If you throw yourself to the ground begging the rodents for mercy

It is a pitiable display to be sure, the grovelling and weeping, snot all over your lips and chin, your shorts churning warm and thick. The squirrels have surrounded you, like forty of them, like the Forty Thieves, and it is undeniably the end, but your body refuses fate. It can't be this way! This isn't right! You're too important for all this. Don't they realise who you are?

The scurry parts their ranks, three of their number moving in formation toward your prostrated self, a .38 handgun hoisted on their little shoulders. You cannot even make noise now, producing only violent facial contortions, your every muscle stretching and bulging under the skin. Their fuzzy indifference makes it all the more terrifying. Their puffed cheeks unmoving, their dark eyes betraying no light of compassion. There shall be no mercy.

And then he comes. Squirrel Rivera. The legend. He gestures and the trio move with military precision, the barrel pressed against your temple. It feels like a papercut. Colour drains out of the world.

You do not see which of them pulls the trigger.

The End.