It was a cold snowless night. I took another sip of my drink only to realize that I could not escape, that he would still be there. I shifted a few inches uncomfortably. Tony was still there, sprawled on the floor, 11 additional holes in his face, a small and dull knife buried deep into the twelfth one.
My keys were chained to the knife. I watched blood oozing out of him as I retrieved the knife, and I felt like I was late. A slow flick. A deep cut materialized in his neck and the remainder of his blood gushes out to make the floor sticky and flamboyantly red.
As I wipe my knife, I pay no heed. I smoke my cigarette observing a homeless individual get driven over by a guy in a Corvette. Blood and intestines everywhere. I applaud briefly before going in.
Downstairs, the game of pool is on, the strange persona wearing a leather jacket, glasses, and an unavoidable smell of Stolichnaya keeps explaining how blood looks more impressive on a white rug. As I listen to these completely terrifying stories I inch closer to the corner.
She is there. I put my badge away as it makes me feel self-conscious. She struggles but still ends up on the table, face forward. As I lift the gun, I do not hesitate. A brief flash. The room covered in red and white. I feel like a drink.
