I am experiencing alternating fits of rage and despair. I’m stricken with the fact that I’m out of work and have no savings, no lover, not even a regular f**k buddy. I’m headed to Auntie Flora’s for an unannounced visit. Not for the expected hug of a loved one during troubled times. Rather—my thoughts run to murder and money. Her death could solve a lot of my problems.
The snow is light as I speed up the west side of town toward the old bat’s place. I imagine sneaking drops of poison into her tea. I could pick up ginger snaps and inject them with cyanide. Or I could just stab her repeatedly with one of the elegant 18th century brass swords hanging in her living room, gutting her like a flailing trout. The trouble is, I’d get caught. No inheritance in prison. Though possibly some hot rape
