Super Trick or Treat System

"I saw."

"Yes... come... for... you."

These words are nothing but melodrama: two-dimensional. He is the master of his body, isn't he? He is not afraid of the darkness and is painted black. For many people, isn't this what makes him weaker than humans? Even more, more than humans; bloody, sweaty, and fleshy. Many arms, many legs, many heads. Greater strength and greater appetite. What can **** do? Eat him, he will taste bad breath. To freeze him, he was too passionate, too fast, and too alive.

He would accept nothing, he was a savage gentlemanly.

No matter day or night.

Voight was in pain: his pain was in his breathless breath, in the debris of his staggering steps. They are only fifty meters away from the steps and the finish line, but Voight's lead has been eroding. Each step brings the runner closer.

Then the bargaining started.

"Hear me out."

"what do you do?"

"Strength...I will gain strength for you...just...let...we win."

Joel is almost by his side now.

"too late."

His legs are elated: his brain spins happily. Hell is behind him: Hell is beside him, what does he care about? He can run. He passed, fluent in joints: a simple machine.

A familiar person said: "Asshole. Asshole. Asshole-" His face was twisted with the pain of pressure. When Joel passed by, didn't that face flicker? Its characteristics did not seem to be lost, but temporarily disappeared. Then, Voight fell behind him, the crowd was cheering, and the colors flooded back to the world. This was a victory ahead. He didn't know why, but he still won. .

There was Cameron, he saw him now, standing next to a man Joel didn't know, on the steps of a man in a pinstripe suit. Cameron smiled, shouted with extraordinary enthusiasm, and waved to Joel from the steps. He ran faster to the finish line if he had any, his strength was attracted by Cameron's face. Then his face seemed to change. Is it because of the hot mist that makes his hair shiny? No, the flesh on his cheeks is now bubbling, and there are still some dark spots on his forehead and neck. Now his hair was rising from the top of his head, and the flames flickered from his scalp. Cameron was burning. Cameron was burning, still smiling, still beckoning.

Joel suddenly felt desperate.

Hell behind. Hell is ahead.

Not Cameron. Cameron has nowhere to go: Cameron is gone.

He knew this in his intestines. Cameron is gone: this black parody who mocked him and welcomed him is his last moment, replaying the joy of his admirers.

Joel's steps faltered, and the rhythm of the steps disappeared. On his back, he heard the breath, the sound was very thick, tight and close. His whole body suddenly rebelled. His stomach asked to throw its contents away, his legs were about to break apart from crying, his head refused to think, just afraid.

"Run," he said to himself. "Run. Run. Run."

But **** is here. How could he encounter such a foul?

Voight narrowed the gap between them and stood on his shoulders, rushing towards him as he passed. Victory is easily taken away from Joel: baby sweets.

The finish line was a big step away, and Voight took the lead again. Joel hardly knew what he was doing, and as he ran, he reached out and grabbed Watt and his undershirt. This is a kind of deception, everyone in the crowd knows it well. But what hell.

He yanked at Voight, and the two stumbled. The crowd deviated from the track and fell heavily, with Voith standing above Joel.

Joel’s arms stretched out to prevent him from falling too hard, and his arms were crushed by two body weights. He suffered a severe scratch and fractured his forearm. Joel heard it moments before he felt convulsions. Then the pain cried out of his mouth.

On the steps, Burgess screamed like a savage. Fair performance. Critics commented that the camera was shooting.

"Get up and get up!" the man shouted.

But Joel grabbed Voit with one of his good arms and didn't let him go. The two turned around in the gravel, each roll crushed Joel's arm and blasted nausea through his stomach. The familiar band is exhausted. Never been so tired: the owner did not prepare for the pressure of the game. It has a short temper and poor control. Joel smelled his breath, it was the smell of goat.

"Show it," he said.

The eyes of things have lost their pupils: now they are all white. Joel took out a mass of condensed phlegm from his thick mouth and spit it on the face of an acquaintance.

Bad temper.

The face melted. What seemed to be flesh germinated new similarities and became a trap for devouring people without eyes, nose, ears or hair.

Everywhere, the crowd drew back. People screamed: People fainted. Joel saw nothing: but he heard the cry with satisfaction. This change is not only for his benefit: it is common sense. They saw everything, truth, sordid and blatant truth.

The mouth is very big, with teeth arranged, like some deep-water fish fish maw, it is too big. Joel has a good arm under his jaw, and he managed to keep it low while he was crying for help.

No one came forward.

The crowd stood at a polite distance, still screaming, still staring, unwilling to interfere. This is purely an audience movement fighting the devil. It has nothing to do with them.

Joel felt his last strength staggering: his arms could no longer open his mouth. In despair, he felt the teeth on his forehead and chin, piercing his flesh and bones, and finally felt the white night attack him, his mouth was covered by his face.

The familiar stood up from the corpse, Joel's head sticking out between his teeth. It took off its mask-like function, leaving behind a pile of blood and muscle twitching. In the naked eyes of Joel's mouth, the base of his tongue patted lightly, spouting a burst of sadness.

Burgess didn't care how he appeared in the world. The game is everything: victory is victory, but victory. Jones was cheated after all.

"Here!" he yelled to someone familiar. "heel!"

It turned his **** face.

"Come here," Burgess ordered.

They were only a few yards apart: after a few steps forward, the game was won.

"Run to me!" Burgess screamed. "Run! Run! Run!"

The familiar person is tired, but knows the owner's voice. After Burgess called, it suddenly rushed to the line. Four steps. Three-pointer-Kinderman crossed the finish line. myopia.

Leading, participated in the game without knowing that he had won, and didn't even see the terror spreading under his feet.

There was no cheer when he passed the team. No congratulations

The air around the steps seemed to darken, and off-season frost appeared in the air.

Burgess shook his head apologetically and fell over. "Our father, who is crying in the sky, should not call your name-"

Such an old trick. Such a naive response.

The crowd began to shrink. Some people are already running. The children know the nature of being touched by the darkness recently, so they are the least disturbed. They took their parents' hands and led them away from the scene like a lamb, telling them not to look back. Half of their parents remembered the womb, the first tunnel, the first sore exit from the Holy Land, the first terrible temptation. Looking back, it's dead. Remember, they went with the children.

Only Kindman didn't seem to have moved. He sat on the steps, washed his glasses, smiled and won, indifferent to indifference.

Burgess knew that his prayer was insufficient, so he turned around and disappeared into the Palace of Westminster. The familiar, deserted, gave up the requirement of human appearance and became himself. Stubborn, plain, it spit out Joel Jones' foul-smelling flesh. After chewing halfway, the runner's face was lying on the gravel beside his body. The familiar leaned into the air and returned to the circle it called home.

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