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throw that pussy like i'm famous
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((Rhory Anne Broderick continued from ))

It was a strain to keep from laughing. It bubbled up against the scream-shredded walls of her throat. She kept it down. She’d had plenty of practice with that lately, keeping down cries and screams and vomit. Maybe it would feel good to laugh at the girl, though. There was plenty there to laugh at. The chalk-outline sprawl, the ennui-filled flick of her wrist that sent the spent cigarette flying towards Rhory. That nearly sent her into hysterics. She thought of her own dwindling cache of cancer sticks. She couldn’t contain a smile.

Her steps out into the field were delicate. She kept her eyes on the prone figure. All that moved was the chest. It rose just high enough to escape the black top of her head. Just barely high enough. Small tits. Her eyes traced out the further reaches of her body, catching nothing interesting until they came upon the right hand. She knew the loosely-clutched red box very well. Marlboros. Not the classiest choice, but it would warm her lungs just as handily. She stopped and smiled wider.

As she quietly slipped the SPAS’s strap from her shoulder she contemplated her line. There had to be a line. She could always steal Bill’s. Sprinkle in some vulgarity, make it more her style. She drew up some hazily-remembered scenes from Cops and bad action movies as she slipped her right index finger into the nook of the trigger. Her ring finger’s twin curled pathetically against the side and the fresh gauze crinkled softly. She opened her mouth. Then stopped. Smirked.

She closed her left hand over the pump and drew it quickly back and forth. It sung. It said everything that needed to be said.
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and you may say to yourself, "My god, what have I done?" · The Felled Forest: North