Everyone knows that there are rules for making wishes. Birthday wishes don’t work if you tell, genies have a whole thing about romance and resurrection, the bigger half of the wishbone gets the fulfilled desire, yadda-schmadda. Even little kids get it - when it comes to making wishes, every method has… well, a method. It’s why those monkey paw stories The Simpsons riffed on were so popular. Problem is, as me and my college housemate Jess found out, the rules for real wish-granting thingamies don’t come on the box. I know this for a fact because the wish-granting Chinese finger trap that got us in this mess was delivered in one.
If the matchbox the small tube of golden fabric arrived in had a label with instructions for use, I might not be writing this from a bomb shelter. Jess, Jeremy, Todd, those cops, they’d probably all still be alive. But no such luck, right, not for Chase Woods. She gets the wish-granting artifact that’s all hidden consequences and unintended tragedy, doesn’t she, universe? Not even in an “oh you were greedy you deserved it” way, either.
I’d love it if this was some ironic thing, you know, like if I’d had some character flaw that got me in this mess and brought this all on myself. That’s not what happened though. On God, nothing about this is fair, I didn’t do anything that makes this some kind of twisted justice. Neither did Jess. If we’d known you were supposed to make the wishes out loud, none of this would have happened. All I wanted was a little good luck for my mid-terms. We didn’t even think it would work for Christ’s sake!
Rewinding a bit, last week we were drunk shopping on Etsy. Bit of retail therapy and tipsy giggling to break up study stress, you know? Jeremy (Jess’s boyfriend) was tending bar, Todd was in his room doing… well, whatever it is Todd did in his room. Smoking pot and playing Tekken probably. That gave us the whole living room to ourselves, and when Jess and I had the floor things got a little… a little silly, let’s say. We’d made more than one unsober purchase that had all four residents of our rented ranch-style house on the edge of town confused.
Jess was the one who ordered the finger trap, but we only knew that because the matchbox was in an envelope addressed to her, not me. There was no record of the purchase on her Paypal though. We couldn’t find the item listing on Etsy either, or even the seller when we tried to look them up after. Would be the darndest thing if this whole situation wasn’t balls-to-the-wall fucked in so many other ways, but neither of us could remember buying it or even viewing it. OK, so our giggling may have been a little more than tipsy, but neither of us was hammered. We could both recall most of the evening, even if some details were a little hazy. Both of us have a total blank when it comes to wish-granting Chinese finger traps though. Todd reckons he overheard Jess ranting loudly about using something to become a princess like Meghan Markle though, which could have been it.
We must have ordered it that night, right? What other explanation is there?
Wait. What am I saying?! Todd’s dead, Jess is dead, Jeremy is dead, and I’m holed up in some abandoned cold-war prepper bunker listening to the thud-thud-thud on the roof grow quieter. Nothing about this shit has an explanation. Chances are just as good that we never ordered that damn finger trap at all. We were probably picked randomly, just come cruel fucking cosmic joke. Maybe Jess’s family sent it? Maybe there’s like some dark secret shit going on with her folks, and she died before we could find out. Fuck, maybe she knew?! Maybe I was supposed to - no, no, no. That’s stupid, Chase. Jess would have known to turn the speaker off if she was in on it. She wouldn’t risk… fuck, can’t even write it down. She wouldn’t risk what happened to her, risk that, just to set me up for some ritual or curse or something. Nobody would.
Like I said, when the finger trap arrived there were no instructions. It was in an envelope addressed to Jess Stamphy, no return address, stamps a little faded and held on with transparent tape rather than the lick-n-stick adhesive on their underside. Props to the postman; how he deciphered that near-illegible handwriting to figure our address I don’t know. If he even delivered it at all, of course. The stamps and postal instructions could be a red herring. We don’t have a doorbell cam so, yeah, if the finger trap was hand-delivered by some shady-ass individual instead of the usual post, I’ll never know. Wouldn’t surprise me though.
Jess damn near stepped on the envelope when she came through the front door after her Pilates class downtown. It was waiting for her on the doormat. Both Todd and I were in but hadn’t heard anything come through the mailbox. We were, umm, well look, he was in my room and he had to do a mad dash across the hall in his boxers before Jess turned a corner. Point is, I came to the living room and made a whole show of “oh yeah I was having a nap I just woke up lol”, but Jess didn’t look up. She was sitting at the table, envelope already open, staring at the matchbox.
