I’m looking at you as you sit in the parking lot, in your car. You’re on your phone. I bet on you not locking your car door.

I aproach your passenger door and tap the window. I hold my hand to my chest and fiddle with my coat. I readjust my glasses and give you a soft smile.

You roll down the window not even half way. Atta girl, you know better. I perky up, pitifully, “I was wondering if I could use your phone? Mine is dead and I need to get a ride home.”

You’re hesitant but I appear harmless. To you I appear to be a younger, possibly poor, gentleman. You look uncomfortable but you slip your phone out the window. I reach through and grab your wrist.

You see the glove on my hand and look into my eyes “you have just been poisoned by cyanide and if you don’t want to die, you’ll open the car door. Naturally, you do what I say.

I have you drive the car to the back of the lot. I take out my hunting knife and gut you.

I’d tell you the rest of my story but I need to drive this stunning woman to her grave.

[still in a bit of a writing slump.]