Eight batches of brownies. Ten simpering, harmless losers drooling at the prospect of being her roommate. Two weeks of waiting.

“You…cheating…dirty…whore!” he spat at her from the floor, hand clutching his bloody mess of a mid-section. “No…fair!”

Her eyes went wide, shock and rage, “Of all the…My God, man, after what you’ve done, to cry foul now!” The gun stayed in position, barrel lined up on a rapidly perspiring brow furrowed in indignation.

“You’re all…whores,” he spat again, dragging himself slowly away, towards the kitchen, “All bits…and pieces. Not allowed…not s’posed to…”

“Supposed to what?” she challenged, inching along with him to maintain the ideal range, “Fight back? Have a spine? Be strong?”

Back against the kitchen’s island counter he seemed to strengthen a bit, launching with metered speech into, “Glory. I give you glory, to be my pets for one glorious moment then burst with wet crimson fire from existence. It’s beauty. It’s more than you deserve, you whores.”