by Tagg N. Ding and Bhagwan Jones
He read the label: Kills deep in the walls where cockroaches breed. Setting
the insect bomb, he left the apartment, returning that afternoon. The roaches
were dead. Their still bodies littered the floor. The walls bulged, slumped,
and cracked under the weight of their corpses.
Firemen pulled his lifeless body from the collapsed building.
Dead husband, missing will. I've heard the story a million times, but
I liked her delivery. I followed the nephew, found the will, killed the
nephew, collected my fee, framed her for the nephew's death, and made it
through the police grilling with my license and record intact.
Another routine day.
I pulled the trigger; the hammer fell on an empty chamber. I've tried
Russian roulette--not as much fun. Worked up to three chambered rounds--still
no fun. This way, even with only one round chambered, I'm set for hours
of pleasant diversion.
Another motorist pulled off the exit ramp. I spun the cylinder.
I spend Sundays with family. We bicker, on occasion. We've come to blows--in
the past. But family is family. You can't live with them, but you can't
leave them. On Sunday I take chicken, rolls, and a bottle of wine to the
basement and commune with loved ones.
I'm used to the smell.
Jolt one burns my nose hairs. The stir-quack presses his stethoscope
against my chest. Alive. They can't kill me. Second jolt. My body stiffens,
blood boiling, flesh cracking. Stethoscope. Alive. Jolt three. Skin blackens
and smokes. Stethoscope. Dead. Hah! They can't kill me. They loosen the
electrodes.
Oh no, I can't die!
