His large hand twists the handle, flooding the darkened house with slanted, glaring light.

So alone. So… hungry.

Eyes tilting upward he becomes aware. Clarity grips him. Shakes him. He knows finally what he wants. What he needs.

Food. Food and… people. Friday. Food trucks.

The flimsy storm door throws open, his bulk emerging into the out from the in, suddenly awash in choking heat. The villianous Sun boils the air and claws at his skin, his eyes, his lungs. Struggling, he hunches and slows after only three giant steps.

Screw this. I’ll play Xbox.

Our furry hero reclaims his lair, not defeated, but triumphant. Glorious, cool solitude again achieved. Huzzah!


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