I turn around and see my truck being smashed into a snow bank by a battered vehicle covered with paint scratches and blood. The driver has fused with his machine. Wires run from the steering column into his arms like veins, and a pair of segmented tubes connect his eyes to the dashboard. He revs his engine, which makes a deafening sound somewhere between a roar and a scream.
I start to run, but I slip and fall on a patch of ice I neglected to salt. The truck speeds toward me, its plow a giant, ravenous mouth. My life, consisting entirely of memories of plowing snow, flashes before my eyes.
In my final moments I frantically search my pockets for something to throw at the truck's windshield. All I find is an empty crack globe. Devoid of snow, it looks vaguely mocking, like the snow inside has escaped and is going to fall on the human race forever.
William "drawbot" Cook described this illustration assignment as "the perfect way to get back at winter"; contact him here if you'd like to commission other forms of artistic revenge against seasons!
Don't expect me to bust out a story about a positive gym experience. My sole purpose is to tell you which hellish gyms to stay away from. My head is a lump of dough. It is comprised of water, yeast, and flour.
Classic pick up lines for the sleazebag who tends to overthink things.
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