Twenty-Eight – Escape From Berner StreetIt was just gone 12:55 am when, without ceremony, I slashed the Squealer's throat as she lay on the pavement outside the socialist's club. Can't blame me for the haste. Who needed her squealing again?
The w***e grabbed at her throat with her right hand. The spurt from the severed artery hit her hand, the brick wall beyond, and the pavement and gutter to her left. Her bloody hand fell away; dropped back open upon her chest. But, have no fear, I was safe and dry. Lying on her left side as she was with her feet near the street, facing the outside wall of the club, I had completely avoided a dousing.
Then came the awful and sad realization, the bad news as it were; the delicious act of strangulation had, until this wretched time, been my routine. That
