Demonic

by Jeff Strand

I didn’t mind that she was older than me; my acceptable dating ages ranged from nineteen to Helen Mirren.

Vic shook his head. “Don’t do that. Never do that. If you shoot, shoot to kill. Commit.”

“No, I’m not a fuckin’ zombie.” He let out a braying laugh similar to the earlier one, although this time it was accompanied by blood spewing out of his mouth and neck. “Just call me resilient.”

The sight of me—looking, I assume, less than mentally stable—running at him holding two large knives seemed to startle him.

I’d fought bravely, and there’s no shame in deciding that glowing eyes and a demonic voice are more than you want to deal with at the present time.

This was “my entire world has changed, and there’s no going back” stuff, and I quite honestly didn’t want to cope with it right now.

“But, again, your husband is the Toledo Trasher. It’s not like I was trying to knock him off so we could be together.” “You want us to be together?” asked Quinn. “Not anymore, no.”

“Okay.” “Will that bother you?” “Chopping his head off?” “Me blowing him.” “No. Not at all. I mean, I won’t be thinking, ‘Yay,’ but it won’t distract me or anything.”

I’d say that I picked up my pace, but I was already running at full speed, so I kept running at the same speed but with more urgency.

“Fuck you!” “We’ll do it. I’ll find a grapefruit spoon and scoop those eyeballs right out of your head.” “We don’t have a grapefruit spoon.” “Then I’ll carve a hole around them with a knife and scoop them out with a regular spoon,” I said.

“I said, I’m trying to be nicer! If I censored myself before I made a bitchy comment, why are you still trying to drag it out of me? You’ve spent this whole time complaining about my attitude, but when I try to fix it, you won’t let me.” “You’re right, you’re right,” I said. “I appreciate your effort.”

“Do you think our co-workers are worried about us?” “Look, Corey, I just explained that I’m trying to be nice. But if you’re going to keep throwing questions at me like a five-year-old, I’m going to lose it. I may look like I’m keeping it together, but I promise you, I’m hanging on by a thread.”

The suicidal idiot stood up and jumped.

I didn’t have my phone, and neither of us had brought a book, so my entertainment consisted of my own thoughts. It was very poor entertainment. Would not recommend.

And the acceptance that you’re utterly fucked comes with a sort of freedom.

Unholy shit, I supposed.