The Review

By P.C. Darkcliff

I would give the place five stars, despite its poor reputation. My chair was comfortable, everything sparkled with cleanliness, and the personnel was formal and attentive as if they expected the governor himself. Unfortunately, the governor didn’t even bother to call.

When a man in black came over to me, I sniffed as if I could already smell frying meat.

“Are you ready?” the man asked. I shook my head and tugged at the belts that strapped my hands. Cold sweat gushed into my eyes.

“No!” I screamed when another man reached for the large switch. He pulled it anyway.

When P.C. was in kindergarten, he convinced his classmates that his grandma was a tribal shamaness. Then he learned his letters, and kidding his friends no longer seemed adequate—so he started to write.

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