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Drive-By Fiction
War Baby died badly on a Thursday night. The little Korean flag she wore around her neck was embedded deeply into the flesh, sticky with black blood and raw, ruined flesh. Later, they'd say that fifteen people heard her screams before they were choked off. Each had a different reason for not calling the police. For not getting involved. For coming out on their balconies to watch her killer force her down into the corner of the bar and the flower shop, twisting the rag tighter and tighter around her neck until the pressure made her eyes bleed.
The last time we were together, we were laughing. There was a bottle of tequila lying on the grass beside the broken old concrete patio, and she was trying to show Robby Donkey the labial tattoo she'd gotten in Poland during the millininum. I caught them fucking behind my basement grow up twenty minutes later, the horseshoe scars on his back bobbing rythymically up and down.
Her body was cold; slick with blood and rain from the night before. The cops had already been there, taking photographs and sharing out the contents of her wallet between themselves. Which was a shame because that nude photo of Abe Fortis she kept in there had cost her a lot of money and her old job at the NSA.
Now it was just me and her on the rainy street, reeking of stale cigarettes and split blood. When I licked her still lips, images flooded into my brain. A small nibble from her finger opened up the night like a play for my benefit. One killer in the dark and fifteen watching in the audience.
First thing I was going to do was kill all fifteen of them. Tonight. Then, there was a killer to hunt down. The only problem was that her flesh told me that I had done it.
That could make things more complicated.
The last time we were together, we were laughing. There was a bottle of tequila lying on the grass beside the broken old concrete patio, and she was trying to show Robby Donkey the labial tattoo she'd gotten in Poland during the millininum. I caught them fucking behind my basement grow up twenty minutes later, the horseshoe scars on his back bobbing rythymically up and down.
Her body was cold; slick with blood and rain from the night before. The cops had already been there, taking photographs and sharing out the contents of her wallet between themselves. Which was a shame because that nude photo of Abe Fortis she kept in there had cost her a lot of money and her old job at the NSA.
Now it was just me and her on the rainy street, reeking of stale cigarettes and split blood. When I licked her still lips, images flooded into my brain. A small nibble from her finger opened up the night like a play for my benefit. One killer in the dark and fifteen watching in the audience.
First thing I was going to do was kill all fifteen of them. Tonight. Then, there was a killer to hunt down. The only problem was that her flesh told me that I had done it.
That could make things more complicated.
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I remember fiction, don't you, Spider?
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