Tuesday, 3 March 2015

Clive's Requiem


A .38-sized hole bled life. Sunk in a crimson puddle, Clive looked up at the lawman who’d felled him.

"Was it worth it, sonny?” The cop said.

Through pain and blood loss, Clive thought about it.

Thought about Colt barrels thrust in rent-a-cop faces, bags packed tight with green rolls, civilians crouching in balaclava-induced terror. Thought about breakneck getaways down back roads, a life of hot credit cards and shitty motel rooms. Paradise, USA.

Thought about HER, with all that fiery beauty, beside him every step of the way. With HER, that insurmountable rush from daylight bank snatches never ended.

Back from a score, blood pounding, they’d keep the high going. Strip off bulletproof vests and bandoliers, shirts and underwear, then spreading legs and letting tongues wander. He'd trace dollar signs on her clit, SHE whispering every statute they’d broken with filthy abandon. His cock rifle-hard, HER cunt bank vault-tight, the illicit euphoria of armed robbery extended into an orgasmic hereafter. Twin flames, fucking each other raw beside stacks of The Man’s cash.

And this cop had stopped to shoot Clive, meaning SHE probably got away.

Between bloodstained teeth, Clive gurgled, “Worth every fuck...”

The cop assumed Clive died mid-sentence.

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