--It's a small room with no circulation--for air or for the stale stacks of paper that prove to you (without a doubt) that writing can be learned but not taught.
MFA manuscripts dress the hard wood table and you realize that a good book (which this (and all of these) is (are) not) is the only real diploma for a fictioneer. These stories are boring and unrealistic. After all, the real world is exciting, and you promise yourself that if you make it out of this alive, you'll write a completely realistic semi-autobiographical piece about your life as a freelance writer and DOG CATCHER (gotta pay those bills).
It's DOG CATCHING that got you in this pathetic little shit-hole up five floors in the world's second tallest educational building. Some kid wanted to get out of taking his finals and released a pack of chimera mutant mutts in the building. Not the store-bought variety either. Part Pit Bull, part snake, and part imagination, most of ‘em have at least two heads to bite you with, and their claws cut deep gouges into the solid stone steps.
It shouldn't have been be a big deal, but you came underprepared.
Your flamethrower's out of juice, you only have 14 irradiated hollow tipped tracking bullets which you saved because they cost a hundred times more than they ought to and you’re low on cash.
Five mutts are still out there and walking. Your heartburn was making you regret the chili-soy dog you had for breakfast but it's wearing off. You're a professional--you can do this. You take out your taser and put it on its max setting, grab your collar-cuffs and chain. You've decided to do this the "humane" way--It's cheaper. You take a deep breath, warm up with a little tai chi, and kick open the door.
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