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“Really, dude? A fucking kitchen knife?” I ask, picking up the pathetic weapon. It’s what Addie used to carry around when she was attempting to hate me, and I laughed every time I saw it clutched in her tiny fist.

Addie has the power to cut me. This bozo doesn’t stand a fucking chance.

He groans and thrashes in my grip, shaking his head roughly in an effort to dislodge my hand from his face.

“Let me fucking go!”

“Well, shit, since you asked so nicely, I guess I will,” I say, releasing him. His eyes widen once more in surprise, and then he’s scrambling up. Or at least trying to. He instantly drops back down, but he’s not deterred. Desperation is more potent than a bullet wound to the knee.

If the government could bottle that particular emotion, they could create an army of superhumans. It’s the driving force that creates extraordinary abilities.

Lifting a car off your dying child trapped beneath the tire. Running with a broken leg. Or rather, running with a kneecap shot out.

I lift my gun and fire off another bullet to his other knee, sending him crashing back down to the ground. Let’s see if he can run with both blown out. He might even make it on Guinness World Records. Person to run the longest with no knees.

He cries out again, repeatedly tries to get up, and fails every time. I tip my head back and laugh my ass off. Shame, I would’ve liked to see Rick’s picture in one of their books.

“Sorry, dude, I couldn’t help myself. I really wanted to shoot you again.”

Expletives burst past his yellow, chipped teeth while he rolls across the ground, shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Would you shut the fuck up? Someone could hear you, and then I’ll get in trouble,” I reprimand, smiling wider when another string of colorful words spills from his mouth.

Truthfully, we’re in a shitty part of town. He can’t legally leave the country, considering the government suspended his passport due to unpaid child support, and he doesn’t have enough money anymore to buy a fake one. So, he was trying to hide in the boonies a few hours out from Seattle, but that is currently backfiring. There are probably several people who heard him scream, but no one is going to help him.

Not when they’ve got their own criminal activities taking place and their noses or veins clogged with whatever drug they could find. Pretty sure a dead guy is lying on the side of the street up the road, and several people stepped over him and kept it moving.

It’s a very mind your own fucking business type of neighborhood. Perfect place to commit homicide. Weather’s nice, too.

“Z, are you playing with your food again?” Jay pitches in with exasperation.

“What gave it away?” I ask, standing up and walking over to where Rick lies on the ground.

He’s attempting to crawl away, dragging himself little by little with his arms. Desperation is running out, and resignation is setting in.

“You’re going

to burn in fucking Hell with me,” the sad little man spits, saliva shooting from his mouth. “Just you fucking wait.”

I sigh wistfully, rolling up each of my sleeves. “I sure hope so, Rick. That way I can torture you there, too.”

I kick the side of his stomach until he rolls onto his back, what’s left of his kneecaps bleeding profusely.

He’s limp, now praying for death instead of trying to escape it. Even if he did survive, what kind of life would he have with no fucking knees? The dude is short as it is, he can’t afford to lose any more inches.

Crouching again, I tip up his chin and press the sharp edge of the knife to his throat. He doesn’t fight, only seethes at the Grim Reaper from beneath his blade.

“Any last words?”

“I—” I slice his neck, cutting off more than just his response.

“I don’t actually care,” I say, his eyes widening in surprise and mouth parting as he begins to choke on his blood.

“Ugh, can you mute your earpiece? I can hear him gurgling from here,” Jay groans in my ear. I roll my eyes and ignore him, continuing to saw at his throat.

The knife is duller than a grandma’s sex life, and getting through muscle and bone takes much longer than I’d like.

Eventually, I remove his head from his body, my arm aching from the effort. His blood covers me like oil, and I feel like I just walked off the Carrie movie set.