Schulz’s specter vanishes and all is quiet. As if on cue, however, there is the sound of scratching. The halls of my bunker echo with the noise of claws on steel, distant at first, but growing louder, nearer. I am holding my prized “beat stick”, it stands in my hands without confidence. It is used to being held in anger, but this is new. It’s being held in fear. “The Howling Madness”, it must be what’s out there. Above the screeching of claws I can hear muttering, the voice is familiar. Is… Is that Richard Nixon?

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