Bowiepasta

 

It’s the end of the year if you hadn’t noticed, so I wanted to put up a very special post to celebrate a time of thankfulness, giving, generosity, and … Oh, who am I kidding? It’s a Bowiepasta! Enjoy!

 


 

Ragged breathing fills the tiny closet as Brian fumbles his phone. He snatches it up and stares at the text message on the screen:

Adam: Where are you, man? He’s coming. He got my family.

Brian’s face pinches, his throat like sandpaper as he works to swallow—as he works to breathe. He pulls at his hair and fights the urge to rock back and forth. Thinking. Panicking.

It’s just an urban legend, it’s just an urban legend. Brian’s mantra. It’s not working. If it were only an urban legend, Brian wouldn’t be hiding in the closet.

His phone flashes another text notification. He checks it:

Adam: Are you ok? No lights in your house on. Where are you?!

Brian shakes his head, a small keening sound escaping his lips. No, no, no, he thinks, can’t be. After all, his mom is out on the front porch right now passing out candy. Brian strains to hear something, anything, but the house is deathly quiet. That’s not right. No, no, no, not right, not right.

A high-pitched wail slices through the silence. Brian flinches, tears streaming down his face as that terrible scream echoes through his head. He can feel his pulse pounding. He can hear it. No, that’s … Footsteps.

And they’re close.

Brian reaches blindly around the floor beside him. As his fingertips find the cool metal barrel, his breath finally comes easier. Some kind of relief. The footsteps get closer. Oh, god, it’s real. It’s real. Brian can’t deny it anymore. Now he’s just hoping to hell he won’t have to pull the trigger.

The footsteps move into his bedroom, tracing the perimeter. He can hear the scuffling, shuffling of the man in his bedroom, searching.

Searching.

Searching.

Finally, the footsteps stop in front of the closet. The door is flung open with such force that it slams against the wall, the thud of the impact drowned out by a resounding crack.

There in the doorway stands DAVID MUTHA FUCKIN’ BOWIE. **insert axe music**

The floor beneath Bowie opens and flames lick at the edges, framing him in a halo of fire. Crows kamikaze dive at the bedroom windows, some breaking the glass, others getting stuck in the screen, all shrieking calls of worship to the Rock God.

But the show is for nothing, as Brian sits slumped in the closet missing half his head.

 


 

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