There’s a meal somewhere, festering in his underwear. The gun in his pants is about to unleash bloody mercy on an unsuspecting woman. She carries a handbag he hasn’t seen on the shoulder of any other human before. It’s a handbag that could hold just about anything. Change of panties, panty liners, a whip, Cool Whip, cartons of Winfield Blues, empty Slurpee containers. The meal is there still, festering somewhere in his underwear. He's afraid the gun may fire simultaneously, though he has seen no videos suggesting this is even biologically possible, even for those with a faeces fetish. It just seems too challenging physically, like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time.
When was the last time he visited his daughter? Adam didn’t know.
