twenty two | vitamin D & calcium & razor blades
726 Anderson Lane; Saturday morning
[Every morning, a row of fresh milk bottles greets the first resident to step foot out onto the front porch of 726 Anderson Lane. Today, the foot belongs to Slugger. After witnessing firsthand what sort of punishment awaited those who didn't go along with the Milkman's latest folly, he's decided that straight-up drinking the milk is less dangerous than the alternative. Not so much for himself but for his "family", whom he would surely massacre in a heartbeat along with a good section of Mayfield if he were droned, and Slugger much preferred to do his murdering while in his right mind.
Picking up a bottle, he uncaps it, smells it, dips a finger into it experimentally. Something sharp pricks his skin below the milk's surface. This bottle may as well have his name written all over it. Slugger takes a seat on the steps and silently braces himself before raising the bottle to his lips and tipping it back.
It takes him a long time to finish the bottle because each time he takes a drink, his throat instantly swells to repair itself from the damage. Occasionally, he can't help but cough up and spit out a milky razor blade. Perhaps the worst part of it, aside from the pain of course, is the unsettling sensation of milk sloshing about in his insides whenever he moves and vague metallic clinking sounds. Luckily, he now has less than half a bottle left. With a resigned sigh, he begins to accept that this was possibly how life would be from now on in this town, this hell.]
[Every morning, a row of fresh milk bottles greets the first resident to step foot out onto the front porch of 726 Anderson Lane. Today, the foot belongs to Slugger. After witnessing firsthand what sort of punishment awaited those who didn't go along with the Milkman's latest folly, he's decided that straight-up drinking the milk is less dangerous than the alternative. Not so much for himself but for his "family", whom he would surely massacre in a heartbeat along with a good section of Mayfield if he were droned, and Slugger much preferred to do his murdering while in his right mind.
Picking up a bottle, he uncaps it, smells it, dips a finger into it experimentally. Something sharp pricks his skin below the milk's surface. This bottle may as well have his name written all over it. Slugger takes a seat on the steps and silently braces himself before raising the bottle to his lips and tipping it back.
It takes him a long time to finish the bottle because each time he takes a drink, his throat instantly swells to repair itself from the damage. Occasionally, he can't help but cough up and spit out a milky razor blade. Perhaps the worst part of it, aside from the pain of course, is the unsettling sensation of milk sloshing about in his insides whenever he moves and vague metallic clinking sounds. Luckily, he now has less than half a bottle left. With a resigned sigh, he begins to accept that this was possibly how life would be from now on in this town, this hell.]