“What’s that?” I asked, taking a seat opposite her after grabbing an apple from the fruitbowl.
“Was on the mat, addressed to me, don’t recognize the handwriting though,” Jess replied, turning the matchbox between her fingers. She idly flicked it open, and that’s when we first saw the damn finger trap.
It was hard to miss, right? It was made of golden threads. Not gold threads like you get on parade uniforms or stage costumes though. These threads glowed, almost as though they were liquid metal that forgot it wasn’t solid. The trap was about six inches long, and there was no art or anything on its surface aside from two lines of text. One was written in Chinese. I took a photo, and thanks to one of those pic-to-text apps I can show you the characters - 神的话. Did we know what it meant, or think to do even check? Of course we didn’t. There were English words under the Chinese characters, so we just assumed it was a direct translation. The English text just said “Make It So.”
“Ah, a random Etsy purchase?” I smirked. Jess shook her head.
“No… I don’t think so…” she said. “I mean, maybe, right? Can’t think why I’d order a Chinese finger trap though.”
“I can - you love China.”
She grinned. “I love ramen, that’s not the same thing. I don’t think ramen’s even Chinese, is it?”
I shrugged. My mouth was dry, I was suddenly thirsty as all hell, and that’s why I got up from the table and headed to the fridge. The mouth dryness wasn’t because of the finger trap, before you get excited. It was because… well, Todd was in his room, Jess’s pilates class wasn’t the only calorie-burning activity to happen that morning. The only reason I’m bringing my parchedness up is that, en route to the refrigerator, I did what I always do. I turned on our Bluetooth speaker. With no input needed the device connected to my phone, playing the last playlist on Spotify. I sputtered when the first sensual smooth-saxophone heavy track from my Todd-time mix started blaring into the kitchen, and I quickly shuffled across to my auto curated most-played compilation.
You know how I know that Jess and I were supposed to make the damn wishes out loud? The Weathergirls started playing. You know the jam - It’s Raining Men.
I tried to ignore Jess’s cocked eyebrow after the speaker blunder exposed the very-obviously-intended-for-sexytime playlist I’d been listening to. “So… that thing says Make It So on it, right? Reckon it’s for, you know, granting wishes? Like a genie?”
I’m pretty sure I turned a bright scarlet at her response. “Why Chase, you got someone in mind for that playlist?”
“No I… it’s just… urgh, look, I just like jazz-”
“Sure Chase, sure. And 13-year-old Jess went to every the Bar Mitzvah of every cute boy at the temple because she loved hearing aliyah.” Jess was laughing when I sat back down next to her, and I picked up the brief glance she shot in the direction of Todd’s room. Through the wall, we could hear the muted chugga-chugga-chugga of him losing his way through another game of Call of Duty. You know what, she must have known, mustn’t she? Six months the three of us lived together, and I’d never brought a guy back. Pretty suss. Todd hadn’t brought a girl back either, but that was… well, Todd’s cute but he’s not… he wasn’t, exactly confident. I made at least three first moves, let’s put it that way.
Humidity is rising, barometer’s getting low
According to all sources, the street’s the place to go
“We gonna use this thing then?” I glanced down to see Jess had slipped one end of the finger trap on a slender digit. She was grinning ear-to-ear, probably still riding the serotonin high of all those burned calories at her Pilates class. I rolled my eyes but stuck my index finger into the other end of the shimmering fabric. Couldn’t hurt, right?
“I wish - “ Jess started saying, but I raised a finger to my lips. This is, in hindsight, the single dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
“Wishes don’t work if you say them out loud!” I cried, grinning too, totally unaware of both how wrong, and how dangerous, my naive presumptions were.
“True!” Jess giggled. “Ok, I’m gonna count down from three. When I do think your wish real hard, and we’ll pull out the trap.”
We were both giggling by this point, lost a bit in the random silliness of it. Again, study distractions were always jumped on, you know?
“How do you know it’ll work?” I asked.
“Well, I’ll know if I wake up tomorrow with a DM from a recently divorced Prince Harry of England. You’ll know it worked if you wake up next to-”
“OK ALRIGHT, I GET YOUR POINT.”
‘Cause tonight for the first time
Just about half-past ten
“3…” Jess began her countdown. I focused my mind, although not on Todd. I didn’t need a wish for him (but I think Jess knew that, despite her teasing, she’s pretty astute). As I said, all I wanted was a little good luck for my mid-terms.
