FIGHT

(June 2011)

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“What you got in your pocket bitch!?” he said forcing his hands over her shirt. What the hell. He had no business there. He couldn’t have distinguished the alphabet from an ink spot. The moron had the guts to push on like this. It was not because he was fearless, damned bastard, it was just because of the big brother holding his ass.

There was no way to get out of there except to fight and make a mess. She knew how to, well enough. Between the legs huh?? Old one- good one. Shit head wont know what to do until she was miles away dancing in Kremlin. Then he’d know better than to grope through a landmine. Now there it was- his backup. You couldn’t send a dumbfuck to do Hitler’s job without Gestapo. Not like she didn’t have her backup. A high shrill whistle through the clear air and there they could all be. But fuck all of them.

Soon to be dead have no choices as to where and how they die. The flash hit them like the Persian invasion. Made them so mad to be so helpless. Made them so mad. But all that anger couldn’t stop the right flexes of those trained hands. Sharp knives slicing through wet sweaty skins like chopping up a fruit for dessert. The consequence of the war didn’t matter, the result did. Walking through the thick pool of blood, the detectives couldn’t stand seeing their own footprints. But once the thugs were dead anything hardly mattered.

His jaw crushed under her heels, he took his final breaths. She said “I’ll tell you what’s in my pocket- your balls.”

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