“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.


Crate, Fowl, Gaiters.