⸎

​

“Alright. You buncha sand-sippin’ waistoids. Come on out.”

​

 

He thinks it’s a prank, but I can tell he’s not completely sure. He’s afraid to move suddenly.

​

            “Come on. You know this ain’t any kinda funny. I’m serious now.”

​

            Shoulders trembling. He’s about to learn I’m serious too.

​

            “GUYS, ENOUG—”

​

            Swish.

​

            I wait until he sees me to swing my sword, of course.       Savoring it means everything.

​

And I do: the fat pills of his eyes gone dilated, tongue stilled inside his mouth

until it’s hanging over his bottom lip like a glob of flattened bubble gum.

​

Those inked discs on his skin rev up really fast for a moment, 

bones bracing before grinding to a dramatic halt.

​

            This one, I’ll keep on ice for later.

​

            One down . . .

 

Three to go . . .

​

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