Again, the question plagues me, who am I? Who am I? Is there duality in the “I”?
I tossed the orange file toward her and the woman stumbled, reaching for it. My stiff body launched itself at her. Her soft skin entered my calloused hands. I pulled. Hard.
Will she taste tender?
He clears his throat, turning to leave. I grab my umbrella as the darkening clouds started to form. The shade covers me, and throughout the empty streets, I walk in the direction of the man.
My grip loosens on the umbrella, now angled downward; it slices easily into his thigh and he starts to bleed, the red now burdened, padding his brown layered pants. He slips a tad on the concrete, whirring slightly deeper into the dark dawn tip of the knife.
"That's a houze of a different color," Z observed.
"Horse too," I replied lowly.
"What's that?" he asked. "Never mind. We have other fish to filet. If it wasn't you, we have off-grid competition. They're playing the game old school. What could they have gotten before tossing him off the roof? The zame things we got last night? We must assume he told them about us. This is not good."