In the shadow of the bitch
In the past four months, he’d hardly thought of the other one at all—the one just before the Perry bitch, the one of little importance by comparison, the overshadowed one, the one no one had discovered yet, the one whose fame was yet to come—the one whose elimination was, in part, a matter of convenience. Some might say entirely a matter of convenience, but they would be wrong. Her end was well deserved, for all the reasons that damned her kind:
the stain of Eve,
rotten heart,
rutting heart,
heart of a slut,
a slut at heart,
sweat on the upper lip,
grunts of a pig,
horrid gasps,
lips parting,
lascivious lips, devouring lips,
wet tongue,
slithering serpent,
enveloping legs,
slippery skin,
vile fluids,
slime of a snail.
Wiped clean by death,
damp limbs dried by death,
purification by desiccation,
dry as dust.
Harmless as a mummy.
Vaya con Dios!
He smiled. He must remember to think of her more often—to keep her death alive.