We’re trying to help indie creators get their work into the public. It’s hard. Cause rules. Of a lot of subreddits. However, I wanted to see if anyone wanted to get involved? We can’t offer money as of yet, cause we haven’t made any yet. However we do have a few loyal members who share the hell out of the podcast! Just wanted to try and help!

That's what they call them.

"The Sun Swellers".

Sounds pretty badass for some creature that's the result of earth roasting like a rotisserie chicken. I personally would have given them a more fearful name, just so we're constantly reminded of what's happening. Not that I could list you any, I'm not a very creative person.

None of these scientists can really do anything about it. We aren't capable of producing a ship strong enough to withhold being that close to the surface of the sun.

We aren't even sure what these fuckers look like, just that they are MASSIVE. I imagine giant leeches that suction onto the side of the sun we can't see, and move to the other side when it's about to show itself to Earth. They don't want to be seen, which creeps me out even more.

It's been about a week or two since we found out about these things, and we found them by "listening" to the sun. I won't bore you with the details, considering I don't know them much myself, but basically the sun sounded different compared to how it used too. And they did some math and concluded that there must be giant lumps of something hiding on the surface.

We don't know if they're feeding, giving to the sun, or even mating on the sun. But we know that they are responsible for the sun swelling. Thinking about this is stressing me out all over again. My thoughts are scattered, and I need a drink to calm my nerves. I walk over to my fridge, navigating through the mounds of garbage that line my trailer. The smell is sickening, and my nose is begging for mercy.

Once I wiggle my way through, I grab a beer from the fridge and sit at the kitchen table. This shit is fucking embarrassing. I thought, sipping on my beer. It's not my garbage lining the hallways, It's my mothers. She got into a pretty gnarly accident a couple years ago, paralyzed her, got into a coma, woke up, and ever since she came home she's turned into some sort of hoarder. I try to take out the trash, but she yells at me when I do.

I can't leave her, she won't last on her own. I love her so much, but it destroys me to see her like this. I stand up and walk outside onto our porch. The cold night winter air fills my lungs and it has never felt so good. The last winter, huh? I thought, sipping my beer. The scientists estimated that the sun would grow large enough to cook the earth in about 2 days.

And that estimate might be wrong. I got no job, but I do consider myself smart. By my math, we have less than a week. We might only have a day, possibly even hours. The rate of the sun's expansion is rising so fast, that it's impossible to actually know. I don't blame them for trying to instill some hope in us surviving somehow. But I've come to peace with the truth.

I worm my way back to my couch, I move a garbage bag out of the way, and sit down. I flicker on the TV, and switch it to the news channel. My blood runs cold. I watch as the news shows hundreds of thousands of tiny black pods descend upon the Earth. Some don't manage to reach, and get caught in an orbit, giving Earth a black ring. The obviously panicked news anchor explains that these pods came out from behind the sun, and shot directly towards us.

The atmosphere isn't burning them up, which twists my stomach even more than it already was. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as the screen switches to the news anchor himself, sweating profusely but swearing that everything is okay. I scoff when he says that, and right as I go to change the channel, the power cuts out.

Great, they hit the powerlines. I get up with a groan, and my back tweaks, causing a louder groan. I peek my head down the hallway.

"Are you alright mom?" I yell out.

Silence.

"Mom?" I yell again.

Nothing.

My eyes go wide and I start to scamper over, turning around halfway through to get a flashlight. tumbling over mounds and mounds of trash. Although it's a short distance, I'm out of breath by the time I reach her door. I practically kick the door down and run in worriedly, shining the light in her face.

"What the fuck is wrong with you boy?" My mom grumbled, setting down her book.

"Me? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Even though I was a grown man, I flinched at the look she gave me.

I cleared my throat.

"Sorry, but why didn't you say anything when I called your name? You fuckin' scared me!"

"I didn't hear ya." She said, picking her book back up.

I scoffed and walked out of her room, going to check on the breaker next. A giant boom followed by a shockwave that shakes the trailer and sends me flying into the piles of garbage nearly makes me piss myself. I quickly throw the trash off and sprint right back to my moms room opening the door.

"Fuck off boy, they're just choppin' trees nearby. Let me enjoy some literature before I burn to a fuckin' crisp!" She didn't bother to look at me.

Chopping trees down when the world is gonna burn in a couple hours? Unlikely.

"God forbid I care about you..." I mumbled, shutting the door and walking away.

Fuck the breaker, I'm just gonna go outside. The stench is getting to me and I'm gonna vomit if I spend another minute in here. I grab my coat and boots, swing the door open and step outside, slamming it behind me. Just so the universe knows I'm upset. I reach into my coat pocket and take out a cigarette. I bring it to my mouth and as I try to convince my dying lighter to light up one more time, I see something in my peripheral dart. I glance over but see nothing.

Just a rabbit. I lit my cigarette and chucked my lighter into our dumpster. Could refill it, but I don't really care at this point. I lean against the banister and take a drag. I take out my phone to scroll on Instagram, but then I see it again. But this time it did it in front of me. I stared upwards and glared at the tree that I knew it was behind. Without taking my eyes off the tree, I walk backwards towards the door, open it, and reach for the shotgun just off to the side.

"Mom, stay inside okay?" I yell, knowing she probably isn't listening anyways.

I grasp the shotgun, and shut the door behind me. It still hasn't moved. I slowly walk forward, but stop about 10 feet away.

"Show yourself!" I yell, and steady my shotgun.

I hear the snow crunch behind the tree as whatever it is shifts around. But before I can say anything, it darts behind another tree, this one only about 5 feet away. The fear that now took over my body is almost indescribable. I didn't even see what it was, but just the thought of anything being that fast scared me.

I started to retreat slowly back towards my trailer. I noticed that the night sky was now turning to day. It was only 3 am, and the sun wasn't in the sky. I started trembling and right as I glanced upwards, I heard snow crunch, and then a warm sensation started to drip down. I felt like I was peeing my pants, but when I glanced down to my stomach, all I see is a giant claw mark, gushing blood. I fall to my knees. I fumble for my phone and manage to dial 911 before tumbling down into the snow.

I couldn't hear what the lady on the phone was saying, was it even English? The snow around me became soft and pillowy, it had never felt so comfortable. My thoughts, as well as my vision, became muddled. Yet, there was still a noticeable voice in the back of my mind. Slightly muffled by the sirens in my head lulling me to a final slumber, but it was still there, screaming at me to help my mother. It would come for her next. I knew that, yet... all I wanted to do was sleep.

But I couldn't.

We were all gonna fucking die anyways, but I'll be damned if I let my mother or myself die to this fucking creature from space. As I crawled vigorously to the steps, I noticed the snow around me was beginning to melt slowly, and I glanced up to the sky turning to a dark orange colour. I gritted my teeth and stood up, my body was failing, but I can't let it. I went up the stairs, one hardly fought step at a time. I tried to yell for my mother, but nothing came out other than blood. I slammed open the door, and stumbled towards her bedroom.

Navigating the trash piles now was harder than ever. My blood was pooling on the slippery plastic bags, causing me to faceplant into the mess. I can't bring myself to stand, so I drag myself across the garbage. Something sharp in one of the bags snags on my open wound, and cuts it open even more.

The pain is unbearable, but I must keep going. It's not until I reach my mothers door that I look back and realize that my intestines are dragging behind me. The sight freaks me out, but I got to hold on. Inside the trailer it's boiling, and the trash is cooking, the smell makes me vomit on the floor.

I hear a window smash, as I desperately reach up to the handle and open her door. I can only watch as my mom flails her arms, trying to punch the thing as it drags her out of the window, the broken glass that was left slices her throat open as she is dragged away. I barely even react on the outside, but on the inside I was sobbing.

I crawled all the way here for jack shit. In my last attempt to spare myself from cooking, I use all of my strength to heave the shotgun underneath my chin. I pull the trigger but hear a click. I forgot to put a shell in, and they're all the way back at the front door.

I manage to actually let out a sob, as I drop the shotgun while my eyes start to close. The heat is starting to cook my skin, and I can see it char. All I can do now is go to sleep, and pray that I see my mother again.

I know I said I came to peace with it, but I'm terrified.

I (23F) signed a 12-month lease on an apartment in Bridgeport, CT in August. It's an older building, six units, one per floor. I'm on the fifth floor. Rent is $1,100 which is cheap for the area. I know now why it's cheap.

When I moved in I met the woman in apartment 6. She was on the sixth floor, top unit. Mid thirties. Brunette. Nice. She helped me carry a box up the stairs and said "welcome to the building" and told me she'd been there about a year. Her name was Claire. We talked in the hallway for maybe five minutes. She seemed normal. Normal neighbor.

