Worst Way To Go?

There's cold steel in my palm like a lover's last touch, and I'm pumping round after round into the bastard and his thuggish crew. The alcohol roars in my veins and I let out a gleeful yell as Irish blood spurts in geysers, skulls collapse and spray bone chips, metal shards and gray matter. The cheap chandeliers fall from the ceiling and shatter with huge gouts of flame which catch on spilt alcohol and set the whole joint ablaze.

And then there's this crackling blast, and the old barkeep's taser goes off like a lightning storm.

I can't feel anything but I see the electricity lance through me, leaving a gaping chasm of burnt tissue right where my lower belly should be. In a moment of dumb confusion I unzip my pants and stare down at the damage.

My last thought before death takes me is: thank God she missed the goods.


Try Again.