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“She was my kill.   I wanted that.   I’ve always wanted that.   You took my kill, you fucking little bastard.”

 

Py was glaring at me over blood-stained fingers.   I was intrigued and entranced, and silently let out a breath I didn’t need to be holding.   He looked down at his hand, and licked it clean slowly.   At that moment I notice my laptop is still open on the table behind Py, and overtly logged into my blog page with a new draft window opened.   Ah.   That’s not going to end well.   He’s already pissed enough without being reminded that I’ve been writing about all that Amelia shit.   Need to shut that down…

“Show me where.”   The menace in his voice is palpable.

“What?”

“The place, Johnny.   Show me where she died.”

I get up, thinking fast.   “Um, yeah.   Sure, man…”

 

In comes the Cat.   It had previously made a dash when the front door had opened earlier.   But now – grand entrance, impeccable timing, through the window and daintily onto a speaker.   Sat there loftily and began to wash the blood of a late-night kill from its face.

Until it saw Py.

Py looked at the Cat.

The Cat looked at Py.

And sprang for the open kitchen door faster than Py could grab at it.

 

Py in pursuit is always visual poetry (usually an elegy), but I had no fears for the Cat, and other things to focus on.   Save the draft about Amelia, close the email, turn off Twitter – fucking move, Jonathon.

The hand around my throat was sudden.   The Cat had been faster and more successful, the little bastard.   Py had only caught me.

 

“Warned you last time, champ.   You’re getting soft.”

The voice was sibilant, and the grip tightened.

 

“Let’s take a little walk, shall we – Johnny boy?”

 

NEXT ENTRY…

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One Comment

  1. So… if I may, why does Py call you Johnny boy so often?


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