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Ladykiller

February 3, 2014

     The blood had settled, crusted around the gaping wound of her slit throat, but semen still gleamed in thick wetness on the inside of her thighs.  The little thatch of black hair between them sweated and twisted.  He could smell that ravaged triangle, the smell of her and her attackers just as he could just as he smell the blood of her death and the sweat of her panic.  He nodded to her and said, “All right.”
     In the hall they were shoulder to shoulder along the wall and talking to one another, mumbling, whispering in their musical language so quietly that, even if he had ever learned their tongue, he wouldn’t have been able to pick words out of the continuous, singing murmur; faceless man to disemboweled woman, a child fingering the bullet holes in his chest to one of those wide-eyed, crusted, red-centered logs the napalm left, each speaking gently to the others as Ladykiller edged past them to the stairs leading down to the street saying, “Excuse me, excuse me.”

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