So there you are, innocently battering pedestrians with a bus in Grand Theft Auto when you hear that dreaded, menacing sound; a warning of sorts, it’s the closest thing to a rattlesnake’s “chchchchchch” that mankind has yet evolved. The hair on your arms stands on end, your body tenses, your butt cheeks clench, and your palms begin to sweat. You feel your toes begin to push down on the ground slightly, ready to run (instinctively you opt for the “flight” over the “fight” because you’re a pansy). You try to ignore it, but it just gets louder and louder, unwilling to bear your charade of ignorance. Finally, the sound reaches a volume and tone that elicits your response, a reflex aimed at self-preservation.
“Schnuckums!? Are you listening to me?”
“Uh…” You say, your voice waivering. “Yeah babe, I hear you.”
“Are you ready?” the predator bellows, baiting the prey.
“Ready for what… beautiful?” You reply, hoping that somehow the interrogative will provide you an escape while tossing in the compliment at the end to ease the delivery, like the flavoring those bastards put in NyQuil.
“Don’t even try that crap on me. Get off your ass. We’re going shopping.” The snare tightens around your feet. You’ve been caught. Resistance is now futile.
Now that you’ve been reduced to the status of indentured servant, there are a few things you must remember in order to survive. The full moon that is a monthly sale has turned your once kind, sweet girlfriend into a vicious, bloodthirsty monster. A wereshopper, if you will. Like a lycanthrope, but much more subtle in its preferred murderous methods. You’re about to venture into a dark, dangerous place. Stick with me, and you’ll be stronger, more courageous, and not single when it’s over. Welcome to the jungle.
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