Mike Rigs (request)

The restaurant was decked to the halls with magnets. Magnets were fucking everywhere, I couldn’t exaggerate more. They were in the hallways and the Party Room. You couldn’t sit on the toilet without the all too familiar horseshoe formation poking into your ass. Michael Bartholomew Schmidt was the apex of night watchmen. Foxy was destroyed on his second night on the job, having been taken out by a combination of pipe wrenches and subliminal trauma inducement pulled directly from the pages of MK Ultra. Mike’s dad, Jojo Percival Schmidt, took part in those experiments. Maybe that’s why Mike has such a strong disliking of shady, sunglasses wearing men to this day.

But thinking’s for pussies. And sober people, Mike noted as he took a swig from his flask. It was filled with hard lemonade.  He heard a screech from somewhere in the pizzeria. “Must’ve walked into the deadlights,” Mike thought.

A shotgun blast ripped through the pizzeria’s walls. It was on the east side. “Sounds like someone just stumbled into the shotgun maze.”

Further BM-BM k-chkks confirmed his guess. Chica ain’t gonna be cooking for much longer.

Pft. What a retard.

All that was left was Freddy. Who was still on stage. God knows why.

“It’s time to get real” Mike said, as he poured in some Budweiser. “Things are about to get dangerous.”