SKINNY MINNIE





JOHN SKIPP













YOU’D THINK SHE’D BE FATTER, GIVEN HOW MUCH SHE FUCKING EATS. CHAINED TO THE TABLE. DOING ALMOST NOTHING BUT.


But when what’s left of Don’s head lands on the plate before her, with his lushly-crested pate already lopped off at mid-forehead, Skinny Minnie digs right in. It’s like cranium soufflé, or brains tartar. Were she capable of happiness, I would say this is it. Every morsel an unparalleled treat.


The drugs don’t seem to be hurting, either, at least in terms of keeping her focused. A little injection goes a long, long way.


And she has a long, long way to go.


Never thought of myself as a big-on-revenge guy. That always seemed like a lower emotion. But now that I know just how low we can go, it seems downright borderline uplifting. Like there couldn’t be a better fucking use of my time, here in our last days left.


The attic of Don’s never-too-occupied skull empties out quickly in her two-clawed assault, Minnie licking her fingers when the bowl is empty, then ripping away at the plump, juicy cheeks. I hope she remembers not to pop those peepers, though the bowl we’re reserving for her desert is overflowing already. So many mocking eyes to meet.


You never think of how many people have hurt you until you line them all up and kill them, one by one.
And you never feel like justice has been done until the one who wronged you wrongest has to sin-eat them all.


And love it.


Oh, Skinny Minnie. You’re a much better zombie than you ever were a human.


Eat up, baby. Eat up



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