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!
Now, inexplicably, season three is looming over us like some sort of dome. Season one's plot asked whether or not the town could get out from under the dome. Apparently the answer was "no". Season two asked "I guess we're really stuck, huh?" and the answer was "yup".
With an average of 40 IPAs added every day, it can be difficult to taste them all
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