After some time—but time doesn’t matter to you anymore—Randall leads you over to the sallow-faced Family. The patriarch looks you over. “Yes, he’ll do,” he says. Randall bows deeply and leads you back into the prep room. You do not protest as you are stripped of your clothes. Or your skin. The pain is agonizing, but that doesn’t matter anymore, either. A dim part of you recoils in horror as the prep cooks begin cutting into your abdominal cavity, but the evil of this place and a lifetime of food service has long since flensed away your will to resist.
The End.
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