to combine the screech of a rusty circular saw with the utter hopelessness of a lifelong Cubs fan, forces you to dive flat to the floor, cringing in terror. An instant later, your survival instincts kick in. You push yourself up and look upward into the face of what was once Paul Molitor. You fumble for the nearest bottle and smash it into the side of his head, but it has no effect! He grabs your arms and pulls you toward his too-wide mouth. Another pair of hands grab your head from behind. You hear a loud pop and watch your headless body fall. As the world turns to black, the sound of chewing fills your ear as if someone’s mouth was right…
You're dead. If you would like to start over click here.
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