MAW WITH STRINGS OF LATHERY FOAM, an unthinking grin plastered across a rabid picket fence of teeth. the racket of a saint bernard in the night infuriates the beast even more : MUZZLE IT BEFORE IT BITES. the smell of blood is putrid, salt in the wound of an already blood - caked snout, acrid and sharp to his nose. HE WILL FIND THE SOURCE OF EVERY SMELL AND DISMEMBER IT.
the sheep bleat their last cries, the sound like shards of glass in cujo’s decomposing brain. he will steal the wavering mews from their mouths and snap their tendons like wires.
BADDOG BADDOG BADDOG.
the dark of the sheep pen envelops him.
@hanlans / sc.
