Monday Morning

The gun hangs from his fingers like a lover's hand, too afraid to let go and too shy to hold on for dear life.

He kicks the door in, the gun arm rises and two sizzling shots turn the first two men to brain stew. He finishes off the tall one, who got shot in the chest, with his khukri. The jugular spills ruby red blood like a fountain of death. He wipes the large knife off on the man's jacket and fills two more slugs in the ancient gun's chamber.

In the next room, three men are sitting and playing cards, he calmly opens the door and before they can reach for their gun, three silenced shots paint the walls with their brains. 

He walks on through the place, silently going about his work, killing people and saying hi. He shoots a few computers as well, and feels more satisfaction in it than he ever did in killing all people. Bodies are strewn across the hall now, he took his time with them, shooting them in the legs and later finishing them off with the blade; the blade that somehow seemed to call him to feed it, like a crazed animal, it called for blood and it called for death.

He finishes off the floor and then takes one more look around to see if he had missed somebody. He had not.

He reaches the elevator and presses the button to call the it to his floor. Once inside, he presses the button for top floor, to the office of the head Pig.

And his cellphone rings It is the head Pig. He answers it.

The stream of profanities from the pig's side ends in the 45 seconds, with pig screaming "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???" at him.

He answers that he is in the lift and coming up to meet him.

"Good," says the pig,"can't wait to see you."
============
No relation of this story to past, present of future circumstances. Office shootings are somewhat a rosier version on the TV and radios, and newspapers. But it is very much a reality and it exists within our system.

Meanwhile for the fans of drinking, there is a new poem up at Poetry, check it out by clicking this link or don't bother.

Thanks!