Two weeks later she was gone. I noticed because I stopped hearing her footsteps above me. I asked the landlord, Mr. Reyes, about it. He said she broke her lease and moved out. Said it happens. I thought that was weird because one morning I was heading up the stairs and apartment 6's door was open. Not wide open. Cracked. Maybe an inch. And I could see the chain latch from the hallway. You know the flip latches that mount on the inside of the door? Hers was latched. The chain was on. But the door was open. Like someone latched the chain and then pulled the door open as far as the chain would let it. Which means someone was inside when they did it. Or something was. I mentioned it to Reyes and he said "she must have left through the fire escape." There is no fire escape on the sixth floor. I checked. There's one on floors two through five. The sixth floor just has a window that opens onto the roof. I let it go. I had just started a new job at a dental office and I didn't have the energy to be the weird neighbor investigating things.

But things started adding up. Small things. Things I dismissed because I was tired and stressed and moving is already disorienting.

The building stays at 68 degrees. Always. I noticed in September when it was still warm outside and the apartment was perfectly cool. Then in October when it got cold, still 68. I tried to turn the heat up. The thermostat doesn't work. I tried to turn it down. Nothing. 68 degrees. Always. I asked Reyes about it. He said the building has central climate control and it's set by the property management company. I asked who the property management company is. He said he'd get back to me. He didn't.

The lights never flicker. I know that sounds like a weird thing to notice. But in an old building the lights flicker. They dim when the AC kicks on. They buzz. These don't. They're steady. Perfectly steady. Last month the whole block lost power during a storm. Every building on the street was dark. Mine wasn't. The lights stayed on. The wifi stayed on. Everything worked. I looked out my window and the street was black. My building was the only one lit up. Like it wasn't on the same grid. Like it has its own power source.

There are no bugs. I know that sounds like a good thing. But every old building in New England has bugs. Spiders. Ants. Something. I've lived in three apartments before this one and every single one had at least one spider in the bathroom. This one has nothing. Not one. I checked the corners. The baseboards. Behind the toilet. Nothing. Like the building doesn't allow them. Like it filters them out.

The water tastes different. Not bad. Just different. I started buying bottled water after a few weeks because something about the tap water felt off. Not the taste exactly. The texture. It's too smooth. Like it's been processed. My skin changed too. After about six weeks my face was clearer. Smoother. A girl at work asked what skincare I switched to. I didn't switch anything. I just shower in the building's water. I don't know if that's connected. But it felt like something I should mention.

Then the furniture started moving. My couch was on the left wall of my living room when I moved in. One morning it was on the right wall. Same wall, just the other side. I thought I was losing it. I live alone. Nobody has a key but me and Reyes. I checked the door locks. Everything was fine. No sign of entry. I pushed the couch back and told myself I was stressed. A week later I came home from work and the couch was on the right wall again. And the coffee table was on the opposite side. Like someone had mirrored my apartment. Same furniture. Same everything. Just flipped. Like looking at my living room in a mirror. I took photos because I thought I was going crazy and I wanted proof. I called Reyes. He came up, looked around, said everything looked normal to him. I showed him the photos on my phone. He said "that's how you arranged it when you moved in." It wasn't. I have my own photos from move-in day. The couch was on the left. He told me I was confused. He left.

That night I checked the photos I took of the rearranged living room. They showed the couch on the left wall. My original arrangement. Not what I saw. Not what I photographed. The photos showed my apartment looking normal. But I was standing in my apartment looking at the mirrored version. The photos didn't match the room I was standing in. I don't know how to explain that. I'm not crazy. I know what I saw. I know what I photographed. The photos changed.

Three days after that I found a shoe by my front door. A woman's flat. Brown. Size 7. I wear a size 8. I don't own brown flats. I picked it up with a paper towel and put it outside in the hallway. The next morning it was back inside my apartment. By the door. Same spot. I put it in the trash chute. The next morning. Same shoe. Same spot. I threw it in the dumpster behind the building. Three days later it was back. By my door. I stopped touching it. It's still there.

Then I found the note. Slid under my door. Handwritten on a piece of lined paper torn from a notebook. It said: "I tried to break my lease too. He won't let you leave. Don't look through the peephole." No signature. I called the leasing office and asked if I could see a copy of Claire's lease file. They sent me a scanned copy of her application. Her signature was on it. I compared it to the handwriting on the note. It matched. Same looping G's, same way she crossed her T's. The note was from Claire.

But Claire moved out. Claire broke her lease and left. That's what Reyes said. So how is she sliding notes under my door.

I should have listened to the note. I should not have looked through the peephole.

Last Tuesday. 1 AM. I heard footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Steady. They stopped outside my door. I looked through the peephole.

Claire was standing in the hallway. Right outside my door. Facing my peephole. Facing me. She was wearing the same clothes from the day I met her. Same shirt. Same jeans. Two months ago. She hadn't changed. She was standing completely still. Not blinking. Not swaying. Not breathing. Just standing there looking at my door. Looking at me through the peephole. Her eyes were open. Fixed on the peephole. Like she knew I was going to look. Like she was waiting for me to look.

I backed away. I didn't make a sound. I sat on my bed with every light on until 5 AM. When I looked through the peephole again, the hallway was empty. Apartment 6's door was closed. No crack. No light. Like it was never open.

I went to Reyes's office the next morning. I told him I need to break my lease. He said I can break it but I owe the remaining eight months of rent. $8,800. I don't have that. I asked if there's a way to negotiate. He said no. He said "Claire asked the same thing." He said it flat. No expression. Like he was reading a line he'd said before. I asked him what happened to Claire. He said she moved out. I said I saw her door cracked open with the chain still latched. He said "I changed the locks." I said there's no fire escape on the sixth floor. He just looked at me. He didn't blink. I watched his eyes. He didn't blink. Not once. Not for the whole conversation. I counted. I was in his office for six minutes. He didn't blink.

I went back to my apartment and started writing this post. I wanted to get everything down while I remembered it. While it was organized. While it sounded like a normal person asking a normal legal question and not like someone losing their mind.

I was almost done when I heard it.

2:14 AM. Last night. I was asleep. A woman screaming woke me up. Not a movie scream. Not a startled yell. A real scream. The kind that sounds like someone is being torn apart. The kind where the voice cracks and goes hoarse and keeps going because the person can't stop. Coming from above. From the sixth floor. From apartment 6.

I sat up. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth. The screaming didn't stop. It went on for maybe thirty seconds. Then it changed. It got lower. Muffled. Like something was being pressed over her mouth. Like she was being held down. And then it stopped.

And then I heard the dragging.

Something heavy being pulled across a floor. Slow. Steady. The sound of weight on wood. Coming from apartment 6. Through the wall. Through the ceiling. I could hear it move. Across the floor. To the door. Out the door. Into the hallway. And then down the stairs.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

One step at a time. Something heavy being dragged down the stairs. From the sixth floor. Past my floor. Getting closer. The sound getting louder. I could hear breathing now too. Heavy. Labored. Like whoever was doing the dragging was carrying something that weighed more than they could handle. But they weren't stopping. They were committed. They had done this before.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Past my floor. The dragging slowed as it passed my door. Like whatever was pulling paused. Like it knew I was listening. I pressed myself against the wall and held my breath. The breathing was right outside my door. I could hear it through the wood. In and out. In and out. Heavy. Wet. Like someone breathing through something stuck in their throat.

Then it moved again. Down. Past the fourth floor. Past the third. Past the second. Past the first. Toward the basement. Thud. Thud. Thud. Getting quieter. Further. Until I couldn't hear it anymore.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe. I sat against the wall until the sun came up. At 6 AM I looked through the peephole. The hallway was empty. But there was a mark on the floor outside my door. A streak. Long. Dark. Like something heavy and wet had been dragged across it. It went from the stairwell past my door and down the next flight. I didn't open the door. I didn't want to know what the streak was.

At 8 AM the streak was gone. The floor was clean. Like it was never there. Like the building cleaned itself.

I went to Reyes. I told him I heard a woman screaming. I told him someone was dragged down the stairs. He listened. He didn't react. His face didn't change. He said "the building settles at night. Old pipes. Old foundations. Sounds travel in old buildings." I said that wasn't pipes. That was a person. Someone was screaming. Someone was dragged. He looked at me and said "Claire used to hear things too."

Claire used to hear things too. Claire heard things. Claire left notes under doors. Claire stood in hallways not blinking. And now Claire is gone and I'm hearing the same things.

I went back to my apartment. I packed a bag. I don't care about the $8,800. I don't care about the lease. I'm leaving today. I opened my front door.

The hallway was wrong. It was longer than it was. I counted 14 steps from my door to the stairwell when I moved in. I counted them because I was bored one day and I have weird habits. It's 22 steps now. I counted twice. 22. The walls looked different too. Closer together. Or further apart. I can't tell. The proportions are wrong. Like the hallway grew overnight. Like the building stretched.

