It was May Day, and my boss was being as snide as usual. It didn’t occur to him that everything he said and did was based on the assumption that I hadn’t brought an automatic weapon to work with me.
As I waited for the light to change, a cop car pulled up behind me. They could see my SUPPORT THE POLICE bumper sticker. They couldn’t see the cop I had shot to death a mile away. The light turned to green.
I’ve never felt like I killed him. All I did was point the Glock at him and tell him to give me the money or I’d shoot him. He didn’t do it, so I squeezed the trigger. It seems more like a choice he made, and not much to do with me.
She was raised by her grandparents, and she loved them. I knew she loved me when she gave me her grandfather’s hat, and let me use the blackjack he gave her.
When I kill a person, I keep my mind on how much I’m being paid to do it, and I don’t think about anything else. Afterward, I sometimes imagine them when they were a baby.
When I thought she was about to kiss me, she pulled a blade and drew it across my throat. It was the first time since I met her that she wasn’t lying.
We shot each other in the head at the same time. He had a .44. It went in through one side and out through the other. I had a .22. It went in and moved around till there wasn’t much left. I walked to the hospital.
She said she’d give me whatever I wanted if I only didn’t kill her. I told her that what I wanted was to kill her.
Chicks dig me when I tell them I’m a widower. Most of them change their minds when they hear how I got that way. The others like me even more.
They keep asking me why. I had an eviction notice and a handgun. The bank had money.
