You realize as you drift down into the softness of a rain soaked forest that you're a wolf, wrapped in a red cloak, the hood masking your face and fangs in shadow, and as the parasol that is the dark inverse of the umbrella of paragons of good like Dumbledore or Mary Poppins places your paws on dark earth you slink into the cabin to take the place of Grandma-
My what-
Friday night. Saturday morning. I got drunk. I had no taste for sanity's porridge, just the chaos of calamity in cool glass. Bird bones, mayhap, the rotten corpse of a squirell, dogs get sick all the time...get into all sorts of weird shit back there in the wilderness.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Wrong you drunkard fuck. Pancreatitis. Wrong. Wrong.
Two to go. Then that nine, me and you.