𝗥𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗽𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗯𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆:
Two meddling teenagers and one very, very small town.
Slowly add a growing body count.
Mix well until mystery thickens.
One serial killer? Optional.
I won't talk about the length it took to finish this.
Welcome to the first half of the final chapter of GMSF.
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'kit fucking pouliot'
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"So here's what happened, ahh—" Kit's face skewers at the jabbing pain in his ribs spark as soon as he sat down, waiting until it subsided before he straightened carefully. Every bone in his body is screaming for some morphine, Xanax, anything. He really shouldn't be here, the doctor already warned him how much of a bad idea for his recovery this would be, but seeing the simmering anger that Aron Kiurtsch is struggling to keep under the mask that is cracking, the lines stretching across the posterity of casual arrogance, is enough for him to push through.
Enough for him to think the lack of morphine and the throbbing pain everywhere is worth it.
The petty act of kicking a man down into the mud is a nagging desire that Kit doesn't want to suppress.
Especially, if this was the man in question.
"Pouliot—"
Kit raises a hand at the nervousness of the detective. And he was doing so well, acting muffed and careful about all the gears working outside. But it's true— he's done his part. And he did it well. It was Kit's turn now. Kit gives him his best smile, face burning as the muscles ache underneath it.
If humans could feel like stretched jelly and cracking, crispy tiles.
"I'm fine. I'm careful. Plus, all I gotta do is talk, right? Gotta tell you— I'm a pretty good talker. Better talker than writer, and we all know I have skill."
Kit warms up his hands together, one heavily bandaged, the other wracked with thin scratches and wounds. He smirks as he deepens his voice. "Alright, so here's what happened. This is all back right after the funeral ended. My head is throbbing, been having a headache since that morning. I have migraines all the time. It's not pretty, but it happens.
