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A Worse Idea 117

In an instant, Randy realized he had to fight for his life. A big part of him still wanted to die, but there was a spark of something there, the realization that no matter how bad things got, he had to keep going.

He slammed the palms of his hand against the table, pushing his chair back. It scraped against the linoleum cafeteria floor, making a terrible screeching sound.

Mac’s fist just barely missed Randy’s chin. Mac stumbled forward, while Randy’s chair fell backwards.

Randy put his arms out, and his palms greeted the floor. He backflipped out of the chair, landing on his two feet.

Mac reoriented himself, positioning himself in a fighting stance. “Do you have a death wish, or don’t you? Make up your fuckin’ mind.”

Alarms rang. Security guards yelled. Randy couldn’t believe he was fighting for his life.

Darts whizzed.

One hit Mac in the neck — knocked the motherfucker out cold.

The chair was in Randy’s hand. He blocked the dart. It pierced through the chair; it was one tough-ass dart, designed to break through whatever skin it needed to.

Randy threw the chair in the direction of the three guards. They had on mecha suits, so the chair bounced off to little effect.

“Stand down!” one of the guards yelled.

If I stay in here, Randy thought, I might not survive.

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