…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.


Vic sat in the holding cell, still bloodied and bruised from the night before, and waited for Gina to come bail him out.

This was basically his life now: He’d be going about his business, just doing what he always did…but whenever he’d hear a Carrie Underwood song, no matter where or when or under what circumstances, he’d black out.

And then he’d come to, several hours later, usually in jail, and always looking like he’d just gone a couple rounds in The Octagon.

Hunched over on the stainless steel bench, cradling his aching head in his swollen hands, Vic came to two conclusions:

1) He should’ve trusted his instinct when it told him NOT to volunteer to go up onstage during that hypnotist’s show he and Gina went to a few weeks back.

2) He was probably going to have to resign as Carrie Underwood’s manager.


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