Creepy Politics - Mayor's Price

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The Mayor’s Price (Nightmare Edition – No Escape)
Mayor Alan Whitmore had been stealing from the city for years.
A little skimmed from infrastructure funds. A few kickbacks. A few missing dollars from schools, roads, hospitals.
Nothing anyone would notice.
Until one night, as he sat in his office counting a fresh pile of stolen cash, the money twitched.
Alan froze.
The lights flickered. The air grew thick, pressing against his lungs like wet cement.
The scent of rotting paper filled the room.
And then, from behind him, a voice whispered.
"How much do you think you're worth?"
Alan whirled around. His office door stood wide open—but the hallway beyond was wrong.
The walls pulsed, swelling in and out, like lungs taking shallow breaths. The carpet looked soaked, darkened, alive.
And then, something stepped inside.
A figure in tattered rags, its body twitching unnaturally, like something half-formed, still deciding on its shape. The fabric clung to its body in strange places, stretching, shifting, as though something underneath was moving.
Alan’s voice caught in his throat. "Who—who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. A sound crawled up its throat, like paper tearing.
Then it took another step.
The carpet squished beneath its weight. Alan saw the outline of a face pressing against the folds of its hood—a face screaming from beneath the fabric.
"The city always collects its debts," it rasped. "And you… owe everything."
Alan ran.
Or tried to.
His feet didn’t move.
He looked down.
His legs were gone.
No. Not gone. Flattened.
His pants hung loose over a pair of crumpled dollar bills, his feet fused into stacks of crisp, inky paper, veins replaced with thin, black lines.
The money on his desk shifted, slithering like insects.
It wasn’t paper anymore.
It was skin.
Pale, stretched-too-thin faces, pressed together in a writhing mass, their mouths opening and closing in silent screams. Their eyelids were stitched shut with ink, their lips curling, stretching.
Alan screamed—but his own voice sounded wrong.
Thin.
Papery.
He touched his throat and felt creases. His fingers were dry, cracking. The bones inside were turning hollow.
The figure took another step closer.
Alan felt his ribs flatten, his heartbeat slowing—no, fading. His insides crumpled into stiff parchment, his skin peeling in brittle curls.
The thing in rags loomed over him, its head twitching, splitting open like a torn envelope.
A dozen eyes blinked from within its throat, each one rolling independently, tracking his dying human form.
"Do you hear them?" the thing crooned. "The ones before you?"
Alan could.
The whispers.
Faint at first, then growing. Thousands of voices, muttering, pleading, trapped in the stolen money.
They had all been like him once.
Thieves.
Liars.
Mayors.
His lungs collapsed into hollow bills, his vision narrowing, shrinking—his world curling inward as his body turned into currency, imprinted with a final, silent scream.
Then—blackness.
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The Next Day
The city awoke to a new budget report.
The mayor was gone, but nobody asked questions.
And then, little by little, the whispers started.
A man reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill—and felt something watching him.
A woman at the grocery store handed cash to the clerk, only to feel it squirm in her palm before going still.
A child held a crisp, fresh banknote and asked, innocently:
"Mommy, why is the man on the money crying?"
The town kept spending.
But the more they did, the more those screaming faces appeared.
No one questioned it.
Because in the end, the city always collects its debts.
And someone always pays the price.
Even if it takes a lifetime.
Even if it takes a hundred lifetimes.
Even if it takes you.
This is as deep as it gets—a nightmare that never ends, a cursed economy, and a mayor who never really left.
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