-guns, violence, and intimacy-
You stand there, arm stretched out, and fingers curled. Looking down at the man on the floor, and there’s nothing more you can do except to gwark at what little the person has left. All because of you, and your stronger will.
He shuffles back, watching your feet move towards him. He’s lost it all, left only with his dying eyes. Waiting. Waiting for that finale shot. You move down, kneeling between his outstretched legs and you aim.
First, you had thought this easy; You’d merely be pulling a trigger and at such lengths away from the victim. so why should you feel the pain of the dead? But in truth, because there was no honour in being both a liar and a killer, you had to admit that the first shot you had fired had been a testament of your will in this battle of fire, love, and intimacy. However, after you had felt it, strong and tinging in the ear, you felt the ease. Soft and layering as it was, and you shot another bullet. Your arm bursting forward and back with each impact you release.
Soon you had begun to laugh, for who were you if not god? You held life and death in hand, black and sleek, grinning at those in your path. One man you had shot ten times. Not for any true and honourable reason such as giving back the deaths that person had taken himself. You only do it for the game you’ve made of it. And you like it.
Is that the most violent thing about this? That you had begun to enjoy your winning streak, maybe it is, or perhaps it’s the last man infront of you. Pleading, begging, waning to kiss your hands, feet, and head.
That man is beautiful to you in the moment you thrash his arms away and shove the nozzle up into his jaw. You can see the slobber drip down into loan droplets before the waterfall starts. And you kiss him, hard and wet on his forehead, and you move further up him. Watching, waiting.
You think yourself a tiger, out for the hunt. This man your food, and what were you if not a cat playing with its catch, but the small cats you’d seen daily were not intimidating to you the way the ones in the far fetched places across the world were. Suddenly you lick him, and grope his face, and pretend he is Doug and you the baker. You felt yourself becoming a new metaphor every passing second. You like that as well.
It’s sweet in the mouth and you chew it like gum, chomp, chomp! Chew, swallow.
“Die!” You yell. “Die you dog, wet and soggy in the mud, die dirty as you are!”
You are also dirty, and you say that knowingly, but you are not filthy on the inside because you are on the right side of this violence, the one with the gun in your enemies mouth, the one dominating the intimacy of the killing.
You are above all the wrong. and you shoot with that conviction. You are above even god.
