His now headless body lays where it fell, in a large pool of coagulated blood, on the cabin floor of the sleeping quarters he has used for the past six months, next to his unmade bed. What remains of his head consists of small pieces of skull; his once handsome face and his slicked back, jet black hair embedded in the ceiling and surrounding walls of the small cabin. His hidden stash of marijuana and cocaine is now un-smokeable and non-injectable from the bloody contamination. It is now less than 24 hours since he saw the blinding flash from the business end of the shotgun. The last thing going through his mind at the time was 40 small metal pellets. His limbs are stiff and he is starting to smell.

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    When the Dream Becomes a Nightmare

    • When the Dream Becomes a Nightmare