You cower behind your table.

You duck and cover your face with your hands. There's a sickening crunching sound, and a collective gasp of horror from the other customers of the coffeeshop.

You risk a look. Bald Guy has tucked the box under his arm and is fishing something out of his vest pocket. Brockner's face is a bloody, pulpy mess.

An impulse to do something grips you. What if you threw your laptop?

The End

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