My Hallucinations Ahh

Doug had had enough.

The phone rang again. And again. And again. The screen lit up, flashing that same, cursed name. Janet. Again.

Doug didn't even look.

He grabbed the phone.

Rolled down the window.

And with a motion as smooth as the years of suppressed frustration bubbling inside him—

He tossed it.

The phone soared through the night air, spinning, catching the faint glimmer of the truck's headlights before—

CRUNCH.

The wheels flattened it.

Doug pressed harder on the pedal, feeling the phone disintegrate beneath the weight of the truck. He imagined each shattered piece of glass was another unanswered text, another wasted apology, another "Doug, we need to talk."

He pulled over.

Somewhere deep in the woods, far from the glow of streetlights, far from anything that could tell him this was a bad idea, Doug threw the door open and stormed to the back of the truck.

The AFO packages sat there.

Waiting.

Smug.

Doug grabbed the first one.

RIP.

Cardboard split. The contents fell to the ground, unseen, uncared for. Doug didn't even look at what it was.

He took another.

TEAR.

Then another.

SHRED.

The sound of destruction filled the empty road, the whisper of the wind only fueling his rage.

What was inside? It didn't matter.

Because Doug was done.

He grabbed the last package.

RIIIIIIIIIIP.

And then, with a deep breath—

He climbed back into the driver's seat.

The truck rumbled.

Doug slammed the gear into drive.

And then—

He floored it.

The truck lurched forward.

Straight into the woods.

Straight into oblivion.

CRASH.

BOOM.

THUD.

The entire truck flipped.

Metal screeched. Glass shattered. The world turned upside down.

And then—silence.

Smoke curled into the night sky. The truck lay there, wheels still weakly spinning.

And Doug—somehow, miraculously—crawled out.

He didn't look back.

Didn't check if the truck was salvageable.

Didn't care.

He walked to the road.

And with the last bit of energy left in his body—

He stuck out his thumb.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance.

Doug exhaled.

He was leaving.

And he wasn't coming back.

Like pollen carried by the wind, like fireflies set loose in the night, the quirks scattered. Across cities, over oceans, slipping between dimensions like they were always meant to return. A man in a convenience store suddenly shot lasers from his eyes, a child on a playground began floating three feet off the ground, and somewhere, somehow, an old, tired Symbol of Evil screamed in absolute, soul-crushing frustration.

Then, reality snapped.

Doug blinked, and he wasn't by the woods anymore. Neon lights. Tokyo Tower. A cacophony of voices— and in the distance, a massive explosion. He couldn't speak English no more. Also his name is somehow not Doug no more.

Quirks were back. And so was the chaos.