the wind, once a gentle breeze, had become a howling, tortured whistle that cut through the field. it was no longer the sound of nature but something darkerharrowing, malevolent. in the distance, a figure looms, faceless, carrying a plate of tuna tacos dripping with mayo, the white sauce congealing in the heat. the figure approaches slowly, methodically. each step is accompanied by the faint sound of wet squelching, like something being crushed underfoot. the tuna taco drips onto the ground, splattering in rhythm with the faceless figure's steps. suddenly, we are in the mayo clinicthe sterile, white walls seem to pulse, the fluorescent lights overhead buzz like a swarm of locusts. doctors in bloodstained lab coats walk through the halls, holding trays of tuna tacos and vials of mayonnaise. the sound of screaming is distant but constant, echoing through the empty hallways. walz stands in the middle of a surgical room, gripping his shotgun tightly. on the operating table lies a tuna fish, its gills heaving as it gasps for air. a doctor looms over it with a mayonnaise jar, spooning the viscous white substance onto the fishs open wound. the fish screamsits voice is human, full of pain and despair.  walz's eyes flicker with confusion and rage. the shotgun shakes in his hands. he steps closer to the table, the fishs human-like cries getting louder, more desperate. tw (v.o.): > "i've become friends with school shooters."
United States