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Barak

by: Sean Kilpatrick

Her shadow painted the glass stench of mink or crisp dollar. The child under me missed recess. I told her act coy. A woman chopped paths through piss-heavy air before registering my office.

I grabbed beneath her knee where the come might happen. This crone paddling Virginia Slims. The last ten miles of that face lost me hard. She hadn’t quite survived menopause.

My physical presence ain’t professional. I told her leave a photograph. I told her I’m not Jewish unless I know you.

Later, we paused teeter totter noticing the photo featured sex dolls. The girl knew I loved one person and she was it, but not right now.

Mrs. Reads needed an item assassinated.

Mr. Reads could not banter in foam mouths, could not bully toy anuses on behalf of Mrs. Reads. He found fulfillment on her dime in a motel. I was to kill him, the dolls, maybe Mrs. Reads too.

The city sat good in smoke. I punched people by Janea’s sweep pattern. She showed up and maced me with her taco. Former secretaries, we made herpetic pacts. The rags she stuffed in had me tasting. I blacked out on vodka, that cunt the zero made by dreams. She dissed her gay vest orgasming. Coughing squared away my ilk. The couch found our yolk stupid.

I gut the sidewalk with my shadow. Found some cardboard to decay under. No cop I trusted wore the drag of gutters to process going home.

Mrs. Reads handed me a weed whacker. I parted the grey nethers further furry, cloned myself inside. We plugged in the machine and waited by the motel door. He slipped in with the bags from his trunk. I lit the fucker twirling and had his face. He dunked his new nightmare in the toilet, those dolls left exposed from their perch. I took them handy, backing one to the wall, the other at her expense, how they whispered. Mrs. Reads wet her words. I stuck the gun in first place.