I walked to the stairwell. Went down. The stairs were normal. I reached the front door. The building's front door. The door I've used every day for two months. I turned the handle. I pulled it open. Behind the door is a wall. Smooth. Warm. No outside. No street. No sidewalk. No steps. Just a wall. The same color as the hallway. Like the door opens into another wall. Like the building sealed itself. I pushed it. Solid. I pushed harder. Nothing. I kicked it. Nothing. It doesn't budge. It doesn't scratch. It doesn't mark. It just sits there. Warm. And it hums. Low. Quiet. I can feel it in my fingers when I touch it. A vibration. Like something is behind it. Something alive. Something waiting.

I checked every exit. The back door on the first floor. The fire escape window on the third. The basement door. All the same. Walls. Smooth. Warm. Humming. The building sealed itself. Every exit is a wall.

I'm posting this from inside my apartment. I don't know what's happening. I don't know what dragged that woman down the stairs last night. I don't know what Claire is. I don't know what Reyes is. I don't know why the walls hum or why the lights never flicker or why the water makes my skin smoother or why there are no bugs in this building. I don't know why the hallway is getting longer or why my photos changed or why the furniture moves. I don't know any of it.

But I need someone to know I'm in here. I'm on the 5th floor of a building at the corner of Park and Main in Bridgeport, CT. The landlord is Mr. Reyes. The woman in apartment 6 was named Claire. She tried to leave too.

If you're a lawyer in Connecticut, please DM me. If you're anyone, please DM me. I don't think this building wants me to leave. I don't think it's a building.

**Edit:** Someone asked for my exact address. I'm not posting it. If you're nearby, don't come looking for this building. I looked out my window this morning. The street looks normal. Cars parked. People walking. But I knocked on my neighbor's door on the second floor. Nobody answered. I knocked on the first floor. Nobody answered. I think I'm the only one in here. I think the other apartments are empty. I think they've been empty for a while.

I think the building only keeps one at a time.

I've posted this here because I know certain types frequent these websites; I suspect only you guys could understand what I'm going through.

You see, I've always hated cities; I hate having so many people breathing my air, and apartments bum me out. But as a writer, I needed to look for work because my books weren't taking off, so I had to move into a city.
I hated every second of it, but it wouldn't last forever, because eventually, my grandmother passed away. Her money went to my brother (We don't talk much, if you're wondering why he won't be a topic later on- to be honest, I'm not sure what we'd even talk about), but I did get a consolation prize out of this: I got her house.

Well, I didn't get it in her will; that went to my brother too. He didn't really like it; my brother never was the outdoorsy type, but he kept it as a "vacation home" for some time.
Then, fall came, and he was finally in the mood. He went to that house, and he stayed for... 2 months? He was supposed to stay for 3.

I asked him what happened; for some reason, my rich bastard of a brother wanted to visit his hippie sibling.
He looked frazzled, even for a smug entrepreneur; judging from his eye bags and disposition, he was about 2-3 days sleep-deprived, could have been longer; the guy hides his vulnerabilities well.

Suddenly, a strange face overcame him; he looked to his left, his lips trembled, and he blinked for just a bit too long.

"I got tired of the camping 24/7 life, brother. It's a drag having to drive 31 minutes for gas and twice that for groceries. Pennsylvania is no fun; I'm better off going to Hawaii or New Mexico for any future vacations."

Damn me, why didn't I see it? Why didn't I think more?

"So...?"
"You can have Grandmother's house, permanently. I shall visit it no longer."

I was rather excited; he watched me celebrate for a moment, then went to take a nap on the couch.
He never naps; sometimes I think he doesn't blink unless it's during scheduled breathing minutes.

He left my house after 45 minutes, and I left my house after 45 hours.
In the city, and indeed in most places, my books didn't make enough money to survive alone, but in Grandma's? Different story. Sure, having only 20 dollars for fun stuff every month was rough, but I still made it work.

But now you might be beginning to see why this happened in the first place; it was far out. At least an hour away from most stuff, so getting a connection was rough, and electricity was something to be rationed. I only had a generator in the first place because he forgot it when he was moving out.

For some time, though, I was happy- frugal, but happy.
Then, I pissed someone off. I think I published something politically charged for the first time- I won't say what, but it got a few people REALLY steamed up.

Next thing I knew, I was the victim of an ass-kicking.
It took me by surprise... it always does, but in my case, I was anticipating it to some extent; still, it didn't make the fist flying into my forehead any more shocking.
Skinny dork that I was, I went down fast, and a bunch of other guys started kicking me, yelling remarks about my indoctrination of children (It was a rated-M book, by the way.)

When one of them took out a gun, I realized it was about to be more than my ass at risk, but I didn't die that day.

Because when I closed my eyes and dug the side of my face into the dirt, I felt the wind howl, and something that sounded like the cry of a deer mixed with the growl of a wolf cut through the air.

Then I felt blood spray across my face; my eyes stayed shut. The attackers, no doubt smarter than I, quickly turned around and began to run, but it was faster; one of them must have gotten half a mile away from me, judging from the time he spent running at full speed, but it didn't matter.

I don't know when I woke up, but I did; suddenly, I was back in the front yard of my house, on the edge of the treeline. I was about to think I got drunk and blacked out or perhaps was sleepwalking, but as I stood up, I felt something exhale.

I felt it exhale.

I bolted towards my house. As I did, I expected a chase, but in place of that was a silence so thick it may as well have been the screaming of the damned.
Finally, I got to the house, and I locked the doors. As I looked out the window, I saw a dark silhouette beyond the treeline; the darkness was too thick for me to make out any details, but I saw it holding out the brutalized corpse of one of those men who attacked me, like an offering.

I called the police; they thought it was a bear attack, of course they do. A bear can't walk that fast while it's charging, and it definitely wouldn't let me off the hook that easily, and it definitely definitely doesn't offer its prey to others.

Looking out the window scares me more than anything, because while it isn't always there, the shadows of the forest feel so much thicker now; It's like I'm surrounded.

So stoked to share that the Youtube channel "Muldered" just made a video covering my analog horror series PHOBETOR. If you haven't heard of his channel, he covers lesser known horror series across the net and makes very high quality and entertaining videos. Please check out his channel if you like horror break downs.

I'm only writing this because I don't know how much longer I'll be myself. I have nobody left to listen to me, and I can’t exactly blame them. If anyone reading this has experienced anything like what I'm about to describe…please tell me I'm not alone.

It all started with a few missing minutes here and there. Far enough apart that I never really realized it was happening, but in the past few months it’s gotten worse. I’m losing hours now, sometimes half a day even, but I always wake up in the same spot — sitting on my decrepit, moth-eaten sofa in my shitty rundown apartment wearing nothing but my underwear.

In the beginning, it was easy to make excuses. I’d be eating dinner and suddenly the next bite would be cold. I’d be watching TV and miss a scene or two. Little things. Things anyone in their right mind would just explain away. I blamed stress or exhaustion. I had more than my fair share of both. I realize now how stupid all of that was.

The first time I really noticed it was after I started working again. Long, boring hours at the supermarket left me nothing to do but let my mind wander. That’s when I finally started to understand what was happening. I was stocking the soup aisle — the most monotonous task one could ask for — and suddenly, I was halfway down the aisle and every shelf behind me had been stocked. But the cans were stacked messily, labels misaligned and multiple cans in the wrong section. Shoddy work.

I just zoned out, I told myself, it happens all the time.

But I didn’t.

I’d zoned out before — lost focus — and this was not it.

This was something else.

The fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling were way too bright all of a sudden. Halos of white light beat down on my skull as my breath shortened, I reached wildly in search of something to steady myself, but instead I found my ass flat on the cold linoleum. Turns out that was the shock I needed. The lights dimmed again and I stood back up slowly, heading to the break room.

I walked straight toward the fridge without thinking, and, as if on autopilot, found myself pushing aside one of the ceiling tiles above it. Before I knew it, I was holding two shooters: one whiskey, the other vodka. I barely ever drink, but I didn’t even cough as they slid down my throat. If anything, it was almost comforting as the warmth traveled down into my stomach. I needed to sit down, and not on the floor.

“Evan?”

Shit. It was my boss.

“Hey Jack,” I said, turning around and sliding the empty bottles behind my back without thinking, “what’s up?”

“Nothin’ much,” he said, scratching his patchy beard as he stared intently at me, “but you already took your break.”

“Right… yeah,” I muttered back, “...I’m not feeling the best”

“I can tell. You’ve been doing shitty work all day,” he said, “even had to get Carly to fix your fuck-up in aisle three.”

Aisle three? I hadn’t been close to aisle three all day. My stomach dropped instantly. I grabbed the edge of the table to keep myself from falling, and I broke out in a cold sweat

“Just take the day off. I can’t deal with any more messes right now.”

And I did. I walked right out of there and back to my apartment.

This was all I could remember right now. If I remember anything else, I’ll try to write it down while I still can.

CW: vomit, cannibalism

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Think you’re worthy?

