Super Shotgun

                                    

                                          
"Oh, fuck. I am SO mentally ill for that man." beside your friend and fellow intern at the ARC, you sat and raved, working through a bottle of the Meade that one of your coworkers had spent years perfecting the recipe for. 
                          
You were part way through one of your more regular sessions; getting drunk with a pot of cheap macaroni and cheese while ranting incessantly about your favorite topic: the doom slayer.
                          
"You've told me, in graphic detail, far too often."
                          
"And you know what?"
                          
"You're about to do it again?" 
                          
"I am about to do it again." You took another deep drink. "I want this man to take me bloody and raw on the floor while he is actively killing demons. I want him to rearrange my guts manually and force me to throat that gauntlet blade of his. I want to fuck him with his supershotgun and ride his dick while I do it, I want to sit on his face until I smother him and then let him bench-press me off of his tongue. I want him to rut into me and twist my body until my legs are dislocated, I want him to render me black and blue and make me cry with those massive hands of his. I am so fucking thirsty, I am parched, I am in fucking doggy style presenting myself to have my insides permanently deformed by the third leg of a dick I know this man has!" 
                          
Oh, and what great legs he had too, great legs and a stellar ass, an ass for the fucking record books.
                          
He nodded serenely from beside you and drank from his own bottle. 
                          
"Okay I mean, ew, but also lowkey same."
                          
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You, as one of the interns (luckily a paid one), were normally sent on the worst tasks. That included going down into the basement in the middle of a DEMON INVASION to reset the breaker switches so that the building wasn't plunged into blackness. 
                          
Imagine your surprise when you opened the door to the electrical room and were forced to immediately slam it shut when something so not human in a very unattractive way decided to growl its dead-flesh breath in your face. 
                          
You were pretty sure (like at least 70% sure) that you were going to die. But instead, you were regaled with the strangely unique sounds of breaking bones as something happened to the creature that was trying to break into your room.
                          
Whatever happened to it, it certainly wasn't trying to break in anymore. 
                          
You peeked out into the hall, cautiously glancing around at the literal trail of eviscerated demons that suddenly appeared in place of the clean linoleum flooring. 
                          
"Damn, I'll have to clean this up, won't I?" 
                          
Probably. 
                          
Definitely. 
                          
Maybe some of them had some cash on them?
                          
It was only when a growling rumbled down the hall that your brain restarted and you realized that no matter how tempting the thought of dead demon riches were, you had to move unless you wanted your life to end. 
                          
So you ran, in the fashion of someone with nothing to lose (so a broke college student in the end of the world), in the direction that the path of complete and utter carnage led. 
                          
"Hold the lift!" you broke into a full sprint as something skidded into the hallway behind you. "Fuck! Hold the lift!" 
                          
You threw the Philips head screwdriver that you had initially used to pry open the warped edge of the breaker box. It pinged through the closing door of the elevator and gave you the last few seconds that you needed to slide through the doors on a puddle of blood.