Where Warthogs Go

The Iron Warthog mask sat in the mud. The circus had long deserted the fields. A farmer picked up the metal mask and put it on the head of a scarecrow. The birds were terrified.

Greg washed his face in a stream. Stubble. Receding hair fuzz. He sat there for hours. Contemplating his existence. Why am I so self-serving? It would’ve been better to die all those years ago. Back before the Volkov ordered him to kill Alice.

“I am a fucking loser…” He said.

Run? Hide? No. Impossible. Change? There was no coming back from what he did… He had killed and tortured dozens of people. Grown enjoyment in it.

Greg found himself at a local police station on the outskirts of Paris.

“Oh tiens, voilà un sans-abri qui arrive…” A policeman said. ("Oh look, here comes a homeless man...")

“Murder! I am a murderer! Murder!” Greg said.

“Il parle anglais… Et il est agressif,” the police officer said to his partner. (“He’s speaking English… And he’s aggressive.”)

“Allez, menottes!” (“Cuff him now!”)

The officer rushed over. Greg pushed to the floor and cuffed. To the slaughterhouse...