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Henry stepped out onto the pavement of the road, looking down the length of sweltering blacktop. The cracked and broken pavement shifted under his foot, and for a second he thought he might fall, cut down by the hot sun and the lack of water. But he only swayed from side to side, then took another step. He crossed the road slowly, making sure to keep his center of balance straight, because he knew if he fell, he would not rise again. The sun beat down on him, and not a cloud in the sky offered him shade or rest. To
He heard it behind him, snuffling like a dog. It was too close now, far too close to outrun it again. Even now, so near death, he found the strength left to shamble forwards in a poor imitation of a jog. He heard a whistling sound as it swung at him. He fell forwards, as if he tripped over a curb, and the swing missed, describing a deadly arc inches from his spine. His teeth felt loose in his head, and he tasted blood, a coppery taste that seemed to dull his senses. His ears felt like they were underwater, and his extremities, such as fingers and toes, seemed to be gone. He staggered forwards one more step, and his foot left the blacktop and once again hit soft sand, treacherous sand. It took another swing towards him, and this time, he braced for the blow. He was far too gone for him to dodge again. It struck him midway up the back, causing his back to flare into an arch. He fell sideways, his arms outstretched but facing the wrong way. His head connected with the ground and he blacked out.
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Now the memories shifted faster. All he saw was the slow misery he had endured for five more weeks.
With a shudder, he came out of his trance-like coma. The thing stood over him, raising its weapon for another strike. He clenched his eyes shut, and awaited the final blow. It
[[File:The Horribly Slow Murderer with the Extremely Inefficient Weapon by Richard Gale|thumb|309x309px]]
[[Category:Not Sure if Troll or Trying to Be Serious]]
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