There she was, The Woodland Carver in all her abnormally muscular beauty.

In her right hand, an axe nearly as tall as you, dried blood staining the iron bit. Her face is obscured by a brown cloth mask, held together by clean stitches. Black, messy hair spills out from below the mask, all frizzy like flying sparks. The void in the sockets of the mask stares back at you, the Carver’s eyes just barely shining in the headlights of your car, still hidden by blackness.

Her skin seems to almost glow in the headlights of your car, yet feels dark enough to wait unsuspectingly in the darkness and allow her to pounce on prey. The many scars and cut marks on her naked, muscular arms tell of past struggles against her, all having presumably failed.

Her thighs are abnormally large, easily dwarfing the rest of her body parts. Her crotch and massive breasts are covered by only thin, blue, buttoned overalls and a torn, light brown shirt, the top of her boobs still spilling out. Her large nipples also obviously poke out from under her overalls, each one looking as big as your head.

She stays frozen, grasping her axe, then slow step by slow step, a stark contrast to your rapidly beating heart, she starts to make her way over to your car.

Shit.