I judge by what she's wearing
Just how many heads I'm tearing
Off of assholes coming on to her...
It seems to get worse every night. Tonight there are three; one at a table next to the stage and two by the bar. She's waiting on the one by the stage, working her hips for
a good tip. The anger swells inside me like a
hurricane over the
Gulf. It's only a matter of time before the
blinding white rage takes over. She looks to him, then to me, and smiles. I throw back another
whiskey shot and try to relax. My
PO probably wouldn't agree with
what I'm planning.
They think they'll get inside her
With every drink they buy her
As they all try coming on to her...
I walk through the swinging doors to the kitchen. The chef is sitting in front of the range watching TV. Some kid is washing dishes in the back corner. I walk to the hanging knives and take a minute to decide.
Meat cleaver, perhaps? Maybe a jagged? I finally decide on a nice long straight edge with some decent weight. Perfect for the type of
precise work I'm planning. I tuck it into my belt line and walk back out to the bar.
Each time she bats an eyelash
Somebody's grabbing her ass
Everyone keeps coming on to her...
It's only a matter of time before one of these three chumps has had enough
liquid bravery to approach her. Now it's simply a waiting game. Like watching a
fish swim towards your bait, the excitement builds.
Do it, chump. Just go ahead and do it. He's gawking at her ass like a 6th grader in the
Playboy Mansion. She can do nothing but smile back. His faggoty friends are egging him on, placing bets and discussing
pick up lines. Tools, the lot of 'em. The moment's coming. She drops her pen and bends over to pick it up. This is it. There's no way he can resist. He winds up and smacks her ass with a drunken hoot. Game over.
This time somebody's getting hurt
I hardly notice my right hand slam the empty shot glass to the bar. I walk over, jaw clenched, fists closed, arms tensed. I plan on savoring this one. Coming from behind, I grab the collar of his stupid pink button-up and toss him out of his chair like a pissed garbageman taking out the trash. People glance over from their tables, but no one seems to be too interested. His friends get up to help him, but the knife is out in a second. I wave it casually at them.
"You kids should probably sit back down." I turn to the faggot on the floor. "As for you, you're coming with me."
Behind the dumpster, she watches as I work, laughing at the sound of him choking on his own dismembered penis as I slowly remove his pointlessly flailing limbs. She might be enjoying this more than I am. The finality of the gurgling sound of blood gushing from his
throat is all too
satisfying.
"You ready to go, babe?"
"Yeah, just give me a second." She reaches into the dying fag's jeans and pulls out his wallet. She pockets a 20, kisses him on the cheek and whispers, "Thanks for
the tip bub." The red print of her lipstick lingers on his dead face long after we've left.