was the name.

the year, 2012.

“if they fuck
that stab hole
I’m gonna lose it,”

he breathed out
redundantly with
strained pants.

—

2017
–

another
mutual friend
run-in.

she sits down
at the four-seater
table with
tonights bunch.

naturally,
he sits in
the chair
next to her.

she sips
her whiskey,
balancing
herself.

“have you all
seen that new
occult crime
show on netflix?”

she opens to
the group,
knowing he
likely has.

“they had this
one episode
about this
group of
sick fucks
called the
‘chicago rippers’..”

glancing at him
to judge his
expression
she went on,

“..they had
this fascination,
if you could
call it that,
with breasts.

they’d kidnap
women of the night,

stab holes
in the side of
their breasts
and fuck the
fresh stabwound..”

she took
another sip
of her drink,

“..there’s
a bunch of
sick fucks in
this world,
wouldn’t
you agree?”

he said nothing.

—

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