A Margarita

You take a sip of your whiskey and cola. Then you pretentiously purse your lips as you swallow your daily dose of alcohol. Look at you. Look at your ugly face. Look at your childish manners as you lick your lips and stuff your face with your lonely dinner. This is the last time you will eat your precious meat.

Two years ago I saw your dumb face wrapped around some dumb whore’s mouth. I was at the restaurant with my friends. I was sipping margaritas. You were sipping Margarita. Now your ugly face sips your whiskey. How I want to bash your face in. I’m not strong enough, though. My gun is.

I raise my arm and point it at the side of your head. You don’t notice me. You never do. I put my finger on the trigger. It feels amazing there. It feels like the first time I discovered my body. My finger caressed the button. Each pass was more intense. Now the same finger is on the trigger. I apply a little pressure with the same anticipation. It pops. My arm is thrown back.

You sit there. Staring forward. Your eyes are open. They are glassy. Blood runs down your ear. You finger your glass and take a sip. I walk around and stand in front of you. Your eyebrow raises in recognition. You open your mouth and blood falls out of it on to the table. I raise my arm and with a rush, pull the trigger again. You drop your glass and hunch over. I walk to your back and with one more squeeze, I put a bullet in the back of your head. You hunch over in finality.

I breathe hard. Realizing what I have finally been able to do, I put the gun in my mouth. My tongue melts and my lips blister from, the barrel. I sob. I drive me heel into your dumb leg over and over and over and over and pull the trig-

Please to enjoy.

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