Piffle & Twaddle
According to Plan

After pulling the car over to the side of the road and turning off the ignition, she sat in the drivers seat and lit the fifth cigarette in as many minutes. After a long exhale of smoke she looked out on to the large circles of road the streetlights made visible and finally started to relax. It was over. Or at least this part was over. He was over.

She touched the fresh cut on her right cheek and flinched. She didn’t expect him to have a knife and she should have. But still, she thought, it could have been worse. And besides, she still managed to take him down with a few solid blows made a bit more solid by the “paper weight” knuckle dusters she bought at that store in Chinatown. And even though it was a pretty exhausting exchange of ideas, she also managed to throw him in to the trunk of the car she was now driving.

The rest didn’t exactly go according to plan, but all it required was a slight shift.

The plan involved a lot of things. Mainly sentimental and based on the need for closure. “This is what you did and this is why it has to go this way” kind of deal. She had imagined the conversation in her head thousands of times. The tearful apologies, the promises that don’t matter anymore and the frightened bargaining. And all the while she’d be laughing at his desperate attempt to save his own miserable life. The thought of that conversation kept her going those long months on the road in search for the bastard. The conversation was how it was going to end. 

But once he woke up on the drive and started making noise, the plan stopped mattering and the need for conversation dropped on her list of priorities. After 20 minutes of the muffled bastard calling her a bitch she pulled over and picked up the knife he attacked her with.

Thirty seconds later she was back on the road and thanking Christ she had thought to line the trunk with garbage bags beforehand. He was still making noise, but it was getting weaker and weaker. The curses turned to shrieks of pain with low sobs in between. Twenty minutes later all was silent from the trunk of the car. He either passed out or died, she didn’t care. All that was left for the bastard was a shallow grave in the woods and then his chapter would be done.

A few hours later she’s back in the car, pulled over, chain smoking cigarettes and wearily going through what she just did and what she still had to do. It was a hell of a night. A hell of a last date with her good friend. But that was just the first stop, with many more to go before the week was out.

With a deep inhale she started the car and shifted in to gear. Time for stop number two.

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