International Assassins Union: Pressed Butterflys
“What do you mean” I asked.
“I was planning on leaving a raw tattoo on your face, but I see butterfly girl running towards us, they must be parked next to you. She doesn’t need to see this. I’m going, so if you’ll excuse me…..WATCH OUT!”
Priss screamed in agony and frustration as she fumbled at the locks and handles, like someone with six arms. “Oh my God..!”
And there she was, out in front, flitting about in the bright spring light among shimmering chrome and oily asphalt. The molting four foot 90 year old didn’t see her as he backed out. Screams, panic and the look of horror on a seasoned assassin’s face. It’s always worse if it’s young blood that’s bruised.
But it was too late. Watching the scene, the old sedan’s left rear rose up then gently fell, like going over a soft speed-bump, thawed me out instantly and I made my move.
She was tangled up underneath, wings covered in axle grease and grime. Priss screamed, Butterfly screamed, mothers screamed, and I screamed, “Go get your damn knives!”