It's All Poison Now

He smiled at me, a kind of leer, and his hand snaked up my stockings, groping for the heat between my legs.

So I killed him.

I don't like it when they smile like that. His brains came out easy, I got some on my new red dress. That made me mad so I shot him again.

I tucked the gun into my coat pocket and left the bathroom. The music was loud in the main bar and no one noticed the gunshots. Pretty soon some drunken bimbo would find him curled up around the base of the toilet, and I'd be fucked.

I stopped by the bar and ordered a drink. I'd wait until the cops arrived, just for kicks. I'd be perfectly safe, as long as no one noticed the blood on my dress... then came the screams from the bathroom.

I couldn't leave now... it would look suspicious, me running out of a bar while the cops were running in. I ordered another drink, this time telling the bartender to make it a double.

I downed it quickly, feeding the fire that had started in my belly. I leaned against the bar, watching the people, their faces twisted up in that serious, grim look you get driving past car wrecks. The burning in my belly had seeped down into my pussy, a kind of itchy fire.

My panties were sopping wet.

The crowd was surging to the door, and I was swept along, safe in their collective anonymity. Cops were pushing past me, I reached out and goosed one in the ass. He whipped around, his eyes blank, but I was out the door and into the night.

Street. Taxis idling against the curb. The cabbie's eyes glinted feral in the rear view.

"What's all the commotion?"

"I dunno, let's get outta here, okay?"

"Where to?"

"Drive, I'll tell you where in a minute."

I leaned back in the seat and felt the gun. The barrel was warm. I clicked open the cylinder, careful to keep it out of the cabbie's line of sight. I found the speedloader and socked home a full set of bullets.

My crotch was on fire. I put one foot on the armrest of the door and slid forward in the seat. I could see the cabbie staring at me in the mirror. I ignored him and slid off my panties. Two fingers made the soft swirl, the pleasure ribboning up through my core.

My hips rocked forward, the flesh of my backside sticking to the vinyl seatcover. I closed my eyes, rubbing faster, feeling the mounting pressure. I groped with my other hand, finding the revolver, its barrel still hot, and slid it in.

The cabbie said nothing, but I could hear the rasp of his breathing getting faster and heavier, providing a perfect counterpoint to my own. The gun was burning into me—I pushed out and forward, savoring its harsh steel, shoving it harder and harder into me, the trigger guard grinding against my clit.

With my pinky, I rocked the hammer back, then slipped my thumb into the trigger guard--up against the trigger. I came so hard I was sure I'd pulled the trigger, blowing my guts out into a hot, soupy, swirling mess—but there was no blood—only silky juices glistening on the barrel.

I whipped the gun up and out and smashed the cabbie in the side of his head, he swerved into a parked car. He gasped and raised his hands and I jammed the revolver into his temple, twisting it against his skull. The cab rocked to a halt. I got up close to the cabbie's ear, breathing into it as I rubbed the gun under his nose.

"You like the way that smells?"

Dawn. I stumble up an otherwise deserted street. A commercial district, warehouses, storefronts, abandoned cars....

I didn't kill the cabbie. He was smart, he didn't react at all, just kinda slumped in on himself, and I began to feel sorry for him.

Fuck him. I don't fucking need that.

Up ahead, a greasy spoon. The flickering neon sign: EAT. I push through the grimy plateglass door and glance around at the early morning denizens of night city.

Old men, young blue-collar workers turn to stare at me in my leather overcoat. I clutch the collar to keep it closed, to avoid revealing the red dress.

The gun is heavy in my pocket.

I slip onto a stool at the counter and order coffee from an ancient crone with no teeth, her pink gums winking at me through the wet slash of her early-morning grimace.

I can feel the men in the room staring at me, wanting to know what I look like under this coat, wanting to know my story, wanting to possess me. It's always the same. No matter where I go, there's a man wanting me.

I got something for them.

I notice the chrome gleam of a pay phone in one corner, beckoning to me with its guarantee of instant communication.

The crone brings me coffee, and I slurp at the gray contents of a cracked stoneware mug. It's bitter, the cream floats on the surface like an oil slick, and I see a rainbow of colors reflected in its murky haze. I dig through my purse and come up with the tiny cylinders of yellow chlorinization pills, dropping two of them into the mug, killing the poisons that lurk there and adding yet another flat taste to the mix.

I reach into my pocket and haul out the gun, dropping it heavily onto the counter in front of me. I feel the stares intensify.

The old crone's eyes go wide, and she backs through a doorway covered by a filthy blanket. Several of the older men immediately get up, and make towards the door.

They're smart.

Someone clears his throat, and I watch the scene play out in the dusty mirror up behind the counter.

There are six men left in the diner. Three are at a corner table, common laborers wearing coveralls and meshback gimme hats. The youngest has a stitched nametag on his breast, proudly announcing in red script that he's Earl. They sit straight-backed, not moving an inch, watching me watch them. There are two older men at a table directly behind me. I notice one of them has a slight twitch.

The last man sits three stools away, trying hard to ignore me and the silent challenge my gun presents.

I drink the last of the coffee and place the mug carefully on the faded formica. Now it's all about waiting. The rancid java boils in my stomach, and I feel the heat begin to build again in my crotch.

It's gonna to be bad.

I shrug out of the leather, the red dress shining like a beacon in the dingy glow of the diner. Everyone is waiting for what's next.

They know who I am. They've read about me in the papers, seen my face on TV. They have no choice but to play the game according to my rules.

Earl stands first, and makes a break for the door. I scoop up the gun and let him have one in the back of the neck, spraying crimson flecks across the plateglass.

He goes down heavily as the other two members of his party rise from their seats. One of them has a gun, and I see the triumph in his face as he raises it towards me. His finger jerks spastically at the trigger, but something's wrong. He has left the safety on, and I see his face register the mistake.

I give it to him in the chest. He falls back across the table as I give his friend one in the throat. He gurgles horribly, his hands clutching at his collar, and falls to his knees.

The two men behind me are up and reaching, one close enough to get his hand on my arm. I shove the gun into his sternum and pump the trigger. He seems to explode, reeling back into his companion, knocking them both to the floor.

The man on the stool does not move. He sits, and eats his eggs and bacon.

The reek of cordite is sweet as I step across to the man on the floor and push the gun barrel right up against his ear. I wonder if he will hear it.

The man on the stool shovels forkfuls of food into his mouth. I like him. I look down and notice there's blood and grey matter mixed in with the yellow ooze on his plate.

He doesn't seem to notice.

I hear the sirens. The old crone has slipped out the back and made the call to the police. I knew I shoulda taken her when I had the chance.

Outside, the day has gotten brighter, and I notice the haze in the sky as I head away from the diner.

It's all poison now.

The water, the air. Poison. I reload the gun as the police cars roar up the street. I know where they're going. I wonder if the egg man will give them a description.

I doubt it.

There's a bus stop, with a news vendor. I buy a magazine and wait for the bus.