For the first time in history
“2…” Jess had her eyes closed, and I shut mine too. I pictured myself sitting there in the exam hall, my tight chest subdued by the placebo confidence that comes with knowing you have some superstitious mumbo-jumo looking out for you. I thought it was just my imagination at the time, but I felt the trap get warmer as the seconds counted down. Now I know better than to think the increase in temp was all in my head.
It’s gonna start raining men
“1…” I yelled the wish in my mind, my inner monologue as loud, clear, and directed, as it ever had been. I wish, I shouted in my head, that I pass my exams. Then we pushed our fingers together.
It’s raining men, hallelujah
The living room rattled. There was a loud CRACK, like a bolt of lightning struck the building, so deafening that Jess and I fell from our chairs. It was one of those sounds so loud you don’t just hear it, you feel it, you know? The kind of volume where the tinnitus takes about a day to fade away after. We both shrieked in alarm, and from the floor I saw Todd barrelling out his room, face full of panic.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” He yelled, running over to me. “What the fuck was that?! Chase? Chase?! You OK?”
The rest of the day was a write-off. Jess and I were, understandably, more than a little freaked out. Jeremy decided to swing by in the afternoon. I remember I was more than a little bitter about that. I’d kind of wanted Jess to go to his, you know, so I could curl up next to Todd and listen to him waffle the stoner nonsense. The kind of rambling Chase Woods hated on paper but found endearing and charming in real life, much to her intense annoyance… well, at first. I should have just been honest about Todd, about us. The heart wants what the heart wants. If only I hadn’t been so focused on appearances, on my stupid little white picket fence long-term suburbia goals. I’d take a thousand happily-ever-after’s supporting Todd’s crazy business ideas while we barely made ends meat if you gave me the choice now.
By about 21:00 we’d calmed down. Our investigation into the finger trap had come up empty, but after a day had passed we felt confident enough to start putting the weirdness down to overactive imaginations. Everything from earthquakes to a freak electrical fault was posited as an explanation for the bang. As for the finger trap itself, Jeremy decided we’d been too drunk to remember ordering it. Jess clung to that lie with everything she had, and so the subject was dropped. The finger-trap had vanished almost as soon as our fingertips connected, right when the whatever-it-was that damn near shook the house off its foundations struck. Looking back, I think Todd and Jeremy were just humoring us. Trying to stop us from panicking, you know? I even started doubting myself, much as I hate the “silly women the men are here now you just got hysterical” aspect of how that played out. Maybe it was just folie à deux, a shared exam-stress hallucination. As the evening wore on things even became a little, well, normal. We were playing Cards Against Humanity when… when it started. It was 22:27 when Todd excused himself to use the bathroom. That was the last time I ever saw him.
We didn’t hear anything from the bathroom. We were sat around the table, watching Jeremy deal out the next hand while we waited for Todd to come back, when there was a dull thud just outside the front door. I remember looking at the clock in a “who could be knocking at this hour” way - 22:30 exactly, although I didn’t quite get the significance yet. We shot each other confused looks, and Jeremy went to check outside the door. It was when we heard his high-pitched yells that Jess and I ran after. She screamed when she saw what waited on the porch. I didn’t. I bellowed, howled, shrieked, and wailed. I was terrified, but greeter than my terror and confusion was despair. There, on the path leading from our front door to the sidewalk, was a body. Todd’s body.
I didn’t believe it. I refused to, I couldn’t. I ran back into the house, hammering on the bathroom door. It was still locked. Jeremy and Jess had to pull me away from it; I pounded my fists into it over and over, sobbing, my assault on the wood unrelenting even when my knuckles started to bleed. It’s not Todd, it’s not Todd, it’s not Todd. The words rang in my ears, and it took me a few minutes to realize I was the one screeching them. When Jeremy kicked the door open, the bathroom was empty. Todd’s cellphone was on the floor, screen cracked, like he’d dropped it. A half-torn sheet of toilet paper lay next to it, and the seat was still up. Todd never left the seat up - it was one of the reasons Jess agreed to break her no-boys living arrangement stipulation.
