Absolute Unit
None wear pants.
They stand in a ragged circle around a prone chipmunk, its animal head pulled off to reveal a swarthy, fleshy face: eyes closed, lips blue, the forehead slick with sweat. For some reason, he seems familiar. A friend of Bill, perhaps?
A fox spies us in the doorway and screams: “Who the hell are they?”
Her eyes wide, Carrie lifts her boxes and says: “Pizza delivery?”
The unicorn points at the prone man. “We need an ambulance.”
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