Her eyes are pleading with mine now. Actually just her left eye, the right is swollen shut from the pistol whip I issued it with my Smith & Wesson .45 ACP Chief’s Special (the weight and accuracy are unsurpassed). The blood from her broken nose is coagulated on the kitchen’s Italian marble tile we picked out together. If she wasn’t gagged, I imagine she would be petitioning for her life right now. The gag used to only sit in my mouth. The knots, used to only be used on me. I taught her how to tie the knots though. Now she knows what an expert’s hand can do with braided polypropylene rope.
I crawl next to her and position my face to where our noses are nearly touching. She tries to squirm at first, but it is obvious that fatigue and fear from the ordeal have exhausted any remaining reserves of energy she might possess. “Eskimo kiss,” I whisper as I force her face to remain parallel to mine as I grind my nose into hers. I hear the cartridge and bone crunch in her skull, and she lets out a muffled whimper like a dog that has just had its vertebrae and lungs crushed under the weight of a mid-sized Japanese car. I spit in her face and rise as her dull right eye connects with mine for the last time. I line that eye down the sights of my .45. Slight recoil is all I feel.
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