$39.99 (if you lose)

A picture of the monstrous plate sat underneath the description. My mouth watered at the thought of the savory sauce and tender meat. I looked over my shoulder to see the Wall of Fame, decorated with six photos under the large heading. Only six photos. Only six people vanquished Carver’s Challenge. I was here to be lucky number seven.

“Welcome to Carver’s BBQ Shack!” A cheery brown-haired young woman wearing a black CARVER’S BBQ shirt approached my table. “My name’s Gracie, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you started with something to drink?” She placed a glass of water in front of me.

I smirked. “I’m good with the water, thank you. I’m actually here for the challenge. Gonna make the Wall.” I gestured over my shoulder.

Gracie’s eyes gleamed at the words. “Another challenger, aye? Third one this week. Hope you do better than the others.” Her smile widened and she jotted something down on her notepad. “Sauce for the sandwich?”

“Inferno,” I said without hesitation. No use doing the challenge if I wasn’t going the whole nine yards.

Worry flashed across her face. “Are you sure? No one’s finished an Inferno sandwich yet. Hottest a challenge winner’s gone so far has been Carver’s Special.”

I stuck to it. “I’ll take the Inferno.”

She scribbled it down and looked back with a smile. “I’ll be back in a bit with your challenge, then. Good luck!” She turned to head to the kitchen and I sat back, mentally preparing. About four pounds of sandwich, a pound of fries, and six wings, all drenched in the restaurant’s infamous Inferno sauce. How bad could it be? I had never actually attempted a challenge such as this, but I'd seen enough Man v. Food and eaten enough Tabasco in my lifetime.

Minutes went by. I sipped my water, taking in the restaurant’s ambience. Carver’s BBQ Shack was a great pig out spot, literally and figuratively—pigs were all over the menus, walls and T-shirts, and their pulled pork was famous. Every breath through my nostrils made my mouth water. It was still a relatively new place, little more than a hole in the wall, but its reputation was growing fast. The literal mountain of meat was a large part of that, attracting gastric warriors from all over to test their mettle.

The low blues music and restaurant chatter was interrupted by the door swinging open and a loud, brash voice: “Carver’s Challenge, here I come!” A young man, blond and baby-faced, swaggered in, an entourage behind him. One of the guys next to him held a video camera, panning it around the restaurant then back at his friend. People turned to look at the group briefly, then went back to their meals and chitchat.

“Four of us,” the loudmouthed leader said to the hostess, a mousy high-school girl. I groaned when she led the group to the table right next to mine. They made a whole scene of sitting down, cameraman recording the entire process. The leader whipped off his sunglasses, draped his jacket over the chair, and sat down, smirking into the camera.

“What is up guys, Jeremy ‘Iron Belly’ Miller here at…” He paused so the cameraman could do another pan, “…Carver’s BBQ Shack. This one’s been on the radar for a hot minute. Six people have won the challenge here, and I’m going to be lucky number seven today.” I rolled my eyes and scowled when I saw the camera point at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gracie strolling up to them, pad in hand. Before she could get a word out, Jeremy blurted, “One Carver’s Challenge, please, Pilot Light on the sandwich.” She scribbled, and as she attempted to take drink orders he interrupted her again. “Get ready to see this face on the Wall of Fame.” He flashed her a smarmy smile and ordered a round of Coronas for his table.

I couldn’t believe the guy. Marching in here with all of his bravado and then picking Pilot Light. The five homemade sauces were another staple of Carver’s: from mildest to hottest you have Pilot Light, Campfire Smoke, Carver’s Special, Sweat Maker, and Inferno. Of course, he was going to have some Inferno on his wings next to the Pilot Light sandwich. As was I, a fact that Gracie unfortunately remembered.

“Looks like we got ourselves a duel here,” she exclaimed, looking Jeremy in the eye before shrugging at me. Dammit. She turned and strolled back into the kitchen, ignoring the whistle from one of Jeremy’s friends.

With her gone, the gang turned toward me and I had the camera in my face before I could react. “You’re also taking on Carver’s Challenge?” Jeremy inquired, sneering. I nodded. “What’s your name, man?”

“Mike.”

Jeremy got up and plopped down in the chair next to mine, wrapping an arm around me. “Well, Mike, best of luck to ya. Hope to see that handsome face next to mine on the Wall of Fame after dinner!” I leaned away from his arm and gave him the best don’t-talk-to-me look I could muster. He had none of it, though. “Any pointers, Mike?” The guy yapped at me for what seemed like eternity before Gracie, another waitress, and Rich came out, trash-lid-sized platters in their hands.

Rich Carver was the owner and head chef of Carver’s BBQ Shack. He was a big man in every sense of the word: tall, big-boned, a bit too well-fed, with a personality to match his stature. His voice boomed across the restaurant. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next 45 minutes may live in infamy. My humble little shack’s about to be a battlefield. Not one, but two gladiators are going into the meat colosseum this evening.” Many heads snapped toward my table, where Jeremy still lingered. The cameraman watched Rich intently, recording the speech.

Gracie and the other girl approached, putting the plates down. “Pilot Light…” Gracie said, nudging one of the giant platters toward Jeremy, “…and Inferno.” She placed the other in front of me. Jeremy’s eyebrow raised at the word and he looked at me curiously.

Carver’s Challenge was daunting, to say the least. The sandwich was the biggest I’d ever seen, both in diameter and height. Pork, brisket, coleslaw and sauce oozed between the gigantic bun slices. Next to it were the six wings and the nearly overflowing pile of crisped fries. I eyed the ketchup bottle sitting next to the five Carver’s sauces in the middle of the table. The harsh smell of the Inferno emanating from my sandwich and the wings burned my nostrils.

Rich sauntered over and put one meaty hand on Jeremy’s back and the other on mine. “Our brave challengers tonight are…” He looked at Jeremy, then turned his head at me.

Jeremy shot out of his chair and struck a pose. “I’m Jeremy ‘Iron Belly’ Miller. You can find me on YouTube at Iron Belly Challenges, and soon on Carver’s BBQ Shack’s Wall of Fame!” He looked down at the plate and threw a few punches out. His friends whooped. Gracie rolled her eyes.

“And you?” Rich directed his boom at me.

“Mike,” I said flatly.

“Mike who?” Rich pressed.

“Just Mike.” Rich’s enthusiasm I could handle—every time someone attempted the challenge he made a big deal of it. I’d seen videos where the pat on the back he gave the winners nearly knocked them out of their seats, and the losers were subjected to one bad joke or another. But much of my excitement for the challenge was deflated by Jeremy’s loud mouth and the camera in my face

“Well, Just Mike, I hope you’re hungry,” Rich started up again. “Iron Belly and Just Mike, are you ready for the most delicious pain you’ll ever experience? Sure to satisfy and bust your guts?” He smiled broadly and produced a digital timer from his KISS THE COOK apron. It was set for 45 minutes. Jeremy enthusiastically nodded. I locked eyes with Rich and nodded as well, the excitement returning. Delicious food, eternal glory, and a chance to show up this clown? It was challenge time.

A few people from other tables had begun to crowd around us. Rich took a seat in one of the other unoccupied chairs, quickly glancing around the restaurant. Gracie leaned down and whispered something into his ear before disappearing to the back with the other girl. I unwrapped my fork and knife, my weapons against the plated foes before me.

“45 minutes on the clock… FIGHT!” Rich pounded the table with a fist the size of the sandwich.

I immediately dove in, picking up the behemoth sandwich and sinking my teeth in. It was heaven and hell together on a bun—immaculately tasty and agonizingly hot, both from the freshness and the sauce. Carver’s Inferno was a jet fuel of a sauce, combining habanero and cayenne into a blend straight out of the seventh circle. One bite in and I could feel the first beads of sweat on my face. But I had a challenge to take on so I stuffed my face with another bite.

More and more droplets of sweat formed as I chewed, my jaw working its hardest. The sandwich was pure sensory overload. And I was only two bites in. A fleeting thought that I’d bitten off more than I could chew entered my mind, but I kept on chewing anyway. I took a slug of water, swallowed, and commenced my attack.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeremy analytically studying his plate and drenching the pile of fries in ketchup. After a moment of hesitation, his hand skimmed past the sandwich and went for a wing. He held the drummie up for the crowd to see before biting into it. I could see his face scrunch up as the Inferno went straight to his head. He quickly grabbed a handful of ketchup-covered fries and shoveled them into his mouth, chasing with a gulp of Corona.

I immediately followed his lead and upended the ketchup bottle over my fries. Seemed like a viable strategy—bite of sandwich, bite of fries, rinse and repeat. I took another bite and was once again assaulted by the capsaicin. I was sweating bullets, my face as red as the ketchup. And the sandwich didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. I took a glance at the clock: five minutes down, forty to go. There was plenty of time.

