It's 2018, so you know, college student Regina Synger is super broke.
Regina Synger can't remember a time when it wasn't like this. Things get weird when you've had to stay up longer than 24 hours. Gravity doesn't feel the same. The clocks tick too loudly. All the hands are too fast. Is she Regina? She's not sure. She just came up to us and started talking because she needs to vent.
"I don't mean to kill so many industries," Regina swallows, "It just sort of happens. I don't have any money to spend. All of the income from my five jobs falls into the student debt hole. The sun rises and suddenly there's another think piece about how killed another industry."
Regine puts her cheek on the table and takes a deep sniff. We stare, and she does it again.
"There was food here once," She says hungrily, zoning out.
"Is there anything else you want to add," We scoot back, "Like that whole hitwoman thing you mentioned?"
"Oh yeah," Her eyes light up, "I figure if I'm so good at killing industries, I'll be amazing at killing people. Do you know how much hitwomen get paid? I'm pretty sure it's a lot. There's not an exact figure obviously, because if any of them report their earnings they'll get arrested. But killing someone is a lot to ask. I bet they charge a lot."
Her stomach rumbles, "Plus, you basically get a free meal when you're done. As long as the body is gone, hirers don't care what you do with it."
We lift a hand to ask her if she's lost her mind. Regina lunges, salivating at the mouth. Before we can say anything, she starts grinding our fingers into nothing. As we scream for God's mercy, she thanks us and tears what's left of our hand off.
We're live-tweeting with one hand to the editor. Hopefully, they'll publish it so we have a record of what happened after we pass o