By Jeff Strand
While your ally is simply a tiny bit psychotic, you'll want to by no means truly think him while he says, "Trust me. this is often gonna be awesome."
Of direction, you possibly wouldn't think a voodoo doll might paintings both. Or that it could possibly reason someone's leg to blow fresh off with one fast prick. yet I've visible it. it could happen.
And while there's unexpectedly a doll of YOU floating round out there—a doll that may be snatched via a Rottweiler and torn to shreds, or a gang of thugs able to torch it, or any random kinfolk of cannibals (really, do you want the chance right here spelled out for you?)—well, you recognize that's simply gonna be a truly undesirable day
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Additional resources for A Bad Day For Voodoo
You gotta get home to Ruthie,” he wheezed as sweat glossed his waxy face. “Yeah, yeah,” Abe said, pouring himself a stiff one from the bottle in his desk. The radio droned the barely cogent reportage of nerve-wracked correspondents attempting to articulate what was happening throughout the five boroughs—not to mention the entire globe. Abe took a tentative sip of the whisky, then downed it as he sauntered over to the window to catch an eyeful of uncorked chaos below. As he peered down, three taxis collided, the driver of one bursting through his windshield like a meat torpedo.
Stragglers who’d broken off from the herd shuffled back and forth, having breached the gate that someone in a panic must have left unlocked. Mike cleared his throat and a couple looked up, their dulled eyes twitching in recognition of something delicious. One let out a faint but audible gasp and began to limp in Mike’s direction. “Be careful,” Ellen said as Mike leaned out further, bent at the midriff. “It’s like you actually care,” Mike threw back at her, but when he did so, he smiled. Ellen sidled up to her husband and put her hand on his back, feeling guilty about pushing his buttons, especially so early in the day.
Now he was grateful for them—except the scented ones. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. The fresh, fruity, cinnamony, flowery aromas reawakened his dormant sense of smell, unfamiliar odors rousing the olfactory receptors, which in turn refreshed the revulsion from the overwhelming tang of rot outside. It had only taken one Apples ’n’ Spice candle to teach him his lesson. He’d lit the wick, basked for a moment in the delicious bouquet, and then puked from a crushing whiff of the ceaseless alfresco parade of putrescence.
A Bad Day For Voodoo by Jeff Strand