Tucked amidst innumerable credit offers and his cologne-infused GQ magazine, Paxton found a glossy museum-print postcard.
Grotesque demons devoured sinners in some Bosch-like rendition of Hell. He peered closer. One disembowelled soul looked like Charles. His other college roommates, Richard and Dylan, were getting their feet gnawed off.
Paxton flipped it over.
Wish you were here!
Annie.
Paxton tried flicking the postcard away. His thumb melted into the picture.
“Your death wasn’t my fault,” Paxton mewled. “I didn’t roofie the drink.”
New writing appeared.
You didn’t stop them either.
Slowly compressed into two dimensions, Paxton squalled. Then real agony began.
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