There’s that gun in the sink.
From Create Your Own Story
Normally this isn’t your bag. Not, you know, usually.
You fumble for it. Guns never sit right in with you. You’ve never gotten the feel for their potential to act as an extension of your malice. That’s what your body’s for. You press it into the corpse’s chest, which lurches against the tub. You release the safety, leaning in.
“Listen,” you hiss into an ear. You mutter obscenities to it as you get to the tip. A warmth stirs. You run the weapon further down. And down.
“What. The fuck,” someone croaks. “Is wrong with you.”
Your dick withers against your hand. You shrink a little onto the corpse.
Thane.
“Is that my gun? Sssehf, you-Get that out.”