Jeremy was tearing through the wings like a termite through wood. Five of them were down, little bones stacked at the edge of his plate. He was breathing deep, doing his best to look unfazed but the sauce had him in its grasp. The pile of fries on his plate had a sizable dent and his beer was nearing the bottom. With a look of steely determination, he tore into the final hellish wing, stripping it bare and holding the bone up.

He swallowed, sighed, and looked Rich in the eye. “No problem,” he said with a sputter. A few people cheered. Rich guffawed.

Cocky prick. I couldn’t be outdone by him. Tears formed in my eyes as I tore back into the sandwich. The heat was relentless and the amount I’d already eaten felt heavy in my stomach. I grabbed some fries and stuffed them in, my jaws mixing everything together like concrete. My heart sank when I looked at the plate—the sandwich looked maybe half done. And I still had my wings to contend with, as well as the remaining fries.

Jeremy looked to have calmed down some, a few bites into his sandwich. His red flush had gone down and he seemed much more at ease, enjoying what remained of his meal. The realizations hit me as hard as the Inferno: one, that the Pilot Light sandwich was a strategic decision rather than an admission of weakness; two, that Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller was going to handily clear Carver’s Challenge; and three, that I was struggling bad. He had it all figured out—blitz and suffer through the wings early on and then casually pick apart the colossal sandwich, enjoying Rich’s creation to its fullest. He was coasting, and I was in hell.

I continued forward, though, pushing as much of the sandwich into my face as humanly possible and doing my best to ignore the pain. The giant thing got smaller and smaller. I was in a frenzy, an eating berserker. I was drenched in sweat and could barely see through the tears. My mouth was on fire. More sandwich. More fries. Chewing. Pain. Swallowing. Repeat. The crowd cheered. I splashed my face with my water. 25 minutes in. Light at the end of the tunnel—two more bites of sandwich.

Jeremy shot out of his chair, gave Rich a salute and the audience a bow, and popped the final bite of sandwich into his mouth. The room exploded into applause. Rich clapped him on the back and handed him a beige I CARVED THE COMPETITION shirt. Gracie snapped a picture of him with the empty platter. Jeremy’s friend trained his camera on me. And then every eye in the place fixed on me and the reality of everything sunk in. My frenzy subsided, and I felt every bit of what I’d eaten. I was a mess of sweat and tears, mouth aflame and stomach full to the brim. But still, I soldiered on.

Going for it, I crammed what was left of the sandwich into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks like a squirrel. I could barely chew, mouth opening with each jaw movement to the disgust of the onlookers. I had slowed to a crawl, the pain almost unbearable. I felt sick. After a few agony-filled moments, I forced the huge glob down, felt it slide down to my bowels. And then my stomach betrayed me.

What happened next was the greatest humiliation of my life. I doubled over in pain, leaning over the handful of fries and six Inferno wings, and began to heave. I fought it and the first heave was dry. The faces of the crowd turned to shock. Rich got up and bolted to the back with a speed uncharacteristic of a man his size. Jeremy’s eyes widened. Then it happened. I heaved again, and Rich Carver’s infamous sandwich made its way back onto the plate.

A few people covered their eyes, some pinched their noses, and others looked away. I could feel more coming, and the pungent smell just made me sicker. I had rendered the rest of my challenge inedible—the six wings and fries were covered in bile and bits of semi-digested meat. Rich barreled out of the back, a bucket in hand and Gracie behind him. Luckily I was able to hold the rest back until he got to my side. Sticking my face in the bucket, I let the rest out, retching and retching. The crowd thinned out, a few morbid onlookers staying to watch my challenge’s tragic end.

Rich stayed next to me, gently rubbing my back until the heaving stopped. After what felt like ages, I found enough strength to pull my head out of the bucket. The platter was gone and poor Gracie was scrubbing the table, shirt pulled up over her nose. Rich shooed away the remaining spectators. Only Jeremy and his goons remained, sitting at the table next to me drinking their Coronas and gawking.

Rich tried to lighten the moment. “Didn’t care for my food, huh?” he joked.

The four guys next to me began laughing like hyenas. I couldn’t take it anymore—I pushed out of the chair, shouldered past Rich and stormed out of Carver’s BBQ Shack. On my way out, I slapped two $20s on the host stand, startling the mousy hostess. Rich was a nice enough guy and likely would have comped this challenge loss given the circumstances, but I didn’t want his pity. I wordlessly ran to my car, tore out of there, went home and sobbed until I fell asleep.

The next few days were spent numb and blurry. Lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, occasionally watching mindless cable and changing the channel every time a Carver’s commercial aired. I barely ate—the very thought of food made me upset. After a few days, I ventured back out into the world. I immediately regretted it.

I was at the grocery store, scouring the produce section and steering clear of the meat, when I heard a voice behind me. “Are you Just Mike?” I turned to see a kid of about 13 or 14 staring at me. His eyes lit up when he saw my face closer. “Holy shit, you are.” He raised his voice and began gesturing. Two other kids, another boy and a girl, ran over.

“Can I help you?” I said, voice quavering.

“You’re famous, dude!” the first boy piped up, voice slightly cracking. “Just Mike the pukey guy from Iron Belly Jeremy’s channel!” I went pale.

“Can I get a selfie?” the second boy asked. Before I could react he whipped his phone out and took a picture.

I dropped my basket and ran out of the store, tears in my eyes. As much as I didn’t want to look, I had to see Jeremy’s video now. When I pulled up YouTube, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Front page, an edited thumbnail of an astonished Jeremy imposed onto a still of me, face red and twisted, with half my sandwich on the platter.

IRON BELLY CHALLENGES -- CAN JEREMY DEFEAT THIS GUT-BUSTER BBQ CHALLENGE? COMPETITION CAN’T HANG!

Over 200,000 views.

I was mortified but had to see it. Hand shaking over the mouse, I clicked. Various shots of Carver’s BBQ Shack filled my screen, inside and outside, with Jeremy providing a voiceover. “Last week I shattered a spaghetti-eating record, this week it’s time to pig out on some pig! We’re here at Carver’s BBQ Shack…” his annoyingly braggadocious voice narrated. It cut to an interview with Rich where the big man talked about his love for food and described the challenge.

JEREMY vs. CARVER’S CHALLENGE popped up, extravagant red font against a black screen. From the cameraman’s POV, Jeremy and his cronies strutted into Carver’s and sat down, the annoying voiceover continuing. I could see myself in the background, glancing at the camera with a scowl. I winced seeing the shot zoom in on my face. Jeremy continued to narrate, voiceover interspersed with his on-camera banter, “See this guy here? Remember him, he’ll be attempting the challenge too.” He then rattled off his strategy for the challenge over shots of them ordering, the camera lingering uncomfortably long on Gracie. “Think I got what it takes? Stay tuned for the challenge.” The video cut to an ad, thankfully not another Carver’s commercial.

The next several minutes of video were a highlight reel of the challenge with minimal voiceover. Rich’s booming introduction was captured, with zoom ins on both of our faces when our names were announced. The majority of the footage was Jeremy eating with a dramatically narrated recap, but the shot would occasionally switch to me, always with a snarky or condescending comment. “He’s trying but that Inferno sauce is no joke.” “Poor guy’s on fire right now, not in a good way.” “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

The shot cut to his final bite and victory antics. WINNER: JEREMY flashed onscreen. I was already having a hard enough time watching, but the next part turned my emotions to white-hot anger.

“I completed Carver’s Challenge, but we still gotta check up on Just Mike over here. He’s looking pretty desperate.” A closeup of my final defiant bite. “Is he going to do it?” The shot lingered as I chewed, swallowed, heaved, and retched, not missing a single detail. A zoom in on the puke-covered plate, a shot of the disgusted audience, me with my head in the bucket. “I may have carved Carver’s Challenge, but Just Mike was on the receiving end. Better luck next time, pal.”

I couldn’t watch anymore. I slammed my laptop shut and let out a scream of rage, tears streaming down my face. 200,000 views. Kids recognizing me as “Just Mike the pukey guy” in the grocery store. A hatred I’d never felt before filled me, burning hotter than Carver’s Inferno. Hatred toward Rich Carver, whose stupid fucking challenge did this to me. Hatred toward Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller, whose video will never let me live it down. My anger gave way to a detached numbness, the wheels in my head began to spin, and I realized the things I needed to do next.

A few weeks later, I sat in my car on the side of a country road, Jeremy’s newest video winding down on my phone. After finishing a sundae the size of his head from a diner in middle-of-nowhere Illinois, he looked into the camera and teased his next challenge before signing off. And what do you know, it was another BBQ place. His next destination was St. Louis, about four hours from here, and according to his social media, he’d be attempting the challenge the day after tomorrow. I would deal with Jeremy in due time, but right now the priority was Rich.

