It’s a regular winter day. In another words: it’s cold as hell and you are engrossed by the paralysis the sun’s absence always gives you.

The doorbell rings and you are unsurprised by it, as tedium took hold of your poor lazy soul—and you are extremely aware that the most interesting thing that will probably happen in the next hours are your groceries finally arriving.

You move slowly to the door, socked feet slightly dragging on the polished hardwood floor. You are almost excited though, despite your sleepy demeanor. You would have coke and chocolate, and that certainly was a happy thought.

You take the grocery bag, thanks the delivery guy, and goes straight to the kitchen to claim your sugary prizes.

Then you realize something is absurdly wrong with your order.

The first time you dive your hand in the unsuspecting bag you return with oat milk. Weird.

You’re sure you didn’t order that, having long ago given up on your last try of going vegan. But that’s alright, it could have been mixed with your grocery by accident.

On your next dive into the now suspicious bag, you are rewarded with a frozen hog’s head. A fucking whole animal’s head. You stare at it dumbfounded, shock and horror overwhelming you.

After blinking dumbly at it for a few seconds, you quickly put it on the counter, almost dropping it to the ground, as if burned.

For a brief moment the gory thing makes you think of its soul, makes you wonder about its existence. A drunk philosophical though, made possible by the suddenness and depth of your horror.

You look wearily at the now full-on offensive bag.

After a deep breath, you decide to investigate the remnants of the grocery that definitely wasn’t yours. You find a pack of red candles.

For the love of the Lord. As a shiver suddenly runs down your spine, your atheist and hypocritical self starts to mumble exclamations to God.

Compelled by morbid and irresistible curiosity, with trembling hands you reach for another of the contents of that cursed grocery bag.

A broccoli. A fucking wholesome broccoli. Organic even, from a local farm. You kind of feel whiplash. What a healthy satanist, you stupidly mumble to yourself.

You give up on prying upon the grocery items and start to call the store to let them know their mistake. You think of going out of the house for a bit. Yeah, it sounds good.