one single bullet
I had gone duck hunting with some friends. Afterwards, I was at home alone;
mrrranda was at work. We had four cats in our apartment.
I was going to make duck's blood soup. I needed to kill one of the cats to make the soup. I chose Mr. Friendly. I coaxed him over to me and then shot him under the chin with a pearl-handled derringer.
He didn't die immediately. He walked over and slumped down in a corner and looked at me with sad, sleepy eyes.
I called
mrrranda at work and started crying. I had to kill Mr. Friendly. I
had to.
Then I woke up. The alarm was blaring. I looked around. Mr. Friendly present and accounted for. I immediately gave him a treat.
On my walk to work, in Argo Park, there was a dead duck in the snow. Its neck was bloody and broken. Its chest was torn open and entrails pulled out.
Current Mood: spooked 