It was a quiet Saturday night, a little after 10pm. Carver’s was open 11am-10pm Monday through Saturday. Rich would likely be finishing his prep work right about now, ambling out to his red pickup, stopping at LiquorMart, then heading home. I had been following Rich for about a week, staking out Carver’s from a nearby strip mall lot. The guy practically lived at the restaurant—he was there open-close every day of operation, and didn’t leave his house on his one day off. I looked at my watch: 10:13pm. He would be getting back soon, back to the home I sat half a mile down the road from.

I got out of my car, zipping up my jacket and grabbing a backpack off the seat. It was a cool night, clouds blocking the moonlight and stars. Not a streetlight in sight for miles, and even better, not a single passing car. I walked at a steady clip, head on a swivel, but nothing. The night was eerily silent, my footfalls the only sounds. Until my stomach let out a loud growl. The thought of the tasks at hand somehow overpowered the hunger I felt—the last substantial meal I’d had was midday the day before. Water, the occasional protein shake, and granola bars had made up my sustenance since. I was starving, but had to focus. Rich would make a good meal for me soon enough.

Soon enough, I was walking up the long driveway toward the cook’s house. It was a simple, unassuming one-story with a detached garage and front porch. His red truck was nowhere to be found. I took in my surroundings before walking up the porch and clutching the doorknob. To my surprise, it opened right up with a slight creak. This was going much easier than anticipated.

I entered, shutting the door behind me. Looking around, I realized that Rich Carver had no reason to batten down the hatches. The house was filled with junk—empty liquor bottles and Carver’s takeout boxes, crumpled up newspapers, little trinkets and doodads. I entered his small living room, complete with a La-Z-Boy, small side table, oversized TV, Miller Lite Girl poster, and more shit everywhere. The room was a pigsty—fitting for a guy whose claim to fame was pig.

The kitchen was jarring by comparison. It was similarly small, but much more upkept. Not a stain on the stovetop, not a dish in the sink, not even a scuff on the tile floor. A lot could be said about Rich Carver, but there was no doubting the guy’s passion and love for all things culinary. A dim light was on over the stove, enough to see around the room. I gently opened one of the cabinets and peered at the various cooking gadgets. A block of fancy-looking knives caught my eye.

The sound of an engine snapped me back. I peeked around the corner and saw lights through the living room blinds that soon dimmed. A truck door slammed. I fished around in my backpack, looking across the living room to the doorway. The door started to creak open. I crouched back into the kitchen and found what I was looking for. Heavy footsteps thumped their way in. I was expecting to hear the plop of a large body collapsing into a recliner, but the steps kept going. Going in my direction. He was coming to the kitchen.

Before I could scramble away, Rich rounded the corner. BANG. The surprised look in his eyes glazed over and he tottered back, crashing to the ground with blood trickling out of his forehead. The bottle of vodka in his meaty hand shattered on impact. My whole body shook with adrenaline as I put the pistol back in the backpack and began to fish out a large tarp. Blood was beginning to pool on the tile around his head.

I grabbed him by one of his legs and pulled with all my might. He was one heavy sonofabitch but eventually I got him onto the tarp and rolled it up, making sure to spritz up the blood. Even in death Rich Carver needed a spotless kitchen. Dragging him through the house to the door was a Herculean labor—I might as well have been pulling his truck. After an eternity of the hard physical labor, I got him to the garage, the door opening just as effortlessly as the house’s front.

Firing up a flashlight, I looked around the wide, empty garage. Various tools adorned the walls, a couple workbenches and more junk. I flicked the light from spot to spot, wondering what would be best for the gruesome undertaking about to begin. An axe? A hacksaw, maybe? The light landed on an electric circular saw. Bingo.

I quickly searched Rich’s body before preparing it: his wallet with a few bills, license, credit card and Carver’s business card, a pack of Marlboro Reds with two remaining, some pocket lint, and a set of keys. A house key, a truck key, and a few I didn’t recognize. Likely a key for the restaurant and a lockbox within. I pocketed the keys as an idea flashed through my head, but I quickly dispelled the thought. I had a challenge to win.

I’ll spare you the gory details of dismantling the big man, but one thing was certain: cutting through bone wasn’t easy. I threw his various appendages into trash bags—I’d deal with them later. The softer bits were the priority. I filled a few Ziplocs with various pieces and reentered the house, stepping over the clutter to get to the kitchen. Rich’s passion for food was very beneficial to me—within a few minutes of looking, I found a meat grinder and kitchen scale.

I never claimed to be a good cook. I could make a mean microwave burrito or frozen pizza, but nothing fancy. But with the head chef and owner of Carver’s BBQ Shack’s home kitchen at my disposal, anything was possible. I worked throughout the night, grinding the meat and cooking it stovetop in some fancy oil from Rich’s cupboard and generous amounts of Carver’s Pilot Light. As the first rays of Sunday’s sunlight peeked through the window, I began to plate my redemption.

Two pounds of Rich Carver on a bun, topped with a pound of various vegetables from the fridge and Pilot Light. About a pound cut into small bites, drizzled in Inferno. A pound of fries from the freezer, air-fried to a crisp. I set a timer for 45 minutes, and dug in. As much as I hated to admit it, Jeremy had a point. I attacked the Inferno bites first, quickly taking them down in between handfuls of fries and gulps out of a milk jug from the fridge. The fiery ordeal was done in a matter of minutes, much less painful than last time. It was smooth sailing from there.

Visions of my humiliation flashed through my head as I took the sandwich bite by bite. It wasn’t quite Rich’s famous pulled pork, but it had a certain flavor to it. Plus, you could probably make cardboard edible if you put Carver’s sauce on it. His voice echoed in my head as I ate: Didn’t like my food, huh? I could see the image of him clapping Jeremy on the back so hard it almost knocked him from his chair. Jeremy. I wondered how he would fare in this round of Carver’s Challenge.

I could feel myself filling up but I was nearing the end. I was going to do it. The frenzy I felt back at the restaurant overcame me once more and I tore, chewed, and swallowed my way to victory. With a grin on my face that widened when I saw the timer, I popped the last bite. I had defeated Carver’s Challenge in 24 minutes, a minute faster than Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller.

The trek back to the car was slow and bloated, but I was triumphant. It was time to hit the road, but I had a couple pit stops to make. First: back to Rich’s house. Garbage bags in the trunk and a few pounds of ground Rich in a cooler. I did a once-over before I left, making sure the kitchen was as spotless as he normally kept it. Next was Carver’s BBQ Shack. Ignoring the CLOSED sign, I fumbled with Rich’s keys until the door opened, looked around a bit, and left with what I came for. I slipped my hard-earned I CARVED THE COMPETITION shirt over my head, and then broke a certain framed Wall of Fame photo over my knee.

That was just the beginning of my business with Jeremy. Cooler in the back, bags in the trunk, it was time for a road trip. I punched St. Louis into my GPS and pulled out of Carver’s for the last time, not looking back. Jeremy’s next, and final, challenge would be of my making. I was going to find him.

Carver’s wouldn’t open back up until tomorrow. I had a head start—no one would notice Rich’s absence for now. But they’d catch on soon enough. Whether I found Jeremy or the authorities found me first, this would all be over soon. Something shattered in me after Carver’s Challenge, and there would be no walking away from the things I did and would soon do. No return to normal life. I decided I would turn myself in after I finished up with Jeremy, confess it all. No one would talk about Just Mike puking into a bucket anymore—I would be immortalized as the man who truly carved the competition.

I just hope I can get Carver’s sauce on my last meal.

[Part 1]

Before I begin, thanks to u/Fund_Me_PLEASE. I actually tried your suggestion after my last post. Nothing happened. The wish wasn't granted, and my Zoro figurine is still gone.

The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster!

Things at work had gone bad. Like truly bad. Layoff bad. 

I spent most of my time thinking about what I would do if I were laid off. I was still on probation so I thought I was going to be the first one to be booted in my team.

I stopped buying merch for a while trying to save up money in case I was booted and had to survive on my savings for a few months.

No houseparties either. That shit’s expensive.

My therapist was very kind with her words of affirmation but she was also very grounded about the fact that this is a possibility I should be ready for.

I told her I wished it didn’t come to that. Not only was I good at what I did, I showed results from the first day in the office. Surely they didn’t think I was someone they’d want to let go.

That was last Friday. This Monday, my skip-level manager called me into his office. 

Whatever confidence I had about my skills and talent when I was talking to my therapist packed its bags and left for an impromptu vacation.

So there I was, sitting in his office like a lamb waiting to be devoured by a lion.

“You've probably heard about the downsizing.”

I nodded.

“It's been hard on everyone.”

“Yeah.”

He folded his hands on the desk.

“We've had to make some difficult decisions.”

There it was.

The execution speech.

I suddenly became very interested in a framed certificate hanging on the wall behind him.

“We're letting your manager go.”

My stomach dropped.

“She's going to spend the next few weeks transitioning her responsibilities to you.”

I blinked.

“Sorry, what?”

“To you.”

I stared at him for a second.

