WEEK 68: The world will end in fire

Prompted by: Jeri T. Ryan

The crazy author says: Burn, baby, burn!

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s the result of too much stress and too little sleep. Maybe it makes me a psychopath, but I’m ready to douse the planet in gasoline. I’m itching to light a match and turn this ball of dirt into a pile of ashes.

The world will end in fire and he’ll be the first to burn.

It won’t be a quick demise.

Oh, no, it’ll be the slowest, most agonizing death in all of history.

Every inch of his skin will blister. Every single nerve will writhe in pain. Every last molecule will beg for mercy. His cells will explode one-by-one like an endless supply of glorious bubble wrap.

If he thought getting up close and personal with the windshield was a royal bitch, he’s in for the surprise of his life. Smashing his skull, shattering his jaw, and having his eye socket hollowed out with a melon scoop will be a pleasant memory in comparison.

I’m fully prepared to exact revenge.

I accomplished a lot during the fifteen-minute cab ride back. I mentally rearranged my schedule, allowing more time for arson and murder. Thankfully I planned ahead since my kill list seems to be doubling by the second. Twitch just landed his ass in the number two spot.

Because he’s standing in the doorway, blocking my entrance.

I don’t care that I’m yelling, “Is he in there?”

Twitch opens his mouth. Then closes it and shifts his weight. That would be a resounding yes.

I can’t lie. A part of me was worried my emotionally inept dickhead would buy a one-way ticket into the sunset and never return, so, of course, I feel relieved. Still feel way more pissed though. “Move.”

Twitch doesn’t budge.

“I said move.”

Looking at his feet, he mumbles, “I’m sorry, G. He doesn’t want to see you right now.”

God, how I wish I had an AK-47 slung over my shoulder. I’d unleash my inner Rambo and let the bullets fly. It would give me great pleasure to shoot the messenger. “Are you kidding me?”

No answer. He still doesn’t budge.

No problem. I can still yell and I’ll do it through the bodyguard, “You don’t get to pull the same shit twice, asshole. I swear if you shut me out again, we’re done.”

It’s not a threat.

It’s a promise.

“Do you hear me, Trace? We are so fucking done.”

Then I start counting.

I’m not a quitter. I’ve always fought for us. What I refuse to do is fight alone.

Been there, done that, got the fugly t-shirt.

So when I reach ten and nothing has changed?

I make good on my promise.