They came with their pitchforks and their torches. It didn’t take long before they had those impostors right where they wanted them, right inside that dilapidated shack out by the lake.
They formed a tight circle making sure that no one got out, that no one made a break for it. One of the villagers then stepped forward with his torch, dropping it at the base. It would only be a matter of time now.
If you asked why they were doing this, all their answers would be different. And none would be very good.
But the mob had spoken…
The Weekday One Hundred 