Wind whips through my tattered, crow-picked shirt, swirling the scents of rotten corn and spilt blood. The shrieking squeals of the now slaughtered pigs echo through my straw stuffed head.

They are on the prowl. Pigs done, now onto the workers who will not be missed.

Scuffling feet flee through my sparse, dead field. I overlook the stalkers hunting their prey. Creeping. Crouching. Catapulting over obstacles. A farmhand tumbles into the base of my wooden spine. Calloused hands grip me for support, hauling themselves up, ready to sprint.


Scarlett wetness spreads across me. Human meat ready to be dressed.

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