White Hands, Pt. 3

It’s a “blink-and-you-miss-it” kind of moment. One second we’re just standing there, me looking dapper and brilliant, the hunter looking slack-jawed and somehow even more slack-jawed, and the next his head’s a flat circle and I’ve got a giant wooden mallet in my hands. Maybe if you watch really closely you can see the mallet appear out of nowhere and go streaking towards the hunter’s cranium like the fist of an angry god, but I doubt it. There’s just a moment of nothing and then a gong, a cymbal crash, the chirping of cute little birds flying in cute little circles.

One time when the hunter was chasing me, he ran face first into an anvil. His teeth were all flattened and splayed out at wild angles. You could push on them and they’d each play a single note, like piano keys. Tickling the ivories, as it were. But I digress.

So I’m standing there, mallet in hand and ready to give the hunter another one if he so much at looks as me cross, when it all goes wrong. There’s this low rumbling, like an earthquake almost, that gets louder and higher until it’s practically a growl. And then there’s this massive, loud voice. Louder than anything you’ve ever heard. So loud it echoes inside your skull. It’s like God himself has peered out from behind a cloud and caught you jacking it. Says the same thing God would probably say in such a scenario, too. “No, no, no! This is all wrong!”

And then the white hands came down out of the sky, and everything went black.


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