The Most

His name was Daniel Most and he was in trouble. Not nearly as much trouble as his companion, Chris Cassidy, but enough to make him taste the sweat beading on his lips.

How the hell did I get into this jam? His mind constantly implored. Looking over at Cassidy, situated in a wheelchair on the other side of the claustrophobically stuffy room, Daniel could see where she had ravaged his once beautiful body. In the time since their abduction all those months ago, Cassidy’s once athletic physique and toned muscles had been supplanted by a frail and morbidly twisted frame. Daniel realized that after Cassidy died, his own mass would be the target of her insatiable appetite for carnal excitement.

A noise. Footsteps on the stairs? He began to sweat profusely, his throat tightened. Cassidy had slipped into unconsciousness. No, just a light hail on the roof, he assured himself and as if he had drank some miracle elixir, his body relaxed and the sweat was again confined to his upper lip.

Eventually, however, Daniel knew that he would hear her monstrous footsteps slowly thudding up the staircase. An absence of a clock in the room did not matter; he knew exactly when the noise her weight being strenuously lugged up towards the door would resound in his ears, and when he would see that door fly off its hinges and Death itself protrude over the threshold with a smile.

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