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By J. Alison Noble

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But it’s not Little Sally Silverstein. It’s a boy. 39 around my room, raining acid tears from his ethereal flesh. Corporate warfare often involves the assassination of children, and I’m usually the one pulling the trigger. They call me a goon but I like to think of myself as an important cog in the great American machine. Then again, I’m a psychopath, so what do I know? What I do know is that I shouldn’t feel horrible about accidentally killing the boy when I feel nothing in regard to Little Sally Silverstein’s brain-bursting demise.

We’re talking millions here, mute. ” I say. ” Not that I need “Not really,” Mrs. Green says, at any more, but need has nothing to do with it. almost a whisper. ” I don’t mind compromising myself for “This eggplant is delicious,” Mr. a job, but I don’t think this will work. My Green says. eyes tell him that. Mrs. Green smiles, although Mr. Green He takes his hand off me. ” isn’t looking at her. He glances at his watch. ” Monday,” Mr. Green says. “He’s the Mr. Green laughs. ” I say. ” posed in front of the mirror with my gun a few “If we’re going to do this, I need you to times, but I don’t suppose that counts.

Calamaro rolled to the side and got on his stomach. He fired again, his pistol burping another bullet which grazed the boy’s head. He hadn’t missed. Calamaro would rather let the boy run away scared and perhaps a little bit smarter than to kill him. The Clementine Kid dug in his pocket and pulled out another glass eye. He stuck it into his empty socket. Calamaro had seen something like that before, during the war. There had been one man who used a snail shell instead of a glass eye. It was strange how some men fiddled with their wounds like it was nothing at all.

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