ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-SIX
The Haunting of Chloe Macbeth, cont.
Shit! s**t! s**t! f**k! f**k! s**t!
There it was: a dead black dude cluttering up my f*****g hallway.
There’s a f*****g great gaping gash across his throat where I had slashed him with the little kitchen knife I had bought to protect myself. Attacking me like that, the fucker deserved it.
Jesus f**k, and how well it worked, that darling little knife. Sliced through his carotid artery like a hot knife through butter, OK, hackneyed cliché and all that but I can’t just think of a more apt one at the moment. Still in shock. Even Jeremy, dumb bear, could not think of anything apposite.
Maybe I could endorse the little knife, like those kids who endorse toys on the internet and make a f*****g fortune.
‘Now ladies, the next time y
