Ripped by Lynn Townsend
The wretches stayed away, stayed away in droves. When forced to leave their meager shelters, they did so quickly, cautiously. Groups of them, like a murder of crows in their dark cloaks and shapeless hats. They gabbed and crowded the street corners and like crows, were gone as soon as night blanketed the city.
Even sheep will learn. And that’s all they were, squealing, terrible little sheep, with their tiny eyes and their dirty asses. Never as clean as a painter portrays them, not puffy adorable fluffs of wool, but dingy and stupid, endlessly chewing and bleating.
Revolting.
Worse yet to be one of them.
No matter that he was the wolf in the fold, he was still one of them. In those last seconds before the fragile heart stopped, those last moments of life, after
