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the last bullet


Dames: to love them is to hurt them.


the philosophy of solitude takes its toll on a man. sometimes
I get so deep in the alone-ness that I pull out my old Colt
revolver & a single round, the last bullet from my Army
days. I load it in the chamber & spin the cylinder. sit back,
breathe slow & easy. squeeze the trigger…

if it doesn’t connect, I clean up & go out stalking for a woman.
one night I wandered into a decrepit joint on the old east side.
there was a group of musicians & singers, refugees from the
Balkans. they played concertinas & mandolins, a bruised violin
that still held sweetness in its throat.

I picked my target: a mildly attractive lady whose solitary
anguish blinked like a short-circuited motel sign; the word
lonely twisted into a flickering neon tube. a few gentle words, &
she offered me a chair. we spoke of distant summers & drank
sangria made from the dark juices of fruits harvested in a
tangled, long-abandoned garden of Eden.

so the hours passed & it was too late to go home alone. in her
shadowed room, my hands were on her quick & she didn’t
resist. we hit the sheets fast & furious. it turned out that she
liked it rough. she took it on her hands & knees, in the back
door. unlubricated, so it was devastating. she wanted that
torture, to know that no one else could hurt her as much as
she hurt herself.

I gave her all she could handle for a while, but after a couple
months I’d had it. see, I get restless, so I figure to hurt her good
before I leave. you’re a ragdoll, I tell her, you’re used up. there
are so many lonely women out there waiting to be abused, & I
need that thrill. be a big girl & dry your eyes, baby.

her seductively curved body gets kinda hard; her eyes are
practically elliptical, like a snake when it’s ready to strike. she
reaches into her clutch & pulls out her Beretta Pico; it’s sleek &
black & fits smoothly in her dainty hand.

the air is all of a sudden cold, cold as the blood in my veins & the
icy stare in her eyes. she’s about to do something outrageous &
justified, something that will earn her the naked sobriquet of
femme fatale  –

sure, I can feel it in my gut
where I take the last bullet…


(Art: Albert A. Allen)




Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
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