Page 31 of Existential

Fuck a duck. How much worse can this get? I scowl at the cocky bastard as he walks past my position to put the gun and the note in their cruiser.

“Am I free to go now?”

“Not sure yet.” The first officer proceeds to pat me down, hands taking far too long at the junction of my thighs.

“You think I have a missile launcher smuggled in there or something?”

He chuckles, and then swiftly punches me in the kidney. Motherfucker.

“You tell your biker bitches that we’re keeping a close eye on them.”

“I’ll be sure to send your love,” I sass, short of breath. Goddamn that hurts.

The cops return to their car while I lean against the tailgate of the truck, wincing at the sharp pains that radiate through my lower back. Officer One makes eye contact as he reverses a little to pull out from behind me, and grins.

I lift my middle finger.

Now leaving Texas. Hope you enjoyed your stay.