The sight of the empty bathroom had me quarterbacking my way through Jeremy and Jess in the doorway. I sprinted back to the front of the house, collapsing to my knees when I ran onto the porch to see the body still there. Well, body is a stretch. Remains is probably more appropriate. I only knew it was Todd because he’d landed feet-first, I think. His face, locked in a mix of confusion and fear, was relatively intact. Yes, an eyeball had been dislocated, and his snapped jaw hung limp, tongue lolling out his swollen mouth, but that was a much better condition than the rest of him.
Todd’s legs weren’t anywhere to be seen. His sneakers were. They’d both been thrown across the garden from the force of the impact, snapping his feet from his shins at the ankles. The rest of the limbs, from calf to thighs, had been completely obliterated. Todd’s head, arms, and torso were at the center of a crater in the paving slabs - a red, gore-filled pit about half a foot deep, with the semi-liquid eviscerated chunks of his legs pooling at the center. This organic slush was added to with every passing second by the innards leaking from his chest and belly. Todd’s intestines, kidneys, liver, I could see all of them through a huge tear to the left of his belly button. The impact had severed his spinal cord, pushing the half attached to his pelvis through his front, the sharp bone lancing outward and piercing the flesh, as though he were a retreating soldier in WW1 who’d received a bayonet to the lower lumbar.
I didn’t know Todd had fallen, of course. I didn’t really know anything - as you can imagine, I was in full-blown shock. I hadn’t put any of the pieces together. I didn’t even remember the song. It’s only hindsight and having nothing to do in this damn bunker that’s given me enough mental space to connect the dots. Jess and Jeremy were panicked too of course, but without the added sense of profound loss, they had enough wherewithal to call the cops. I can’t remember if Jeremy or Jess made the phone call. It doesn’t really matter though, does it? Jeremy and Jess were both already long dead before any help arrived.
Our student house is in a cul-de-sac, right? Obviously, the loud crunch of someone smacking into paving slabs, not to mention the screaming that followed, had the neighbors coming out to investigate. I remember looking up through tears and howling to see the concerned face of Mr. Borgmann, the harmless old guy that lived across the street. Mr. B had walked across to our porch on his Zimmer. He didn’t look scared - maybe his time in ‘Nam meant he wasn’t phased by the sight of Todd’s body. The only expression on his soft old face was concern. He just about managed to get out a sentence when I looked up at him.
“Good God girl, what happened, are you OK, have you called-”
Then he vanished. There was no sound, no warning. The space in front of me that he’d occupied just… it just emptied. One second there was Mr. Borgmann bending down, offering me his hand. Then there wasn’t. I stopped wailing, so confused and shocked by the sight of a pensioner vanishing before my eyes that even my despair over Todd couldn’t halt the barrage of WTFs flooding my train of thought. Then we heard it, coming from above. A quiet whoosh of something heavy falling from the sky. Quiet at first, but louder with every passing second. We heard the screaming before long - again, almost inaudible initially, but within a few moments was hauntingly clear, the unmistakable sound of someone pleading with the Universe as they plummeted toward the ground.
Mr. B landed on his Zimmer. The crunch as his spine connected with, and buckled, the steel walking frame cut through every other sound, from the howling wind to the distant sirens. I sat there for a few moments, blinking, my face covered in flecks of warm, red, moisture. That was the eye of the storm, I think. The last moments of calm before pandemonium fully broke loose. There was a family that lived next door to Mr. B, the Hasshousers. Papa Hasshouser was partway through ushering his wife and two girls back in the house when he was taken. Everyone on the street looked up, and the panic started literally the second we spied Papa Hasshouser’s flailing body about half a mile in the air. I’ve seen a lot of fucked up stuff today, but the faces of Mrs. Hasshouser and her daughters when Mr. Hasshouser disintegrated into red mist upon hitting the people carrier in their drive is definitely a contender for the most PTSD-generating.
I sat there on the path for what felt like minutes, my mouth blubbing up and down like a fish, watching our quiet cul-de-sac erupt into blind terror. My ears started ringing - the screams and thuds and beep-beep-beep of the Hasshouer’s people carrier’s alarm melting into a warbled, incomprehensible mess. Jess was holding Jeremy’s hand when it was his turn. I only know that because she’d been leaning on him, and the sudden absence of his support made her fall over sideways.
“NO! NO JEREMY, NO, NOT YOU!”
