You won’t be able to hurt little girls again, pig. How do you like that?

Olivier Chatillon They sat this way for a long time. The man still looking about, ponderously, stupidly, mouthing words that had no sound, wondering what was happening. Maria lit a cigar and smoked and blew smoke at his face. His nose wrinkled and he leaned his head back and sneezed. A great gout of blood flew out of his nose and blood and clear fluid ran from his nostrils and soaked his long moustaches, dripping onto his bean covered lap. He still said nothing.
And then, when Maria could tell he was about to die, she regarded him. “Hey, Mister.” He looked up at her, into her eyes, trying to figure it all out. “I’m going to cut your goddamned head off when you die. You know why?”
The man didn’t respond and she continued.
“So, when you go to hell, your body will wander around and you won’t be able to see anything. You won’t be able to hurt little girls again, pig. How do you like that?”
He seemed to comprehend, but Maria could not be sure. She was growing tired of all this and it was getting late. She wanted to move on and the bandit was not dying fast enough. She put the little gun behind his ear. She fired again and he flopped over. He was finally dead. Maria's Trail