Status: ticking.
Louder Than Boom
bang bang
She’s on the table; legs spread wide open for the world to see. Black lace and impeccable bikini wax; she cradles his world’s end. Her right index finger has a chipped nail, red nail polish on every fingernail. “Look at me, Ian.” She grins like Cruella de Vil; faux smile faker than the world peace treaty. “You have five minutes to tell me everything.” She waves the revolver in front of him like a symphonic director. “Every-thing.” It’s near his groin now, her free hand crushing the stud of her five minute cigarette.
He’s no hero.
“I don’t know what you’re… what you’re talking about.” Sweat rolls down his face like the Niagara Falls. “Who are you?”
“You tell me sweetheart,” she’s blinking, only one fake eyelash remaining on her left eye. She’s jumping off the table like predator on prey. Her naked thighs cradle his lap, her manic grin popping in front of him like a firework gone wrong.
“Please stop. I don’t know who you even are.”
His breathe is stale with thirst and anxiety, swollen eyes burning with the desperation of a lunatic. Her fingers sink into his cheeks like snake fangs, her ruined manicure scarring his already bruised skin. She pulls him closer and he breathes faster. He can see the smudged mascara and faded lipstick, her green irises caged within a labyrinth of tiny blood vessels.
“It’s not over until I say so.” Her body is pressed flush against his, her dry lips scratching against his sliced ear. Her voice is hot and dangerous, the revolver pressing harder against his thigh. “Let’s try this one more time hot shot,” she cocks the gun. “What do you know about me?”
He breathes in cheap perfume and perspiration. She’s a bomb ready to ignite. “I don’t know what you are-”
She strikes faster than a cobra; her hand already entwined his filthy hair, the revolver flat against his cheekbone. He hears the unmistakable snap of a misplaced vertebra from the sudden movement, his exposed neck a flesh carpet beneath her cold gun. She watches his adam’s apple bob up and down, a satisfactory grin decorating her face. “Why do all men insist on playing games? You’re all animals. Squealing pigs.” She traces his jaw with her left hand, digging her nail as hard as she can over his flesh wounds.
“I’m not fucking playing anything.” He swallows a blood clot and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m fucking telling you the-”
“-truth?” She sighs right into his face and he inhales whisky and cigarettes. She slowly removes her legs from his sides, the sound of heels against concrete drowning his heaves of breath. “I’ve always wondered,” he sees the tiger tattoo on her back, “how loud the world can say ‘boom’.” He reads the word slut on her thigh.
“Do you know what this is?” She’s holding a mobile phone, the battered green screen glowing unmistakably in her hand. “If you’re being honest with me, which I sincerely doubt, then you don’t know about the bombs placed inside of you.” He can read the word candy on her hip. “I never imagined bombs could be so small… small enough for one to, let’s say, swallow.” He can read the digits 5546 on her cell phone.
“Last shot.”
They both hear the rattling of his lungs and the dripping of his blood.
He’s no hero.
“I don’t.” Mucus and tears dribble down his face. “I don’t. Please. I’ll pay you. Who are you?! PLEASE.”
“Ten seconds.”
“You fucking crazy bitch! I will fucking murder you! You fucking cunt!”
“Five.”
He’s no hero.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK.”
“Three, two…”
“Stop. Stop. I’ll – I’ll tell you! Fine! I’ll fuck. Fuck. Just don’t. Don’t do this. My family. Don’t.”
Smoke is curling out of her faded lips, her chipped fingernail digging into the dial number.
He can read mistakes on her lips.
“Boom.”
He’s no hero.
“I don’t know what you’re… what you’re talking about.” Sweat rolls down his face like the Niagara Falls. “Who are you?”
“You tell me sweetheart,” she’s blinking, only one fake eyelash remaining on her left eye. She’s jumping off the table like predator on prey. Her naked thighs cradle his lap, her manic grin popping in front of him like a firework gone wrong.
“Please stop. I don’t know who you even are.”
His breathe is stale with thirst and anxiety, swollen eyes burning with the desperation of a lunatic. Her fingers sink into his cheeks like snake fangs, her ruined manicure scarring his already bruised skin. She pulls him closer and he breathes faster. He can see the smudged mascara and faded lipstick, her green irises caged within a labyrinth of tiny blood vessels.
“It’s not over until I say so.” Her body is pressed flush against his, her dry lips scratching against his sliced ear. Her voice is hot and dangerous, the revolver pressing harder against his thigh. “Let’s try this one more time hot shot,” she cocks the gun. “What do you know about me?”
He breathes in cheap perfume and perspiration. She’s a bomb ready to ignite. “I don’t know what you are-”
She strikes faster than a cobra; her hand already entwined his filthy hair, the revolver flat against his cheekbone. He hears the unmistakable snap of a misplaced vertebra from the sudden movement, his exposed neck a flesh carpet beneath her cold gun. She watches his adam’s apple bob up and down, a satisfactory grin decorating her face. “Why do all men insist on playing games? You’re all animals. Squealing pigs.” She traces his jaw with her left hand, digging her nail as hard as she can over his flesh wounds.
“I’m not fucking playing anything.” He swallows a blood clot and squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m fucking telling you the-”
“-truth?” She sighs right into his face and he inhales whisky and cigarettes. She slowly removes her legs from his sides, the sound of heels against concrete drowning his heaves of breath. “I’ve always wondered,” he sees the tiger tattoo on her back, “how loud the world can say ‘boom’.” He reads the word slut on her thigh.
“Do you know what this is?” She’s holding a mobile phone, the battered green screen glowing unmistakably in her hand. “If you’re being honest with me, which I sincerely doubt, then you don’t know about the bombs placed inside of you.” He can read the word candy on her hip. “I never imagined bombs could be so small… small enough for one to, let’s say, swallow.” He can read the digits 5546 on her cell phone.
“Last shot.”
They both hear the rattling of his lungs and the dripping of his blood.
He’s no hero.
“I don’t.” Mucus and tears dribble down his face. “I don’t. Please. I’ll pay you. Who are you?! PLEASE.”
“Ten seconds.”
“You fucking crazy bitch! I will fucking murder you! You fucking cunt!”
“Five.”
He’s no hero.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK.”
“Three, two…”
“Stop. Stop. I’ll – I’ll tell you! Fine! I’ll fuck. Fuck. Just don’t. Don’t do this. My family. Don’t.”
Smoke is curling out of her faded lips, her chipped fingernail digging into the dial number.
He can read mistakes on her lips.
“Boom.”