This place is dead anyway

Soft, smooth, and lullaby like, vibrated her voice in the bar. Gretchen kept on singing to Kore’s sax and Will’s piano. This was a one night jig to replace the Sly painted bistro’s singer: Naomi. Of course, the place was almost crowded with the ennui of cemeteries.

Gretchen was struggling to meet ends this month. She was waiting by day at Pepe tacos and selling Maybelline the weekends. With the historical tip of one unit (fill in with your local currency) miserable bill all month and two gloss’ tubes sale. Worse than pathetic. So, here she was, trying to sing her best with a voice that was beautiful but jiggly-puff cursed.

The couple a few tables to her left was eating each others’ lips and being frisky. The guy in the bar was about to fall from his seat. Head over ass on the floor. Will’s big cleavage wasn’t enough to keep him interested. And her cleavage was something worthy, thought Gretchen. More than worthy. It was like soft butter in her hands. Like the sun warming her days. Oh, she wanted to go out with Wilhelmina.
The owner was in a corner with that face. The face of no people, no money. Gretchen stopped singing and turned around to her tote. It was actually a big tote almost capable of swelling the universe. She took the 22mm gun outside. It wasn’t really a gun buy it had been cheaper than a 9mm.

Kore stared at her. She threw her beloved sax to a side. But Gretchen was already making fire on the owner. The owner looked at the hole on his chest in disbelief. It was a small caliber and she was a woman…

Gretchen shot again to the couple who stared at her, terrified. First her, begging with tears on her eyes. Then him, a little more scared than his girl. The guy falling asleep didn’t wake up. He was already dead of a stroke.

Gretchen went to the bar owner and said: «this place was dead anyway».

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