“I'm still on probation.”

“I know.”

“And you want me to take over her role?”

“If you're willing.”

I sat there trying to process what had just happened.

Five minutes ago, I was mentally calculating how many months of rent I could survive on.

Now I was being offered a promotion.

“Will the team even accept that?”

“That'll be your problem,” he said with a smile.

I laughed.

“Fair enough.”

“So that's a yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. HR already has the paperwork ready. Congratulations.”

The rest of the day was a blur. It was only once I was back home that I took it all in. My manager didn’t deserve to get laid off, and I certainly didn’t deserve to take her place. 

It was all so unexpected.

For some reason, I found myself thinking about the pizza and the missing figurine again.

I tried not to dwell on it.

Good thing I had an appointment with my therapist tonight. I would love to unload all of this on her.

So I pulled up the calendar app and there was no calendar entry.

All the office events were marked as they should but there was no entry for my 8 PM appointment.

Maybe I forgot to add it from the email.

So I checked the email and it turns out there wasn’t any from the therapist’s office.

Maybe I should give them a call and let them know this is unacceptable.

But nope, I somehow don’t have their number anymore.

Heck I even called my sister to ask about the therapist and the fact (I still maintain it’s a fact) that I’ve been seeing a therapist for the good part of a decade is news to her. Shit I forgot to tell her about the promotion.

I know she exists. I remember getting her up to date on my life with PPTs. I couldn’t find said PPTs even though I know exactly where I stored them on the cloud.

As a last resort, I tried searching for her office on Google and nope, nothing.

There’s a grocery store where her office used to be and it looks like it’s been there for at least 5 years judging by the 1-star “their apples are rotten, don’t recommend” review by some Karen.

This feels way too much like the collectible.

It’s like the universe is playing a sick joke on me. This is the opposite of dementia. Instead of my memories about things and people being erased, said things and people are being erased.

I’ve never faced something like this before. It’s only after I moved into this house that weird things started happening in my life and I don’t know what to do.

My brain kept circling back to the house. Ridiculous, I know.

Houses don't erase people.

I should probably check for a carbon monoxide leak. That should probably explain things.

So I ordered one and went to sleep.

Two days later I had the detector and I did a full sweep of every nook and cranny in the house.

No carbon monoxide poisoning.

Hanna marches up to the counter. “Oi, I want to enter." 

The man looks out over the desk and scans Hanna up and down. “You're sure?" 

“Yep." 

“Fair enough. Quickly, I'll lay out the rules, right?" 

“Sure!”

He inhales. “No weapons unless the crowd throws it in. Assuming you are let live but lose, you get 2% of the bet money placed. Win and you get 10% of the winnings. Here's the clothes to wear.” 

"Anything more for a woman?”

"No.”

“Ok then. Do I get extra pay to have my tits bouncing about? It's a great deal for you guys to be fair. Might even ‘accidentally’ fall on some of the crowd.”

He looks at her. Hanna takes her top off and throws it on the ground. She gets closer and moves his hand onto her breast.

"Go on, give them a test.”

He does.

"Pretty good aren't they? Surely worth a hundred bucks to have out?”

"Fine, yeah. Sure.”

“Awesome. When do I start?”

“Change and get in the queue. Either the endurance testing where you go until you quit or are taken out or in the 1v1.”

“Is the pay the same?” Hanna asked.

“You get an additional plus 0.1% added to the winnings but lose and that turns into a negative if you take on an endurance run." 

“So … I could end up having to pay you?”

The man tutted. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

“With my body?”

He nods.

“That’d be cool! Thanks mister.”

She pecks a kiss on his cheek and walks away to join the queue for the endurance line.

First Combat

They announce Hanna coming into the arena.

“Standing at 5ft flat and weighing in at 35kg … HANNA!”

The crowd fell silent at first confused if they meant an actual woman or not.

Hanna posed behind the curtain projecting her silhouette onto the fabric before jumping out and strutting down the walk to the arena.

She jumped and kissed one of the men along the walk and flipped over the barrier into the ring. She then blew a kiss to the crowd.

The bloodied man in the area instantly charged when the bell rang.

Hanna caught his left jab and rolled over his back. Landing quickly to her feet she cheered and clapped. The crowd quickly began chanting her name.

The man spat on the ground and came forward with a quick one two combo. Hanna sidestepped the first then dropped to the ground to avoid the next. She launched herself off the ground and wrapped her legs around the man’s waist.

She jabbed her hand into his mouth, released her legs and dropped to the floor again dragging the man down. Hanna rolled out of the way just before he landed.

Hanna skipped around the arena clapping her hands. Just as the man got to his knees, she bounded into the air, driving her shoulder downward directly into the back of his skull.

She quickly pushed her hand around and her finger found purchase in his eye socket. With a quick jerk, the body fell limp.

Hanna stood up with her hands held high before bowing to a cheering crowd.

The announcer came out into the arena.

“Holy fuck, what do you think of that?”

The crowd cheered. He handed the mic over to Hanna. “What a bitch. Next one better be a REAL man!”

The crowd erupted into cheers. Hanna handed back the mic.

“Wow. Feisty.”

Hanna leaned into the mic. “And hot?”

He pulled at his collar. “The next opponent stands at …”

Second Combat

“... 5 feet 7 inches, weighing in at 63kg … Exlora Winsto!”

Hanna frowned. “Are you kidding me?”

She walked over the ring side while Exlora walked down to the arena. “Hey, ready to make money? I'll take him out in one kick to the temple.”

“Ya fuckin what?”

Exlora stood up in the ring. The bell rang. In an instant, Hanna bounded and launched a spinning kick to the man's jaw. Her heel cracked the jaw with enough force, the crack was heard two rows from the sideline.

Spluttering from the blood already pooling in his mouth, Hanna placed a foot on his head, grabbed his shattered jaw with both hands and tore it off. She then dropped it to the ground and rolled Exlora onto his side.

The cheering subsided and turned to silence only to soon be replaced with booing as Hanna simply sat in the area watching the man bleed out.

A minute passed, then two.

Exlora shuddered. Hanna crawled over and kissed the man on the forehead. Seconds later, he died from blood loss.

The announcer came back in. “That was…”

Hanna snatched the mic. “Pathetic. I said a REAL man. Not some random boy.”

She dropped the mic down and sat on the floor. The announcer and crowd stared in disbelief for a moment before he began.

“What do you say then? Give her a challenge?”

The crowd exploded in vitriol, cheers and boos.

Third Combat

“Standing at 6 feet 8 inches, weighing 194kg… you know him, we all know him … BONE DUSTER!”

As soon as Hanna saw the man, she sprang up with wide eyed delight, clapping her hands and jumping around.

As the man stepped into the arena, Hanna skipped over and held her hand out. Duster shook her outstretched hand. She then, to the delight of the front row, ran around the perimeter slapping hands shouting, “BONE DUSTER! BONE DUSTER!”

Resting in the far corner before the bell, Hanna’s eye caught a group of nervous hands hovering. She leaned back her head. “What are you waiting for? I'm not here long.”

Of course, they grabbed at her. Hanna smiled over at the stone faced Duster.

The bell rang. They both shimmied to the centre of the ring. Duster sent out a tentative jab, Hanna stepped to the side. She gave a playful kick to his knee.

Another jab, quicker this time. A tap on the thigh by Hanna onto Duster.

A quick double jab from Duster. Hanna slapped his side.

Left jab, right hook. Much faster than before. Hanna steps around the strikes.

A smile slides onto Duster’s face. He stamps forward with a straight, right strike. Hanna flips back and locks her legs around his arm. She swings herself up and around to land behind Duster. He laughs as the crowd grows louder.

A wooden chair.

Hanna ran at the chair and rolled forward in the air catching the top of the chair mid rotation. Smashing it into the ground, Hanna then quickly grabs a large, jagged piece of broken wood.

Duster comes forward with a left hook. Hanna steps to one side then crouches under the right strike only to launch up with the wooden spike into Duster’s armpit. He winces.

Hanna raises a hand. Duster nods and walks to his corner. Hanna looks at the murmuring crowd then starts aggressively bobbing up and down. Laughter and cheering simmer to the surface.

Duster calls out, “Ready?”

“Sure am!”

She spots a man sliding a heavy chain into the area. Duster notices as well. Hanna darts to it. Duster backs up to the crowd and reaches a hand back.

She spots Duster fitting his brass knuckles and smiles. Hanna then tears the fabric from her waist to the rowdy cheers of the crowd, packs the chains inside and holds the now heavy fabric like a weighted sock.

Duster strode to the center of the area. Hanna sprinted forward then twisted her body aggressively swinging the weight around. As she did so, she tucked her legs in and began to descend in a circular downward motion.

Duster tried to lift his leg out of the way. With a terrible cry of pain, the bundled chains crashed into his shin. Springing from her knees to her feet, Hanna jumped back twice. Before he could react, Hanna swung round the weight one full rotation and, with the next, launched into the air.

