The whore is still on the ground shaking and begging for mercy, ridiculous like all whores, especially if they have a pistol pointed at their ear and two devastated knees already. I look at her and make her understand that in a few minutes I’ll get back to her, first I have to set fire to the near-corpse emitting guttural grunts, clucking sounds and gurgles. Maybe the kick to his throat broke his vocal chords. It’s starting to get cold here on the beach and when it gets cold I start to break. My. Balls.
Plus the factory has always terrorized me. I don’t know, bad meetings, seeing things that you don’t want to see. My throat is dry and my nose is running. I still have to finish killing them and my nose is already running. Shit. I untwist the flask cap and take a sip, to warm myself up a little. Sure, Massimo doesn’t want you to show up drunk. Massimo is demanding in questions of order and respect. And I have enough respect to sell. But, whatever, its cold out and I’m here with these two ball breakers to kill and so I gulp down what’s left in the flask and empty it and then I don’t know why I throw it, far away, on a whim. And the whore realizes it, even if she doesn’t take her eyes off me for a second and it looks like even her pupils are shaking (who knows if she’s wet, I hope so) and she starts begging please please like she is praying. Usually I am serious. But this time I’m having fun, so I kneel down and dip my finger in the blood coming out of the guy’s mouth then wave it around in the air, stare at it and slowly lick it and at that point goddamn it the whore goes really crazy and faints. Christ. She collapses. I run to hold her up but she is already down. She’s not faking it, I’d notice. I smack her a few times on the cheek but she’s not waking up. She’s really out of it. So I remember the flask, more for my sake than anything else. I run off to where I threw it and it takes me two three five ten minutes before I find it, but it’s empty. I go back and the whore is still there fainted but the guy isn’t where I left him. Fuck, that son of a bitch cop has managed to drag himself on his elbows five meters away. And when I turn him over with a kick he gets back on his belly and keeps going. Where the fuck does he think he’s going. Where the fuck do you think you’re going I ask him and continue to repeat it and his wheezing increases, not in intensity but rate, while I kick him repeatedly on the stomach. That asshole is pissing me off, he doesn’t understand he is already dead. The whore is a lot smarter, at least she prays. She won’t get a fucking thing but at least she prays. He doesn’t. His dignity and other bullshit like that have fried his brain. I laugh. I laugh in his face while the yellow light from the setting moon disappears and it gets colder, I’m almost sober (at least Massimo won’t get pissed) and I’m really sick of this situation. I turn the guy over, and without even saying some parting phrase I resist the desire to burn him and I shoot one two five shots at his face until his brain is spattered on the ground. Then I go back to the whore who is coming to I don’t know if because of the cold the shots or something else. Her expression is like someone well rested and only when she sees the smile on my face does she realize where she is, she remembers the situation and so her face starts to contort in horror, but doesn’t manage to scream before a bullet hits her right in the frontal lobe and punctures her brain, coming out the back probably towards bottom destroying her spinal cord. I wipe my hands on my shirt and light a Gauloise.
[ Angelo Petrella, Cane rabbioso, 2006 ]