Vicky and Roy

Vicky pulled Roy in for a kiss, but was distracted by his gun glinting in the moonlight. Like, what kind of idiot sticks it in his pants? Too taken aback, she pushed him away and drew the gun.

"You're adorable," she said, aiming at nothing with the safety on, "but you're gonna blow your chance at ever blowing a load." She jolted the gun back, whispering "pow!" The nothingness bled into the night, illuminated by the few stars visible in this broken cloud cover.

Roy leaned his seat back and tugged on her waist. He cleared his throat and reached for the gun. Vicky hid it behind her back, and kissed his scruffy chin.

"Why don't you," Roy said, reaching again for the gun, "let me worry about my balls, and I let you worry about killing Troy."

Vicky cackled as Roy lifted the gun from her, and replaced in its rightful place -- nearly touching his genitalia. Regardless of his studded belt, his jeans were always a size too big and slouched enough to wrinkle a few noses. Vicky found it cute. The gun, a pistol, pulled his pants down further.

Vicky looked at him. She batted her eyelashes.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Am I spelling it for you -- what's the plan?"

"I've got it all up here," Vicky cooed, "en la cabeza." She stroked his chin, and fought a thought away.

"What good does that do me," Roy said, "you ain't pulling a trigger."

Vicky sighed and stepped onto the deck. The thud of her boots, the chirp of each cricket -- it was real. A plan wasn't. Not until executed. She walked to the edge of the deck and leaned over the railing.

"We'll walk and talk then," she said, enamoured by the moon, "we're gonna need a few things."

And a few things included the next door shed. DeMarcus -- the owner and proprietor of the shed -- wasn't privy to their activities, but he turned his head and let them borrow what they needed. Vicky thought it was fear. Roy wasn't too sure. Fear and respect weren't too far separated when your neighbors were hired hands.

The job was -- among other things -- a bust. Kill an old man. Leave no evidence. Dispose of him. Lay low. Collect your bounty. The same request, different conditions. But Vicky and Roy got off these jobs, and business was booming.

"Bump the lock," Vicky said, and Roy obliged. She didn't check over her shoulder for DeMarcus. The door swung loose and Roy edged past a lawnmower. The chemicals were in the back.

"Remember -- KCl."

"I failed chemistry, but it ain't my first rodeo."

Roy swiped a dusty bottle from the shelf, and grabbed a beaker, an insulin syringe, and a bottle of betadiene. He nodded to Vicky, and headed back to the house. By the time he hit the porch, the pistol had pulled his pants past his underwear. Now wasn't the time to strip, he thought.

**

Vicky wondered why Roy was taking so long. Same solution, no big deal. She waited outside, eyes still glued to the full moon.

A thought occurred to her. The gun. Why a gun, why this job?

Vicky opened the door quietly and raced up the steps. She grabbed a small, prefilled syringe, and glided silently down the stairs. Roy, huddled over his work, payed her no mind.

Vicky waited outside, and Roy ambled onto the porch. He joined her at the railing, wrapped an arm around her, and gazed at the full moon.

"This is it," he said flatly, "our last voyage."

Vicky leaned into his arm, and stole a glance. His face was stony, which was nothing new, but his eyes gleamed with something different.

"Last?"

"Yeah," he said, and kissed her forehead, "this old man...he's the last."

Vicky sighed, grimaced, and nodded. No use in arguing. Convincing a man to kill was a futile fight. He had to want death, and to deliver death himself. Roy nudged her and started northwest.

**

The house was only a mile out, but they took to the woods just in case.

"It's too humid for this," Roy said. He swatted at mosquitoes, blending with the cover of darkness. They couldn't have much further, he reasoned.

And, following a steep incline, there it was. A sole window, illuminated by a dimmed halogen lamp. Just as the client specified.

"Let's make this quick," he said. They crouched and crept to the basement window, the one which hadn't closed since Troy first bought the place.

Roy crawled in first, and caught Vicky as she slid in. Leave prints, clean them with bleach. They started up the dusty stairs, each footfall as quiet as the last.

Pushing open the basement door, they found themselves in a pristine kitchen. Roy signaled for Vicky to wait, and she folded her arms in response. He was so particular.

Roy crept up the stairs, and Vicky turned the plan over in her mind. So far, so good. And she waited.

And she waited for longer.

And she refused to wait much longer.

And she started up the stairs, cycling through her plan B, C, and Z.

At the top of the stairs, Troy's door was fully ajar. Roy's eyes were fixated -- on what, only he knew. He turned to Vicky, and passed her the full syringe and gun.

Vicky looked down, and then to Roy, who was turning the corner to the basement. She followed him.

"What the hell?" she said, catching up with him, "are you giving up?"

Roy reached the bottom of the basement stairs and paused. He looked over his shoulder and grimaced.

"Nature was a few steps ahead. I'll grab the bleach."