Even though damn near every fiance, mother, girlfriend, sister, wife, and daughter in the cul-de-sac was shouting at the top of their lungs, my ears honed in on Jess’s trembling cries. I turned from the carnage to see her sprint into the house, coming back out with a sofa cushion under each arm. I know what she’d intended to do. Obviously, it was never going to work, but she wasn’t thinking straight, was she? You know when JFK got shot, the first thing his wife did was lean over to the back of the car to start scooping up the parts of his brain and skull. She was in shock - all her mind could think was “put John back together”. I think that’s what happened with Jess. I was in shock too, which is why I didn’t/couldn’t stop her. All I could do was watch, paralyzed by my own emotional inertia, as she positioned herself beneath where Jeremy tumbled.
“JESS WAIT, DON’T!”
I put the pieces together and found my voice eventually, but it was already way too late. She stood there, a couch cushion in each hand, and met my gaze. There was a wry smile on her lips, like a kid that’s found out they’re the only one in the class to 100% the test. Then Jeremy landed. Jess never even had time to scream. The force of Jeremy’s body colliding into her outstretched arms killed her instantly. A small blessing, I guess. I wish it had been instant for me, though. But nooo, God forbid Chase Woods’s stupid braireal-timen witness the most traumatic shit, like, ever, in real time. My stupid ass senses slowed right TF down when their faces connected.
She’d been looking up, you see. Lifted her head just as his screaming one crashed into it. As inch after inch of Jeremy drove into Jess’s skull with the force and velocity of a freight train, the cranial bones of both flattened - exploded horizontally outward like fucking water balloons full of grey brain matter and blood-coated bone fragments. Their eyes were catapulted from their sockets, the optic cords of the lovers entwining mid-air before the impact made every one of the four detached balls pop. Jess and Jeremy compressed into each other, neither’s body able to resist the other, like a damn black hole was between them, sucking them both into the gore-filled crater in the sidewalk between two ruptured couch cushions. The only thing that remained of either were Jess’s feet and shins, which still stood tall amidst the organic debris like… well, that day back in 2001 we all remember, the one preppers like the nutjob who built this bunker in the ‘80s claim they all saw coming.
That comparison’s kinda fucked, huh? Sorry. That’s genuinely the first thing my brain thought though, once I’d blinked a couple times and realized what had just happened. Shock, dude. It’s a doozie. Shock’s also the reason I noticed the glistening blood-soaked car keys on the ground. If I wasn’t in shock, if I’d been thinking coherently, I’d have started to cry because my best friend, her partner, and my sort-of-secret housemate/partner were dead. Shock is what kept me alive, politically correct or not. I honestly only saw the keys because my mind was faux-calmly going “And those keys there, the ones covered in Jess and Jeremy’s blood, they’re kind of like a fire truck.”
I’ve never nearly died as often as I did on the drive from our house to the field where local boy Todd’s secret smoking bunker was hidden. He’d taken me out there a couple of times. Never Jess, or Jeremy. Just me. I think that’s when I first knew he liked me liked me, you know? Said it was his safe place, where he always used to come as a kid to get high and think about stuff, figure out who he was before he found himself. I don’t think he ever realized just how literal of a safe space these four cinder-block walls would eventually become.
If you’re wondering why I haven’t called the cops, it’s because they were already on my trail when I arrived. A fair few of them, the man-cops of course, are already dead. Gone the same way as Jeremy, Todd, Mr. B, Papa Hasshouser, and about a half dozen guys walking on the street or unfortunate enough to have been driving in the opposite direction. Couple of lady-cops died too, but only because the man-cops behind the wheel got teleported half a mile in the air mid-high-speed pursuit. Thank God I opted to house in a small town and drive in for lectures, right? Lord knows how high the fucking body count would be if I lived in the city.
It wasn’t until I got into the bunker and managed to stop screaming that I got calm enough to figure out what was happening. Oh yeah, I’m pretty smart guys. I mentioned mid-terms already, didn’t I? If you’re thinking I’m majoring in Creative Writing or Art History or some other cereal-box subject, guess again. Astrophysics motherlovers, with a minor in data science. That’s why my thing with Todd is so… so, well, so. It’s got nothing to do with the F on his passport. It’s because he’s an idiot. Honestly one of the dumbest guys I’ve ever met. Mr. Bean meets Homer Simpson level stupid, and the only thing that enraged me more than his idiocy was how cute I found it despite myself. I couldn’t bring him to the gatherings at Professor Keinseele’s house. I’d be laughed out of there faster than Todd fell from the clouds. I should have done though, shouldn’t I? God dammit Chase Woods.
