My eyes followed the Queen down the hallway as she swung the knock-off Japanese sword she’d been using over her shoulder. She wasn’t really a queen, but she was regarded as one, and you could tell she felt like one. Her designer bag matched her designer shoes, the ones that used to be white. But they were red now. I stayed hidden under the table.

She walked like a queen too. Shoulders back, I-don’t-give-a-shit look on her face, never stumbling over her white (but now red) heels. The cheap sword she was swinging broke in half, and she tossed it to the side. I just sort of watched her. It was like watching a car crash; terrible, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away.

Her next weapon of choice was the crowbar on the floor, dusted with crystals of safety glass. She swung, smashing some poor bastard’s head in and spraying red onto her designer bag.

It matched the shoes now.