alabama special k, 147gr subsonic 9mm rounds, float towards target, whispering the promise of execution.
an audience, other than me, somewhere not believing, as the slug severs the brain stem, the adrenaline quieting everything except the soft crumpling of clothes on the ground and a muted thump of limp-muscled bone.
my pulse still racing, the guilty half-smile crawling shamefully but uncontrollably over, the cinematic perfection complete, a tension somewhere in my back gives way and the madness of the day leaks away into the night. this is the totality of violence, pure, embraced, and exercised only partially; it is murder perfected; murder abstracted.
i drink a beer and stretch my legs, reboot the xbox: mercenaries. missing good friends and the days when i was younger, i contemplate a nuclear strike just for old times sake.