I'll give them some choice blogs and my email address. Or something, fuck, I don't know. Something that'll help when their imaginary friend comes back in six to ten years.
I really shouldn't go looking for them today. I really shouldn't. My arm's still fucked up.
Shit, I wish I was Dean Winchester, and not for the first time, either. Well, I mean, without the whiny little brother and celestial conspiracy bullshit and the whole dying all the fucking time thing. I could just use an awesome car, a trunk full of weapons, and, more importantly, a bunch of fake fucking ids and a fake insurance card. That would be fucking rad.
Instead I have a revolver, three fucking bullets (and three more bullets MIA), a buck knife, and the fucking public transportation system.
Shit, maybe I should look into credit card fraud. TV makes it look pretty fucking easy.
Sorry. I'm still kind of enraged and on a fucking whining streak. I don't get a fucking rest period. I don't get a week or two to have my arm heal. I don't even get any fucking codeine.
I mean, fuck. If I'm not Made of Fucking Adamantium by the time all this Smiling Man bullshit kills me, I'll be really fucking surprised. Also, dead.
I'm going to go find those kids. I'm leaving as soon as this gets posted. Then, after I find them, I am going to shove my revolver so far up the ass of the first Eldritch Abomination or its fucking servant I fucking meet that when I pull the hammer back, its teeth are going to rattle.
Even if it doesn't have fucking teeth.
So much fucking rage.