I’ve been down here a few hours. Plenty of time to emotionally unpack, backtrack, and realize where things went horribly, horribly wrong. I already knew the finger-trap was behind all this, that was pretty fucking obvious. It had disappeared after Jess and I tried to make a wish, and so had the instruction-less matchbox, which meant the chances of this nightmare not being connected to that slither of shimmering gold fabric were slim-to-none. It took me a few minutes to realize where we’d fucked up. It was me. It was my fault. I was the one that told Jess to shush, to not speak her wish out loud.
The finger-trap had listened out for a command. Maybe two people aren’t even supposed to use it, who knows. Apart from Jess’s counting, the only words it could hear were those blasting out my Bluetooth speaker. The lyrics to It’s Raining Men. So this… this thing, whatever it was, had decided to interpret that as a command. Make it so. It granted the “wish”, and now all the men in our vicinity get transported into the sky. The finger trap had been told that, as of 22:30 this evening, it would rain men, and so it would be.
It doesn’t mean biological males, either. Some of the instacorpses I had to swerve dramatically to avoid were young. None were children - there were one or two little boys in the cul-de-sac, and thankfully I could still see them in the rear mirror as I drove away. The youngest victims of the finger-traps wish were just about teenagers. That’s the connection that led me to backtrack and remember the music I’d put on, the detail that made it all click.
13-year-olds were boys by my reckoning, but Jess was proudly Jewish. Boys are considered men in the eyes of God after their 13th birthday, that’s the whole point of a bar mitzvah, right? Yes, there’s a little more to it than that, but the golden finger-trap must have been using loose definitions. Todd was another clue. If this was tied to biology, he would have been safe. But no, sadly, the only box one needs to tick to fall victim to this… this whatever-it-is, this wish or curse or fucking freak anomaly of physics, is to have an identity that incorporates the broad-sense concept “man”. If you fit into the “men” category to somebody somewhere, you’re fair game.
I just wish Jess was still alive. For the obvious reasons too, but the envelope was addressed to her. She’s the missing piece of the puzzle, and she Jaqueline Kennedy’d herself off the board. There has to be some meaning behind the finger trap showing up with her name on the package. I guess I’m really never gonna find out, huh?
Yeah, sadly, this is a goodbye bee tee dubz. I can’t get out this bunker, and the air pipe is clogged. There’s just too many bodies piled on top of it. I already tried opening the hatch. I don’t want to die in a fucking bunker, duh. I’m stuck though. They stopped sending cops about an hour ago. I think they’re sending Feds now. The thud-thud-thud keeps getting softer as the men the finger-trap curse takes have more bodies to land on. Hell, maybe they’ll start surviving the fall if the pile gets big enough? I can faintly hear the warble of a female voice on a megaphone. She must be a spook - don’t reckon it would have taken long for the CIA or some MIB-equivalent we don’t know about to show up. Hell, if they can make this stop, bring it on. I’ll spend the rest of my life in a box if it means they can make it stop raining men.
Jesus, I can’t believe I just typed that out in full, unironic earnest. What is your life, Chase Woods, what is your life?
I doubt this will make the news. Not to get all QAnon about it, but weird shit like this gets covered up all the time. You just know it does. They let us know about Area 51 because it’s a good distraction from Area 52, they fessed up about MK Ultra and lied about its failure because it worked, we all know we’re not getting given the full picture. I honestly didn’t care about all that though, that was Todd’s area of special interest, until… well, you’ve just read about the day I had. I wish I’d listened a lot fucking more to him, let’s put it that way.
Fuck, I’m starting to get lightheaded. Air must be running out. You know what, I don’t care. If this is how I go, it’s how I go. I can’t exactly go back to normal after this, can I? I just drove through a small town and caused God knows how many deaths. It’ll get written off as a terrorist attack, they’ll say I had a rifle or something probably, won’t they? I mean I’m not exactly pale enough to play the mental breakdown sympathy card. That’s if I even get offered prison. They might just shoot me here, save themselves the trouble, let the spooks explain away the bodies falling from the sky as freak wind turbulence or some bullshit. Ha ha ha. FML.
Listen, I’m gonna shut my eyes. Don’t send help. Can’t call cops - cops here, all dead. Not lady-cops, just man-cops. Send lady-cops. Wanted to warn you. Don’t make mistake; wish out loud when weird finger trap shows up - turn off music, bad.
FML
It’s raining men