The resulting impact to Duster’s back sent blood into the air and across the arena. The crowd fell silent again as they listened. Duster faintly wheezed.

Hanna dropped the weight and investigated the damage to Duster’s back. She clapped then looked into the crowd. “Want me to kill him or is he special?”

Loud deliberation burst through the crowd. Group after group in the crowd formed into one cohesive, definitive message - kill.

Hanna clapped and cheered. “YOU GOT IT!”

She forced her fingers into the wound on Duster’s back causing him to cry in pain. Hanna pushed in her other fingers and crouched down. She pulled the wound open further and pulled shattered bone from the bloody hole.

Finally big enough, she slipped a foot in, then the other.

She crouched. “Ready?”

One hand on his spine. “Countdown guys!”

The other hand on his spine.

A deafening countdown began from the crowd. On three, she pulled up.

Hanna released her hands in a spray of bodily fluids and bowed. The crowds stomping rumbled the area along with terrific cheers.

Hanna stepped out from the cooling corpse and walked over to where she got the chain. “Who put that there?”

An older man quickly raised his hand. Hanna smiled. “Get in here!”

He scrambled into the area. Hanna grabbed his head and planted a kiss on him. Somehow, the crowd cheered louder.

The man turned red and looked into the crowd. He raised his hand. They cheered.

The announcer, once again, walks out. “Well then … holy fuck … another round, Hanna?”

She leans into the mic. “What do you guys think?”

They cheer.

“Looks like they want at least one more round then.”

More applause and roaring. Hanna giggled to herself.

Fourth Combat

“This next one, new comers but they have been making waves. Maybe not as explosive as Hanna but waves nonetheless … I present to you, at a combined weight of 304kg! ANTONIO! Standing at 5 feet 7 inches and, standing at 6 feet 3 inches, his twin, MIGUEL!!!

It was clear instantly who had most of the weight and Miguel trundled down the walkway with Antonio on his back.

Hanna turned from them and walked near ringside. She looked at the men in the crowd, then jumped into them. She laughed as hands pulled and scrambled to get to her. A minute later, twins finally in the area, Hanna jumped back inside.

“Thank you guys.” She blew a kiss over her shoulder.

The bell rang out. Hanna forced her foot down into the ground and launched herself forward. Antonio flung a kick out, impacting Hanna's side. She held his leg tight to her body as they both fell to the ground.

With her hands on his heel, Hanna wrenched the leg back and kicked the knee simultaneously. The impact snapped the leg there and then. She dropped flat to the ground beside Antonio. Miguel, only now turning to see the impact, began to roar.

Before he could properly react, Hanna sunk her teeth into Antonio’s throat and tore a chunk away. Miguel stood for a moment over Antonio and Hanna.

Hanna slapped her hand into the rapidly pooling blood and smeared it across her body. She jumped up and stretched.

Miguel lumbered forward. Hanna jumped and rolled out of his way. She strutted over to the far corner and turned her back on Miguel. She started clapping with the crowd. As Miguel closed the gap, Hanna sprinted around high-fiving crowd members as she came around to Antonio’s body. Hanna grabbed one of the arms and kicked it.

She pulled a bone from the arm and pointed it at Miguel. A sledgehammer in hand, he swung his weight at Hanna. The arm of the hammer connected with her side with an audible crack sending Hanna flying into the arena perimeter.

Hanna got back to her feet and ran at Miguel. She launched herself into the air and wrapped her legs around his neck. Miguel looked up at Hanna. She drove Antonio’s snapped bone down Miguel’s throat and hopped off.

Miguel stumbled from side to side and eventually dropped the sledgehammer. Hanna picked it up, raised it and brought the head down onto Miguel’s left foot.

She wound up for another swing directly into his right knee. Then his hips. Then his chest and finally Hanna dropped it to the floor.

Once more uncertain, the crowd fell into quiet speculation. Hanna frowned. She looked down, a rib was protruding her skin. She grabbed it and pulled it free. Hanna forced the broken rib into Miguel right over his heart.

Picking back up the sledgehammer, Hanna smiled as more and more of the crowd nodded. One final swing and the fight came to an end.

The announcer comes out again and hands Hanna the mic. “Good match. Done now.”

The announcer looks at her. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah. Why? Is there someone better than them?”

He shakes his head. “They are not here today.”

Hanna shrugs. “Oh well. I’m cashing out. See you boys in the bar! I’ll be there soon.” Hanna blows a kiss into the crowd and skips out of the arena.

The astronomers missed it. Someone should have seen it coming. The world should have been warned. Every news program should have left off with whatever else they were covering. Wars should have stopped. There should have been podcasts.

Instead, on an otherwise unremarkable day in early June, half of the world was surprised when the Sun simply disappeared from the sky. (The other half of the world was already in darkness and would not find out about their antipodal neighbors’ situations for some hours, or until they checked the Internet.) Time will tell whether this was an apocalypse, but it certainly did not begin like one.

Planes did not fall out of the sky. There were car crashes, but not many. Hospitals did not fail; nuclear power plants did not melt down; office workers did not jump out of their tenth-story windows en masse. The most cinematic thing to happen was that a significant number of people looked up at the now-starry sky, all at the same time, like sheep looking up at a rainstorm.

There was a great coming-together in those first few hours. People helped their neighbors. Everyone waited, hardly breathing, for the Sun to come back. It didn’t.

It took a few days, but life went more or less back to normal. Well, mostly. The disappearance of the Sun created a great deal of despair. Suicides spiked after the third day, went way down, then slowly trended up. Church attendance rose, though not in the Abrahamic faiths.

A movement popped up from seemingly everywhere simultaneously, that the Sun had left, not because of some sin humanity had committed or cosmic accident, but because people had left the old ways behind. It was a revival of the old pagan belief that the order of the universe ran on human sacrifices of all kinds. Centuries without sacrifice led inexorably to disorder in the universe.

And so, as seems inevitable in retrospect, bands of new believers began crossing populated areas, performing acts that would make Charles Manson and his family blush with envy.

The true effectiveness of these groups was that their goal was simply death. It did not matter to them who died, except insofar as they preferred people willing to kill to be alive.

Jordan was late in getting home. Without the diurnal cycle, it was sometimes hard for him to tell what time it was. It wasn’t the first time his teenage daughter, Jemma, would have to cook dinner. He came home to a wide-open front door. He called Jemma’s name. There was no spoken reply, but there were various noises like movement and working coming from the house. He went in.

In the living room, he saw Jemma. Most of her body was tied to a chair in front of the fireplace. She had been split vertically from the base of her neck down through her crotch, and there was a fire in the fireplace upon which Jordan saw his daughter’s innards burning. His first thought, before the tragedy of his loss hit him, was that it must have been hard to get the wet organs to catch fire.

His second reaction was more primal than thought. He threw up and cried.

The noise from elsewhere in the house stopped. He heard scurrying, as though a thousand rats were running towards him from the rest of the home. It was not rats but sacrificers, though in that moment Jordan felt the rats had a greater moral value.

They had knives; he was unarmed. They were many; he was one. They were focused, honed by religious ecstasy and bloodlust; he was lost in a sea of grief.

The first stranger came at Jordan alone. Without thinking, he caught the man’s wrist and squeezed, causing him to drop the knife. Jordan caught it by the blade, slicing open his left hand. He switched hands with the knife and slit the man’s throat with one motion. Arterial spray blinded Jordan. Another charged from behind Jordan. He stabbed without looking and gutted this challenger. He withdrew his hand, still holding the knife, slick with gore. Jordan screamed, emptying himself entirely.

Despite two of their number falling, the remaining sacrificers lost no zeal. The five of them attacked as one unit, though they were hardly synchronized. Jordan ducked a blow from one, who overbalanced and tripped over him, landing on the poignard of another who had been trying to thrust it into Jordan’s back. She died with a smile on her face, but her killer was pinned under her.

Jordan took out another with a wild punch from his bloodied left hand. He felt something shift beneath his skin as one of his fingers - and his assailant’s nose - shattered under the blow. The two left standing looked at each other and seemed to communicate something without speaking or hardly moving. At the same time, they turned around and sprinted out of the house.

Jordan strode to the pinned sacrificer, who was struggling with her burden. He looked her in the eyes and said nothing as he stomped on her face until it was not recognizable as anything that had even once been human.

With the immediate crisis passed, Jordan’s adrenal glands went back into normal production. He threw up again, though it was just bile that mixed in with the pulverized remains of his assailant’s head. He looked around the room and his eyes once again alighted on Jemma, the light of his life, the only thing he hadn’t lost. But now he had.

He looked past the remains of his daughter, to where part of her was slowly cremating. It would be a squeeze, he knew, but he was pretty sure he could fit both of them in there. He turned up the gas, picked up his girl, crouched down, and crawled into the flames.