by T.C.W. Stray
It was a moment of weakness, I admit. I just wanted to know what she was like outside of work, where all our conversations are colored by the positions we hold. When she asked me to take care of her cats, while she went out of town for the weekend, it was the perfect chance. So, after giving food and water to her exceptionally rolly-polly feline companions, I went through her apartment. The porn and the fetish gear weren't that surprising, neither was the stash of "bodice-buster" romance novels under her bed. But the body parts in the freezer and the pints of blood in the refrigerator were more than I'd bargained for – especially when she appeared beside me, out of thin air, and smirked.
T.C.W. Stray, author of Pitch and Rust, spends most of the day sleeping and most of the night working. Everything left over is spent writing and reading and daydreaming to excess. If one could get rich from such antics, T.C.W. Stray would put the Monopoly Man to shame.