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Buried ch. 6 - Sam SnapsDisclaimer: I've already said it 5 times before, but I guess I'll half to say it again - I DO NOT OWN DANNY PHANTOM!
"Please tell me you're joking." Even though Jazz knew they weren't, she just couldn't force herself to believe what she was hearing. Danny wasn't with any of them last night, and Jazz just told her parents that he was sleeping over at Sam's. But there she was right now standing in front of her, with Tucker, but no Danny.
"I wish I were." Came Tucker's long awaited response.
"But if he's not here, and he was never with you, then where is he?" Jazz was frantic. She shut the door behind her so that her parents wouldn't hear.
"How am I supposed to know? It's like you said, he wasn't with me last night!" Tucker replied.
"But you're the ones who hang out with him all the time, you should know!" Jazz panicked.
"Ya, but just because we do hang out with Danny, doesn't mean that we know where he is all the time! I mean we're his friends, not his monitors, right Sam." No answer. Tu
Inspector Wolf The old lady was dead. I could smell it before I even got into the house. The whole place reeked of adrenaline, sweat, fear, copper and steel. He’d dropped her right in her living room. Chopped and chopped until she stopped moving. But I could tell I was getting close. This had been done in a hurry, and the killer didn’t have the time to clean up after himself like he usually did.
Across the room, the phone rang. The shrill sound set my teeth to grinding, but I ignored it. Instead I followed the killer’s bloody footprints into the back bedroom. He’d climbed out the window. If I hurried, I could catch up to him and end this disgusting spree he was on.
Then the answering machine kicked in. “Hi, Gramma! It’s Red. Sorry I’m running late. I kind of lost track of time. But don’t worry. I packed the picnic and I’m heading out the door right now. Love you.”
She’d been expec
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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