“I hope you wore your Level 3 Boots. They’re the only way through here ‘live.”
Chicken faces kept pecking straight through crates @ the passing feet like jump scares, spreading wood chunks everywhere. But they clinked harmlessly off the boots’ metal before jumping back inside the darkness.
“¿It’s gotten that bad?” said 1 pair o’ feet.
“Since the `heroic’ death o’ Chicken Well-Done.”
“¿What’ll we do?”
“Don’t know. Nobody’s willing to buy them @ this vitriol–& if nobody buys them, the profits…”
“The Mammonth.”
Suddenly the midautumnmidnight warehouse became e’en chillier.