She stood in front of the mirror looking at herself. Her narrow fingers pulled on her long, dark, curled hair as she examined carefully the straight line of her jaw that rounded into a perfect chin with a small perfect dimple. Something bothered her about the curious shading underneath her jawline cast in a sick green/black void from the fluorescent lights in the garage. But she didn't know what it was. It was just there and her mind couldn't be forced to think much beyond that.
She always hated her jaw because it reminded her of Mother. Mother was a bitch. A tall, mean, good-looking, forceful bitch. A ten-megaton bitch of royal bitch lineage passed down at least fourteen bitch generations with a bitchcraft so refined that it could be taught in liberal colleges for two thousand dollars a semester credit. And the young, un-liberated, Patchouli oiled, freshmen teen girls would line up around the block for a chance to learn.
A brief, crooked smile flashed across her face as she imagined a throbbing mass of cackling, innocent girls relentlessly clubbing one another in front of the student union as they fought for placement in the class, but then she caught glimpse of the red crescent across her blouse. She looked at her hands speckled with drips of red and the floor behind her where she saw him and a spreading pool of blood.
Contemptuously she whispered, "How do you feel now, Sporto?"
His body lay sprawled across the garage floor, pants around his knees, his prior bulge underneath the leopard-print Perry Ellis bikinis gone. One arm was stretched out and above his head, tied off by a scarf to a workbench laden with various tools and implements. His other arm lay free, his hand blood stained and crooked. His eyes were empty, sunken slightly and his hair still remarkably coiffed considering the struggle. A small tool, a screwdriver perhaps, protruded from his neck and although she was certain he was long dead it seemed the blood still coursed from his wound by a weak heartbeat. Maybe she was imagining that, a nearly imperceptible pumping.
She focused on herself in the mirror again. Goddamn she was pretty. Painful beauty. The kind that felt to a man like a swift kick in the gut. Her features were sharp with high cheek bones, a slightly upturned and narrow nose, pale blue green eyes awash in tiny flecks of gold, and long, flowing black hair with big curls. A traffic-stopping beauty. She turned her head left and admired the rosy mark from when his other hand got loose, but as a child she had been hit harder by her brother and knocked into the previous month by her dad. She was tough and this won't bruise she thought. Even if it did, a little dab of concealer here and there would cover it.
She turned to him, "Now what do we do with you, Sporto?"
She walked across the room gracefully and sat with proper posture on a small stool, the kind mechanics use that have a tool company name or some hip, hypnotic design on the seat pad . She wished it was Hello Kitty. She crossed her legs and sat at attention tamping down the seething anger that her original plan had been thwarted by her lack of mastery of knot tying. She really wanted to cut his manhood off but that fact did not take away from her ultimate goal of killing the sonofabitch. She was glad he was dead even though he didn't die by her "approved method" of slow painful death by unexpected cock removal. She guessed a screwdriver to the jugular was just as good even though the shock factor to him was muted.
"I really wanted to cut your dick off, Sporto," she hissed.
Then she saw the gasoline. . .
............
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