Why I should care about what a bedraggled girl, with lank, dirty hair thought about me I don’t know. But I couldn’t resist her steely eyes, beautiful but dark and brooding like sassafras in the moonlight.
And why did she like me? Well I may have been a disillusioned vegetarian after my last wife took off with the local butcher, but I was a badass with a cleaver too, as long as I had a genuine reason to use it.
There he was, the sanctimonious old sheriff, just like she’d described him. Asleep with legs up on the desk, a throttled chicken with its head half-chewed off in one hand and a bottle of JD lying empty on the floor beside him.
The niggardly old creep kept her locked in a cell along with the local drunkards, so he could save on his monthly bills, and chew on pieces of poultry and liquorice to his blackened heart’s content. He wouldn’t win any awards from Vogue Magazine either – he was wearing nothing but a large cardamom pod-shaped cardigan which had a putrid odour like vintage cheese.
I snuck up behind him and set about my gruesome task as she watched from the corner, sniggering lustily like a retarded clown on ecstasy. For a dirty-haired debutante like her, what better introduction to the outside world than in the midst of a bloodbath? We left the prison in the lavender night, our footprints deep red in the snow.
Later, as she force-fed me under-cooked meatballs and soiled my mind with her malevolent mindgames, she would make me wish a similar dénouement could come so easy to me as it had to the sheriff.
Written for Creative Copy Challenge #82