A Coin for the Pimple Popper
He places the coin into the indentation, and the room falls silent. His eyes widen as his heart skips several beats. A breath catches in his chest, and a thin bead of sweat forms across his upper lip. His hand trembles as it hovers above the statue’s head.
Then—almost as if anticipating his next move—the statue rises from the ground.
Marcus panics, clawing at the coin, trying to dig it out, but the statue pushes him away. The room spins violently, shaking the very foundations of the building and sending Marcus sprawling to the floor.
He looks up from the ground, staring at the statue as it towers over him—a silent guard of the ark, its full form finally revealed. Ancient texts spoke of the guard’s purpose, speculated on its form, and hinted at how it came to be. But in a few priceless moments, the coin answers everything Marcus hasn’t dared to imagine.
He scrambles to his feet, staring in awe at the magnificent figure. The delicate details etched into its surface make it seem alive. For a moment, he almost mistakes it for a living being. Moments ago, it had been dormant—unmoved for centuries—and now it stands before him, ready for whatever comes next.
His breath catches again as the statue appears to shift. He blinks several times, slaps himself across the cheek, and mutters, “Don’t be a deluded idiot!”
Grimacing, he scrunches his nose and curls his lips before taking a deep breath. Slowly, he reaches out. His breaths come in stutters as his fingers brush against the cold, stony surface of the statue. Relief washes over him, and he exhales shakily.
Chuckling softly, he shakes his head. “Sometimes, you read way too much fiction,” he mutters. He removes his cap, runs a weary hand through his hair, and gazes into the empty, iridescent eyes of the statue.
Its lips curl, and a growl rumbles from deep within.
The statue lunges—unyielding stone fingers latch onto Marcus’s arm before he can react. Its icy grip is relentless, and he barely has time to scream before the first wet, sickening crack echoes through the room. His bone splinters, tearing through flesh and muscle.
He howls like a madman, his voice stripped and raw. He claws at the statue’s hand with his free one. A river of blood gushes down his arm in thick streams, pooling at his feet. Sweat pours from his brow as he stammers incoherently. Then, in a moment of indescribable pain, the statue twists his arm cruelly. The sound of sinew snapping and muscle shredding fills the air—a grotesque symphony.
“P-P-Please!” Marcus cries out, his words barely audible through his sobs and gasping breaths. But the statue doesn’t pause. Instead, it yanks the arm sharply, wrenching it from its socket with a fleshy, bone-crunching pop. The limb tears away in a violent spray of crimson, painting the walls and floor with macabre artistry.
Marcus clutches the torn stump where his arm had been, whimpering as blood pumps from the jagged mess in rhythmic spurts. Each heartbeat brings him closer to unconsciousness—and whatever comes beyond. His screams falter. A tremble cascades through him.
As he drops to his knees, swaying in a growing pool of blood, he lets out a guttural wail. The statue steps forward, the severed arm still clutched in its hand. Its lips curl again, stone grinding on stone as its growl deepens.
It grabs his head with its other hand and squeezes—popping it like a pimple in an explosion of red.
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