Random Impulse- Break Up mostly finished?

Sans revisions from the class comments today, I feel this is mostly finished; especially after reading more into the flash fiction/short short/poetry prose genre. Comments and advice on my transitions would be most appreciated as well as any other glaring necessities!

Clever Title(advice appreciated)

She broke up with me over my former favorite form of communicating: the text message. She was an annoying drunk, always insisting I not correct her when she was wrong and gloat incessantly when she won at rummy. I told her I loved her and she responds by grinning and becoming addicted to artificial pot ("Black Mamba", because she is getting a job with the state thanks to her new degree).

I told her she might be an alcoholic; she laughed and flew into a rage. She wouldn't kiss me in the morning before we brushed our teeth, she really didn't like bad breath. I even quit smoking cigarettes around her because two of her grandparents died from complications due to smoking. What the fuck is the difference between smoke from pot (or artificial pot) and cigarette smoke when you really get down to it? Chemicals, bullshit, smoke is smoke.

We even picked out a new house; I got a key, although I never moved in. I did, however, help her move in. Pathetic.

*  *  *

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. The cartridge and bone crunch in her skull as 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 on her, and rise. Her dull left eye connects with mine for the last time. I line that eye down the sights of my .45. Slight recoil is all I feel.

* * *

As my right hand receives a splinter from the railing connected to the porch steps of her( it was supposed to be our) house, the fumes from the kerosene I am trailing irritate my nostrils and cause my eyes to water. I lift my head from the vapors to clear my eyes and notice the moon is new; all the stars are performing tonight. Orion is pleading with Little Dipper for a draft of vintage. I should get some Natties after this. As my right foot hits cement rather than pine, my gas jug empties. Perfect, just enough. I recover a Marlboro menthol 72 from its pack, place it in my mouth, strike my Zippo ( $19.95 at Wal-Mart), light the cigarette and drop the lighter in the puny puddle of flame starter. Time to leave.

* * *

 Mario’s 1up tone sounds, another message from her. “im sorry im doing this, i hope we can still be friends.”

Hm. “Of course sweetie, so you don’t get off until late tonight?”

“yea”

“Ok cool, I’ll just drop off your toothbrush and things at your house on my way to school. I’ll leave the key under the door mat, Eskimo kisses.”