It would be crass, and more than a little stupid, to get a tattoo. But she couldn’t stymie the desire to brandish a badge of honor.

Her ear adorned with bullet earrings was a talking piece. It was hard to hide the great pride she felt knowing it was more than unique flair. Instead, or also, it was a testament to her sharpshooting.

She didn’t really feel like a murderer, if they even feel a universal way. She just felt like a girl with a talent, and a love of guns. Nothing was ever premeditated. Except the new bullet earring.

You leach away at the end; your strength, your blood, your dreams. They pool messily; sticky and warm as with timely spurts their muddle blooms around you. There is time to feel that, and room for it, what with the dulling of the pain.

Despair accompanies the ascending darkness, wafting acrid torches espoused with sickly-sweet odors. Who knew how shivering cold that despair could be? Or how malodorous it’s kippering as a final, unexpected, physical sense?

He is thievery, Murder, leaving moneys, keys and cards, but taking the only thing one ever owns, or wants… and you are his shame.

"Hey Lucy!"

"Jesus, man. I told you not to call me that."

"Hey. Don't use my name in vain. Got a new batch for ya. Bundy, Dahmer, Gacy, Ramirez aaaaand some guy named Shipman. "

"New? They've been dead a while. Figured they ended up in Purg somehow."

"Sentencing took longer than expected. Got set back by some political conflicts and a few unrelated massacres. Finally sorted through the war lords so the Big Guy had this lot expedited. Here's a list of their sins."

"Oh. Wow. Yeah, okay. Send them to Holmes. Crazy bastard's gonna have a field day."

Somber skies thicken as all the town’s crows arrive in attendance. It’s difficult to tell which is darker, the clouds or the flock; Both follow them into the woodline. Her tepid body dangles his shoulder, sundress crumpled above the hips where he left it. Her innocence died long before she did— a trophy he’d bury with the others. But the squawks grow meaner as hell swirls above, then one after another he’s bombarded by beaks and cackles propelling him groundward until he’s picked alive— life spilling onto decayed leaves next to her. In unison, the mob mourns the farmer's daughter.

Chalk lines washed away easily enough, but bloodstains didn’t. She dipped the brush back into her bucket of water. It stained a lovely pink to match sore knuckles. She furiously worked the brush until the floor was lathered in frothy red. It was almost beautiful in the late afternoon light… almost, well, no–not almost: definitely a bit seductive. Fuck it. She frantically pried up her loose floorboard and plucked out the knife with blood still crusted around the handle. Lovely. She stood, hungry for more than the mere memory of blood on her hands. The mess would wait. She couldn’t.

Everyone loses their virginity at some point, right? Luckily, there’s no one at King’s Bluff tonight. Blankets and such in the trunk. Some wine to set the mood. Your tummy dances, anticipating the magical moment.

“Gimme your keys and wallet! Now, idiot!”

What a sucker. Of course this “innocent angel” didn’t want you. Nonetheless, never bring a knife to a gunfight.

Mmm. Her lips taste deceptively pure. The sting of betrayal fades as her body goes limp in your arms. It’s magical, the moment the eyes go blank.

She was almost what you wanted—and you were exactly what she deserved.

You sink your teeth in again and more warm meat fills your mouth, sweet juices spilling over your lips. Groaning, eyes shut, blissful satisfaction settling in your belly like a lap cat. You don’t care anymore who sees you like this, it’s been too long.

Animal urges, your girlfriend calls them. She’s so perfect…but you’re not. Without all of this, this sticky mess trickling down your chin, you’re just a shell of a man.

There’s nothing almost nothing to incriminate you except for the empty wrapper and the happy look on your face.

Now that’s how you murder a burger!

The writing in the mirror told me exactly where they were.

I rummaged through the lock box where Tom kept his pistol. It was a Glock something or other. I checked the magazine and there were ten bullets in it. Good. Five rounds for them each- if I was lucky. I stumbled into the bathroom for a quick clean-up of my makeup, which had started to run about half a wine bottle ago.

The mirror had one last message for me, 'Save one bullet for yourself. Or you could forgive him.'

Forgive him? Forgive him? I'd rather eat a bullet.

The first time is unplanned. It makes you feel powerful; demons released, a moment of absolute euphoria ensues. Perhaps, even peace. You seek it again. Deliberately. Agonizingly calculated, unhurried to avoid detection. The second time eclipses the first. You want more. One follows the other, dozens, as you continue seeking relief with every downward thrust of your knife. Until the day you are not careful and end up telling your story from a cell to some silly writer who wants to understand why you did it and innocently lends you a pen to write it yourself...and becomes your last victim.

Gooey cheese and grease spill down Mr. Sterling’s chin, but he’s a professional. He dabs it away with his embroidered handkerchief before chomping another Ludicrous bite. “Best damn cheesesteak!” he burps to himself. Wiping his greasy fingers, he tosses the napkin, then check-marks a Five-star review. I squeal through the chef's window.

Today the best food critic eats in my diner, but it was just two months ago Adam and I separated. He always said I had potential, yet assured I’d never make it without him. Now with my winning recipe, I must defrost more of him for tomorrow's special.