He looked down. His Fred Flintstone hands were trembling. The rough, stone-age skin was flickering, and beneath it, for just a moment, he saw the paper-thin, vein-mapped skin of Arthur Pendleton. He saw the IV needle taped to his wrist.
The world dissolved.
The last thing he saw before everything went black was not Bedrock. It was a single, out-of-place image from his own memory: his son, Mark, at age six, wearing a Flintstones Halloween costume, the cheap plastic mask already cracked. The boy was holding Arthur’s hand, looking up at him with absolute trust. Download The Flintstones