The messenger - tattered, road-filthy, redolent of some recent fire - burst into Hot Time HQ, interrupting another ill-tempered afternoon filled with ignored FOIA requests and denied press-pass applications. “Nothing,” he gasped, slumping to the floor, as everyone present scrambled to assist, moving aside chalkboards and chairs to fashion a makeshift bed on the dusty concrete.
“They’re changing nothing,” he whispered as he lost consciousness. Beneath his jacket and hoodie was a dirty, faded Naked Raygun t-shirt. In my desperation, I tore it straight down the sternum, and beheld the messenger’s fate.
Hoof marks. Hoof marks covering his torso, his arms, his back.