You're walking in the woods. There doesn't seem to be anyone around, but you know better now. In your left hand, you grip a heavy walking stick. In your right, a hatchet. You're limping, not quite used to the prosthetic, but making good time.
Your phone is as dead as Shia LaBeouf. String music pours from its tinny speakers.
Your eyes pan left and right, a slow, steady surveillance. Shadows stretch across the path. The wind is at your back. These were his hunting grounds. Tonight, they're yours.
Leaves rustle behind you, beside you. The scent of dried blood mixes with dirt and old growth. It's a heady smell, all sweet reds and deep greens. You find it creepy. You find it comforting. It keeps you company as you step off the path and into the dark.
You're hunting the woods. (For Shia LaBeouf.) The memory haunts you—Shia LaBeouf. Despite all the scars, no one believes you. Best case scenario, you'll find the body of infamous actor and actual cannibal, Shia LaBeouf. (But you know he's lurking. Shia LaBeouf.)
You find the bear trap first. The peaks and valleys of its teeth are covered in what appears, in the dim light, to be rust. It's been reset. Your leg is gone. Shia LaBeouf isn't here. In the distance, the cottage looms. Even from here, it's apparent the paint is peeling. On the roof, shingles are missing. Its shutters are closed. No light cries help from the window. No help waits in these woods.
You creep, quiet, quiet, to the cottage door. The wind dies. The only sounds are the rasp of your muffled breathing, the gentle thumps of your walking stick against the packed dirt of the forest floor. The door opens on oiled hinges. In the cottage, the ghost memory of Shia LaBeouf. The knife you stuck in his kidney is stabbed deep into the table. Beside it, the rotting remains of your foot. Tooth marks litter the talus and shattered ends of the fibula. They don't match your teeth.
You whirl around to face the woods. You thought you caught a hint of movement. The wind picks up again. It's blowing the other way. A figure darts back into the trees.
You tumble out of the cottage—trailing Shia LaBeouf. You know that he's here now—Shia LaBeouf. He never truly dies: zombie cannibal, Shia LaBeouf.
You're following him, twenty, thirty feet back. He lets the distance between you expand and contract. Whenever you get closer, he puts on a burst of speed. Whenever you start to lose him, he slows down again. He's taunting you.
It's not a straight chase. You dodge tree roots. He skirts a river. You bull through a series of bushes, whacking branches with your walking stick, brandishing the hatchet. You're all turned around, but you're almost upon him. He trips to a stop, right in front of you. He is clutching something in his hands. He's gnawing upon it.
Is that your leg? Shia LaBeouf! He swallows some calf. Shia LaBeouf. You know that he can hear you. The rudest cannibal: undead superstar Shia LaBeouf.
You stride forward, words beyond you now. This is about more than the attempted murder. He left your foot to rot and is eating your leg right in front of you.
He gets down on all fours—leg clutched in his teeth, jaw still working—just before you collide. Your leg flies out of his mouth and into the underbrush. He claws at your throat with broken fingernails like an animal. Up close, you can see there's something wrong with him. Gruesome scars cover his body; his neck is one giant scab. Whatever terrible force sustains him, it's obvious that your last encounter has left its marks, is slow to leave him. You have that in common. For the first time, you experience real hope that you can put this behind you.
You bury the hatchet—in Shia LaBeouf. You are going to destroy Shia LaBeouf. No more will you dream of Shia LaBeouf.
Blood sprays right into your face. It's in your eyes; it's everywhere. Your hand slips off the hatchet.
He rolls, and you roll with him. Only one of you will leave this place. (Where is your car from here?) You will not let it be Shia LaBeouf. You both climb to your feet, circle each other warily. He is smiling. (Shia LaBeouf?) An ominous click and pain you know too well—your one good leg is caught in the bear trap.
You try to stay calm—but panic, panic—as he hefts your hatchet—panic, PANIC—and approaches your position. There is no time to remove your leg from the bear trap. He tells you what he thinks you both know: you have been beaten by Shia LaBeouf. You will be eaten by Shia LaBeouf.
But wait! You still have what's left in your pockets. You planned for this encounter—you prepared. You're not lost in the woods now. You may yet bleed to death, but you won't go alone. You draw a pistol on Shia LaBeouf. (Shia, surprise!)
You unload the clip. You brought more. He's dropped the hatchet; he's dropped to the ground. Another person would think him done for, but you know better. You don't know what it will take to end him. You riddle what should be his corpse with bullets. When you finally stop, it's not because you're finished.
You gnaw off your leg (again, again), then limp on the stump leg. (Again. Again!) You lift the bloody hatchet. (Shia LaBeouf.) His hand twitches; for a second time, you bury the hatchet. You return to chopping off his head now. Once more, you have decapitated Shia LaBeouf.
But you are not yet safe from Shia LaBeouf.
The evidence of your battle surrounds you—trampled foliage smeared with blood, pools transforming dirt to mud, errant chunks of flesh and bone. Was it a victory? Behind you (inside you), remnants of the newly lost leg. Lost in the undergrowth (long since digested), leftovers of the old.
You know who has two good ones.
Time to rend the limbs of Shia LaBeouf. You try on the legs of Shia LaBeouf. Some pretty good calves on Shia LaBeouf.
But what to do with the rest of the body? In the distance, the cottage.
It's an easy walk without stump legs. You carry pounds of flesh with you. You remember seeing a fireplace; you spot the chimney. If bullets and beheadings weren't enough, you doubt the use of incineration. There is only one path forward. You gather wood and close the door behind you. Despite your plans, in at least one way, you're leaving this place with Shia LaBeouf.
First, you find the cookware of Shia LaBeouf. Decide to season the heart of Shia LaBeouf. You grill up his kidneys. It's hard to crack open the skull of Shia LaBeouf. You can stew the remains of Shia LaBeouf. No matter your legs, you refuse to eat meat raw.
You're certain: you will be safe from Shia LaBeouf.
You eat until you feel sick; you eat more. You choke down ground bones and sinew, gorge yourself on blood and brains. No matter how much you swallow, the feast seems endless. You dine until the sun's light filters through the cottage's windows—but you persevere. By nightfall, it's official:
You have eaten Shia LaBeouf.
You drowse on the floor of the cottage. You wonder what your friends will say. You consider how to explain the new legs to your physiotherapist. The hardwood floor is surprisingly comfortable. It's not like you're sure where your car is. Maybe you should stay here. No one would know you or judge you. And if someone intruded, you could always kill and eat them.
A sudden realization: he's in your head now. Shia Revenge!
You desperately argue with Shia LaBeouf—reject the lifestyle of Shia LaBeouf. Beat your head against the floorboards. He's starting to make sense, mind-Shia LaBeouf. You're stuck with him now, this Shia LaBeouf. His calves are fused to your stump legs. Are these your hands, or Shia LaBeouf's? Your voice sounds the same as Shia LaBeouf. Reality is confusing.
It's time to face it: you could be Shia LaBeouf.
You raise your head from the floor, search your pockets. Your phone—playlist over, string music long gone silent—is ringing. Yes, you tell the other person, you're in the woods. You're a little lost. You need help. Could they come get you?
(No one is safe from Shia LaBeouf.)